Last week was big for me. I had two long-lead stories come out at once: one for Vogue, in which I profiled Usher in advance of his new album and the Super Bowl Halftime show, and one on Natalia Bryant, a Gen Z Sofia Coppola in the making, for the cover of Town & Country. I had a really great time spending some time—and writing—both. (This is not always the case! Let me tell you…)
Talking to Usher was particularly inspiring. I was surprised how moved I was by the experience. His music has been moving me for years, but after meeting him, and seeing him perform again, I found it to be more like: his music moves you, but then also his humanity—his spirit!—does. Though he’d probably be the first to say they’re one and the same. I was struck by how genuine he was during our many conversations over the past few months, and how open about his challenges getting here, and where he still wants to go; how he wants to give back and live in a big, expansive way; how in touch he seemed to be with his highest self. This kind of peace does not come without effort! Or gratitude. Or a loving family. Or love in general. About that—allow me to quote myself (sorry!) from the piece:
You have never met someone so loved as Usher. And I don’t just mean in his music, though love is more often than not its subject. I don’t even mean just at home, though his partner of four years, Jenn Goicoechea, and their two children, Sire and Sovereign, as well as his Atlanta-based teenage sons from a prior marriage, Usher “Cinco” V and Naviyd Ely, certainly have that covered. I mean in the larger sense—the global sense. At his Vegas shows, the energy inside the (typically 85 percent female) audience is probably best described as affectionately feral. Everyone wants to love him down, but they also want to love him up. When I attended the show in March, during one of Usher’s crowd-work sections, a demure-looking audience member attached herself to Usher’s chest, seat-belt-style, from behind, locking her hands across his sternum until her eyeglasses got misty. (He allowed it for a few bars with a kind “okaaay,” before gently removing himself.) Seven months later, at a show in October, a few songs after one audience member leapt into the aisle in an attempt to grind (another kind “okaaay”), a woman in the front row alerted him, nursery-school-teacher-style, that one of his shoes had come untied. He knelt and fixed it, crooning with the same grin as before. Not a soul alive wants to see Usher fall.
And for what it’s worth, he remains the best performer I’ve seen live—ever. Coming Home, the new album, is out Feb 9, and I had an early listen: it’s really fun. If you like Usher, there’s a lot to like. I’m really excited for the Super Bowl. That’s the first time I’ve ever said that. (As a person who lives with a Michigander, if the Lions make it, we very may well end up in Vegas again.) Did you read the story? Let me know what you think! It was a real treat from start to finish. Again: not always the case!
Back on earth, I finally saw Anatomy of a Fall (on Prime). It’s excellent. I was already a little obsessed with Justine Triet when I saw what she wore to the Golden Globes—cool wide trousers and a drapey silk top from Lemaire mens line with loosely touseled French girl hair, a red lip, and great glasses while on stage—and then seeing her film finally just knocked me sideways. Really clever. Sandra Huller is having a hell of a year (she’s similarly undeniable in Zone of Interest). That said, Oscar nominations came out and they are a little eye-roll inducing and admittedly pretty silly, but I’ll refrain from waxing on about it. That’s not what you come here for, is it? My suggestion that the omission of May/December is because the acting branch can’t take a joke if its at the expense of acting? That Charles Melton, especially, was robbed? I suspect that you are here for more fun things, like… perfect red turtlenecks inspired by the next gen of cinema greats! Just me? Too bad, I’m in charge. (*If you’re really uninterested in the fashion part, I forgive you: go ahead and skip below to a long lyrical passage about Irish weather that’s better than it sounds.)
I’m having a red turtleneck winter, thanks to Passages, and Justine Triet (one turns up in Anatomy, to excellent visual effect). “‘Red is the color Ira wanted for Agathe,’” costume designer Khadija Zeggaïe told The Wrap in an article about Passages’ design. “We see her in this scarlet turtleneck near a turning point at the end of the film, during two decision point scenes – first with Martin and then with Tomas. ‘Red evokes strength,’ said Zeggaï. ‘And at this point in the film, Agathe has decided she is free.’” Might I suggest that we also embrace feeling free? This is what I want to be wearing lately— if I happen to be in a cool-grey-blue room the color of a husky’s eye, well, all the better.
The red has to be the right red. An I’m over your bullshit red, an I choose me red. A look at me when I’m talking to you red. (I am not in on the “mob wife aesthetic,” and to be honest I find that terminology actually pretty embarrassing, but I think the “mob wife” you speak of would wear this red, if that helps.) I think a true blue lipstick red is ideal, personally, because there is no turning back from that. You can’t pretend like that’s not a thing, wearing a red like that. I like the red of this sweater, from &Daughter. I’d wear it over a silk slip skirt, or with jeans, maybe the really fancy ($$$) Bottega ones my friend Jane just wrote about in her excellent newsletter, Jane on Jeans, which I now cannot stop thinking about, and a croc boot with a bitchy little (walkable!) heel. In L.A. it’s been cold, it’s been rainy, I want to wear red. This little baby blue denim toss-around bag will look insane next to this red. Heaven on earth.
Links, clockwise from top: sweater, jean, bag, boot, bling.
Another option! We love an option. Same give a damn already red sweater with a twisted little skirt that’s feels like a grown up take on a denim mini, and a boot that means business. I like a tall knee high, especially if it’s comfy, which these are, but The Row’s style is chic as hell, if you happen to be one of the three sizes not sold out already. Diamond studs: non-negotiable. Either way. I love the jangly caviar-bead sparkle of this Clio Peppiatt bag, which feels like it’s been swiped from some sort of mythical sea witch (this is a compliment), but I find myself unable to resist the giant Alaïa heart. It all feels very ‘90s supermodel to me, which is exactly how I want to feel entering February/ the rest of my days. Go to brunch or the movies or a lower-key date or wherever the hell you want. Be done. Be free.
Links: Knit, skirt, boot, bag, earring.
Do you need a camel coat, by the way? That’s a trick question: everybody does. I just saw this one and it is cozy heaven and just different enough than the one everyone else has already.
I am reading This Is Happiness, by Niall Williams, and am finding it such a balm. It’s very Irish but somehow pitch perfect for this season in L.A.: slow, soothing, subtle, lyrical, tender. And also a lot about rain in the beginning, which has suited me fine during the few downpours and damp misty mornings we had here this week. A taste:
Nobody in Faha could remember when it started. Rain there on the western seaboard was a condition of living. It came straight-down and sideways, frontwards, backwards and any other wards God could think of. It came in sweeps, in waves, sometimes in veils. It came dressed as drizzle, as mist, as showers, frequent and widespread, as a wet fog, as a damp day, a drop, a dreeping, and an out-and-out downpour. It came the fine day, the bright day, and the day promised dry. It came at any time of the day and night, and in all seasons, regardless of calendar and forecast, until in Faha your clothes were rain and your skin was rain and your house was rain with a fireplace. It came off the grey vastness of an Atlantic that threw itself against the land like a lover once spurned and resolved not to be so again. It came accompanied by seagulls and smells of salt and seaweed. It came with cold air and curtained light. It came like a judgement, or, in benign version, like a blessing God had forgotten he had left on. It came for a handkerchief of blue sky, came on westerlies, sometimes—why not?—on easterlies, came in clouds that broke their backs on the mountains in Kerry and fell into Clare, making mud the ground and blind the air. It came disguised as hail, as sleet, but never as snow. It came softly sometimes, tenderly sometimes, its spears turned to kisses, in rain that pretended it was not rain, that had come down to be closer to the fields whose green it loved and fostered, until it drowned them.
All of which, to attest to the one truth: in Faha, it rained.
But now, it had stopped.
(I mean, you either love that or you don’t. I do!)
Surprise and delight on a plate: I had dinner at my friend Marlien’s this week and among the feast she provided was the most gorgeous homemade (sourdough!) pasta I’d ever seen, adorable little colorful floral and cheerful stripy tubes from a brilliant chef named Fiona Afshar. She’s based in Malibu but she has an online store! I am tempted to buy all of her pastas myself so am sharing the love before I become a hoarder. We can all feel better about carbs when they’re this cute. (Also: let’s all agree not to really feel bad about carbs, please.)
Other comestible-related content (let’s face it, typically my favorite content): I am making this soup. Carrot! Miso! Sesame! Come on. Also it looks easy, which, let’s face it, a soup should be. I will also probably be making this cheesy bread chile delight. I found an A+ new snack (and by “found” I mean fished it out of my friend’s Erewhon haul during a visit): these Panza chocolate chip cracker cookie things? Imagine a chocolate chip cookie and a fancy cracker had a baby: thin, sweet but not too sweet, not so indulgent you feel bad about it. Non GMO. Sold out on their site in chocolate chip (clearly we’re onto something), but there are other flavors. And plenty of the choc chip kind in stock in various places in LA that I’ve seen.
OK! That’s all I have for you right now. Believe it or not, I’m still on (another!) deadline. Some fun things in the pipeline that I am excited to eventually share. Thank you for being here. Hope you’ve had a good week and have lots of glorious weekend plans, even if that just means no plans at all. And send me a note if you liked something/ was less into something/ want to take pasta making classes with me/ have lots of deep thoughts about the weather/ feel like saying hi! I always love hearing from you.
See you next time.