issue no. 13: on glass
Handle with care.
The second volume of Love and Other Rugs is presented by Kaiyo.
stemware and friendship.
The last time I was in Italy, I was in love. It was 2015 and I was attempting to date my college boyfriend for the third time. We were abroad at an art program in Florence together. I was pretending to be a graphic designer, learning to tell stories any way I could as I dreamed of landing a magazine job in New York, and he was an architecture student. I was fighting with him again, for the reason we always fought: his attention. He was solidly stubborn, unchanging like the concrete of the buildings he was designing, and I, well, I was glass—solid in a different way, transparent in my intentions, and so quickly able to shatter into a thousand pieces.
I left Florence with my heart in my hands for an internship in Manhattan. We dated again 4 months later, for the majority of our senior year. He was still concrete, I was still glass—both of us unwavering and me so quick to feel crushed. We broke up two days before graduation, then I moved to New York and never looked back—we were an hourglass and our time ran out.
Then earlier this year, almost 10 years later, I was traipsing around Italy again; this time to go to a design festival called Salone and the kick off of the Venice Biennale. Instead of dragging some man that was not prioritizing me around Italy (and yelling at him barefoot in the streets at 3am in an all-white pleather outfit)—I convinced three of my close friends to join my plans for adult spring break with stops in Rome, Milan and Venice. I was in search of beautiful things and beautiful people and to find some semblance of inspiration. I was definitively not in love.
In Rome, we toured the city's underbelly, avoided the Vatican, and took a day trip to see La Posta Vecchia—the Roman property run by Marie-Louise Scio that was once owned by the Getty family. He had discovered 2nd century ruins when he was trying to build a pool. We had the best sparkling wine I’ve ever had.
In Milan, we found ourselves staying in the home of an aerial yoga instructor whose halls were lined with the art of her first two husbands, a photographer and a sculptor (she was now onto her third, another artist). I wore chic outfits and drank too much wine and stuffed my face with cacio e pepe. I ate prosciutto at every chance I could while running from neighborhood to neighborhood only to run into the same 50 people I also saw all the time in New York. This wasn’t a bad thing, mind you, it was just like one big class trip to Europe. Except no one needed to hide the fact that they were smoking cigarettes.
During the week, Sophie Lou Jacobsen debuted everyday objects made in clear glass—a coffee maker, a vase of flowers, a shopping bag—delicate and sturdy. They resonated so closely with me, I live with a spirit of transparency. Like these vessels, there was nothing you couldn’t see or know about me. (I always felt like this made me approachable but sometimes it means that I wasn’t protected enough). Then there was a frosted glass mirror by fellow Brooklynite Kiki Goti that stopped me in my tracks. It immediately reminded me of all the nights I’ve spent at Frog Wine Bar where her mirrors also hang. I wasn’t home sick at this part of the trip, but I was looking back at what the year had brought so far—new clients, reuniting with old friends, heartbreak of a new color. And here I was in Italy, pausing all the noise.
In Venice, we went to a glass manufacturer called Laguna B. At the family’s villa, there are shades covering the windows made of thin glass rods. Permanent rose-colored glasses—except in bright yellows and greens and blues. When the light poured in, the lines of color melted onto the floor. After our tour, I resisted every urge in my body to buy any new glassware. The thought of flying with hundreds of dollars of Venetian glass gave me hives. They would not make it. And honestly, there was not any room on my shelves.
I started to build out my selection of glasses when I moved into my apartment three years ago—inspired by travel and my past life as a market editor. I bought a vintage collection from a prop-stylist who was moving to LA. I found a set of numbered cocktail glasses at Dobbin Street that reminded me of my grandmother. And for daily use (both water and wine), I ordered 30 of the short tasting glasses from CB2’s Marta collection. Along with them, I ordered a set of 12 taller ribbed glasses for cocktails or Ghia mixed with sparkling water. It was imperative that I had some glassware that was replaceable. You see, I am prone to break things, to spill things, to ruin nice shoes, to leave my sunglasses behind in cars. I cannot have nice things. And I was trying to prove that I could have beautiful glassware that didn’t cost me $80 a stem.
One by one, though, those first ribbed glasses began to get small cracks in them, not enough to throw them away but enough to place them carefully on my counter and only drink out of one side or use to hold votives or flowers. Eventually, they cracked enough for shards to fall off, a point of no return. I hadn’t realized when I bought them that they were paper thin, prone to breaking. Maybe I shouldn’t have jam-packed them in my dishwasher. Maybe I bought too many glasses and couldn’t care for them all. When they broke, I’d wrap them in many layers of newspaper—taping up the sharp edges and placing them into my building’s trash can—wondering if objects needed a more proper burial than a garbage chute.
Since my mother’s death I’ve been using her things as a device to talk about her. Last month, I wrote about the idea of how stuff lives on for Vogue—what we save in memory of others. How a pulse remains as a thing lives on. What I didn’t write about was the stuff that gets lost, the things that break, the boxes of memories of ex-lovers and friends that live tucked out of sight. And I’ve been thinking about how people, especially living ones, are harder to archive—my mind swirling around grief as it relates to the living and the inevitable movement of friendships. You can’t really wrap up a relationship (platonic or otherwise) in paper with fragile, broken glass written on the outside.
Every person over the age of 30 warns you of this: that friendships change because people settle into their lives, people settle into themselves. My editor and I talk often about how friendships are, in some ways, much more intimate than romance (which is why these shifts hurt more). In friendships, we let people into our lives in different ways, closeness akin to pressing your nose up against the glass and really looking inside, a fuller picture. There is a transparency to friendship, especially in the early stages, where things are opaque in romantic ones. When dating, there are “rules”—be coy, don’t double text, only hang out once a week, you’ll know he’s into you if... Meanwhile, I have often walked away from friend dates feeling like I just won the lottery. There are no rules and risk is often worth the reward. Like the time I met a new friend who lived in LA over instagram and after our first meeting, we spent 4 days in a row driving around LA in her convertible. Or maybe my first friend in New York who I met when my magazine job photographed her place of work—we were both assistants and found ourselves out that evening and have been friends for almost a decade. No calculations, just chemistry.
This version of closeness is why it is so hard to understand endings or pauses or dormancies in our platonic relationships. The fallout of romance is easy for me to reconcile—not a perfect match, wrong timing, bad lighting. But in friendship we are not looking for the same type of dependency, we are stand alone vessels, offering up big portions of our lives, our time, our connections. You are too generous to your readers, letting us know so much, a friend told me last year after reading an early draft of LAOR. I disagreed, I take pride in being an open book. However, it was that same notion of being too generous that left me feeling betrayed and even worse, a closed off version of myself that was scared of the transparency I so valued.
I could tell you all about it, like I do with the silly boys that cross my path, but I won’t. It is far easier to joke about romantic prospects than friends. So for now, I’ll hold it, like a shard of glass that I can’t (and maybe don’t want to) get out of my hand.
Last week, I returned home from three weeks away (work, life, more running) and on my first day back in my apartment, I shattered a water glass on the floor. It was precariously resting against a box that I moved. I noticed that, as this small object broke, it grew in size—going from a small surface area on my countertop to pieces sprawled across my floor. I put shoes on, my cat looked on from the living room, eyes wider than his normal stare. Don’t move, I said. As if he’d listen. How funny that things were so much bigger than they seemed. Could an undoing bring something greater? Did we need to knock things off the ledge so that we saw things in a new light? If a friendship breaks, could things really never be the same? Could they somehow be different? And better?
When I was in Japan last November, my friend
, who curates some of the best travel content, sent me to a glass and ceramic store in Kyoto. The first time I went I was alone, my mouth agape at the antiques that spanned over centuries. A stack of 1940s glass coasters caught my eye—thin rods like the window treatment in Venice but 1/1000 of the size. I went back two more times, bringing my god sister Lucy with me. We were inconsolable, I could've spent my life in this store.
On a shelf there were stacks of glass and ceramics that had been chipped or cracked, in the spaces where porcelain once was, gold had been filled in. This practice, which I had heard of but never seen, is called Kintsugi. It turned out, cracked glass didn’t need a funeral, it needed care.
home goods.
A quick guide to good glassware.
My friend Leanne Ford launched another collaboration with Crate which included these amazing martini glasses that look like a coupe.
This La Romaine Editions wine glass looks like something my Bridgerton character would drink from.
Tried and true, Marta tasting glasses that cost less than $2 a pop. I also love recycled glassware from Morocco. They are indestructible, when I was in Marrakech I found bright blue ones that I use for Amaro.
I was at Mohawk general in LA shopping for a wedding present and found these amazing vintage Carl Aubock wrapped glasses—these are chic and these.
I love Caitlin Moicun and everything her store sells—from the conceptual jewelry to the homewares—I recently found this faux wine spill that reminded me of the fake display food from Japan.
Hudson Wilder makes simple glasses feel elevated.
Laguna B is known for its own spin on venetian glassware. I love these two toned water glasses. But the website is like a color explosion, maximalists, take caution.
I wouldn’t be a girl born in Kentucky if I didn’t include Kentucky Derby glasses, this man has nearly every year going back to the first glass production in the 30s.
I recently discovered Joe Colombo Smoke Glass (cocktail & old-fashioned)—designed for drinking and smoking cigarettes at the same time. Hot.
Each piece by Ulysses Sauvage is a work of art. They are a little hard to track down state side but sometimes they become available online, these crumpled wine glasses are amazing.
sloppy secondhand.
Each issue I’ll pick a favorite vintage spot & a local watering hole—maybe you’ll find a new-to-you sofa or a new-to-you man. All I can promise is perhaps some promiscuity and a little credit card debt.
I’m at Rhodora almost weekly, because it's pretty much the halfway point between me and all my friends' apartments. Plus, it's a little see and be seen. Anyway, two of the boys left Rhodora and opened Rodeo in Crown Heights. It's a perfect spill into the street wine bar, with a spicy tuna sandwich and a cute bike ride from my place. If you want to take me on a date, maybe we should go there.
There is not a place more beautiful than Quarters (which will soon have an operational wine bar!!) Dreamed up by Nick Ozemba & Felicia Hung the founders of In Common With Lighting (talk about good glass!!). I went for an hour with my friends Madison (of Ilovecraigslist) and Alyssa and each corner is a wonderful mix of new and old, plus a killer pantry section with global goods. My favorite thing there are the tables with tattoos—the designers licensed drawings from tattoo artists to create inlaid pieces on wood tables.
shop girl.
I shop more than I date, here is everything I bought or saw recently:
This piece by Gubi upholstered with The Row beach towels is one of my favorites the girls at Forsyth have in stock right now
Busted Glass an Ed Ruscha book that depicts drawings of glass that has been shattered in some way. The easiest way to have famous artists in your home is through books and show catalogs.
My kingdom for this Spanish skirt in perfect shades of red orange.
I loved this sequin skirt I saw at No. 6 as a possible look for my birthday in August.
This bathroom from architect and designer Roberto Geroras’s Milan apartment is the color palette of my summer.
$24 perfect summer-carry-alls that look like Bode’s shopping bags.
I’m totally obsessed with this Nikki Chasin Florida Woman shirt, I just can’t figure out my color choice.
My friend Laura wrote about this collab between textile brand Maharam and designer Berthan Pot for T List and it's pretty special.
I was never a huge fan of toe rings growing up but these Proenza sandals my friend Jordan wore to her welcome drinks at her wedding and I think I need a pair in black or red.
Blockshop’s store in LA carries a curation of vintage items, like an unreal painted camel skin lamp similar to this one on Chairish.
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Missed you!