The designer behind ERINESS talks about getting discovered at 18, finding meaning in ladybugs, balancing creativity with commerce, and building a jewelry brand on her own terms.

Erin Sachse Nathan never intended to start a jewelry company.

She had been making things for as long as she could remember—knitting, building a camera out of wood and a drawer, and, beginning in seventh grade, making jewelry by hand. It was simply what she did: a way to work with her hands and create objects that made people happy.

Then, at 18, while working at Fred Segal before starting college, a jewelry buyer noticed one of Erin’s handmade bracelets.

The buyer asked Erin to make one for her and offered a deal: if she received ten compliments while wearing it, she would carry the bracelets at Fred Segal. The next day, she got her ten compliments—and asked Erin for her brand name and wholesale prices.

Erin had neither.

“I was like, ‘What’s wholesale?’” she remembers.

That unexpected encounter became the beginning of ERINESS. Erin spent the money she earned working at Fred Segal on gemstones and began producing wire-wrapped “daisy chains”—delicate hand chains made by wrapping individual beads in wire. Fred Segal became her first retailer. By the time she graduated from college, she was selling through roughly ten stores, filling reorders between exams and occasionally selling jewelry directly off her body to people who stopped her on the street.

There was no grand business plan behind it. The jewelry worked because it was unmistakably hers.

“I think because it was so authentic to who I am and who I was at the time, people really gravitated toward it,” she says.

From a Side Project to a Fine-Jewelry Brand

As graduation approached and Erin’s friends began accepting conventional jobs, she faced a decision: treat the business as a college side project or find out what it could become.

“This is the time to try it,” she decided.

She returned to Los Angeles, found an office near the Jewelry District and began searching for production partners. Using everything she had earned from her gemstone jewelry, she financed the transition into fine jewelry herself.

ERINESS has remained self-funded ever since.

That independence has shaped Erin’s approach to growth. She is ambitious, but uninterested in building at the expense of the life—or the company—she wants to have.

“My motto has always been slow and steady,” she says. “I don’t need to be the biggest brand in the world. I want to be my brand.”

For Erin, thoughtful growth means being ready when an important retailer comes calling, rather than chasing distribution before the company can support it. It means finding exceptional production, protecting the quality of the work and surrounding herself with people who are better than she is at the parts of the business that do not come naturally to her.

Her mind is most at home with the next collection: the colors, gemstones, drawings and campaign imagery. Pricing models and operational spreadsheets are necessary, but they are not where she wants to spend her creative energy.

That division is one of the central tensions of building an independent brand. Vision may give a company its reason to exist, but execution determines whether it survives. The jewelry still has to be priced correctly, produced beautifully and delivered when promised.

Erin has learned to let other people help carry that responsibility.

The Collection That Changed Everything

The emotional center of ERINESS can be found in its Ladybug Collection.

While Erin’s mother was in hospice, Erin dreamed that her room was filled with ladybugs. The dream felt comforting rather than frightening. The following day, while sitting with her mother, Erin received a news alert reporting that an enormous swarm of ladybugs had flown over Los Angeles the previous night.

That evening, she went home and drew an entire collection.

“It was like someone took over my hand,” she says.

Erin initially doubted that anyone would want to wear ladybug jewelry. Instead, the collection sold immediately—and customers began sharing their own stories. For many, ladybugs represented a mother, grandmother, grandfather or another loved one who had died.

The collection revealed something fundamental about jewelry: its meaning does not end with the designer. Once a piece leaves the studio, its owner gives it a new history.

“You know where you got that ring,” Erin says. “You know who gave you those earrings. You know, when you bought that necklace, what you were going through in your life.”

The Ladybug Collection helped establish a deeper creative language for ERINESS. The jewelry could be joyful and colorful while still holding grief, memory and connection. A motif could be visually charming and emotionally profound at the same time.

The World Doesn’t Need More Jewelry. It Needs More Perspectives.

For Erin, building a brand means creating a coherent world—one in which every photograph, piece of jewelry and physical detail feels unmistakably like ERINESS.

That requires resisting the temptation to imitate what appears to be working for everyone else. Social media makes other brands’ worlds constantly visible, creating endless opportunities for comparison and second-guessing. Erin has learned that the only useful response is to become more specific, rather than more broadly appealing.

“There are so many brands,” she says. “There’s no point to doing something that someone else is doing.”

ERINESS is not intended to be everything to everyone. It is colorful, playful, sentimental and optimistic because that is what Erin herself wants to wear. Her customers come to her for that point of view—not for a generic gold bar necklace they could find anywhere.

In fact, the pieces Erin wears most consistently are often the ones that sell best. Her enthusiasm becomes a form of market research.

The lesson is not that commercial feedback is irrelevant. It is that a designer’s distinctiveness is often the most commercially valuable thing she possesses. The world may not need more jewelry, but it always has room for a perspective it has not seen before.

Designing From Memory

Erin’s latest flower collection took nearly two years to resolve. At one point, it included almost every flower she could imagine and threatened to grow to 50 pieces. Eventually, she narrowed the idea around wildflowers.

The collection drew on memories of growing up in Southern California: flowers along the bluffs of the Pacific Palisades, picking blooms from neighborhood yards and watching her mother return from the farmers market each Sunday to arrange flowers throughout their home.

Like so much of Erin’s work, the collection became a way of turning memory into something tangible.

That connection became even more poignant after Erin’s childhood home burned down. At nearly the same time, she became a mother herself—two life-altering experiences that forced her to reconsider what mattered and how she wanted to spend her time.

Balancing a company and a young family remains unresolved. Some days she feels like a great boss and an inadequate mother; on others, the equation reverses. She tries to be fully at home when she is home, even if the mind is harder to silence than the phone.

Both the business and her son, she says, are her babies.

Jewelry’s Life After the Designer

Erin is now returning to one-of-a-kind pieces, sourcing unusual stones and designing around them—a reversal of her usual process. The work is creatively gratifying but emotionally difficult. She falls in love with the pieces and struggles to let them go.

When a retailer sells one, she wants to know who bought it. She imagines the life it will have after leaving her hands.

That life can extend far beyond a single customer. Erin remembers a woman who had purchased a butterfly necklace for her daughter and later called, urgently looking for another before Mother’s Day. The customer sent Erin a note to include with the gift for her own mother: now there would be three generations wearing the butterflies.

For Erin, that is the ultimate purpose of the work.

She had created an object that became part of a family’s history—something made in her Los Angeles studio that could carry love and memory through three generations, and perhaps more.

It is hard to imagine a better definition of extraordinary jewelry.

She understands the margins, the mythology and the machinery that turns a jacket into an object of desire. Amazingly, the trick still works on her.

The most recent object to break through her professional defenses was a Chanel jacket from Matthieu Blazy’s first collection. Lauren wanted it since she saw it on the runway. When she finally tried it on, it connected her to the 13-year-old in Pittsburgh who dreamed of becoming a fashion journalist and covering the shows in Paris.

“That jacket is what I imagined I would wear if I was a fashion journalist as a grownup,” she tells me.

It wasn’t just a jacket. It was proof that she had become the person she once imagined wearing it.

Lauren’s fashion education started early. Her parents met while working at a denim store in Columbus, where they also served as buyers. Her mother loved Halston and Calvin Klein; both parents loved Ralph Lauren. Lauren remembers staging photographs of herself in a leotard and red tights, what she wore on the first day of first grade and the exact color combinations that excited her as a child.

Brands entered the picture almost as quickly. Lauren grew up without much money and remembers her mother declaring that the Gap was too expensive, even though a similar outfit from TJ Maxx might have cost just as much. In high school, she bought a fake Kate Spade bag on eBay before anyone around her knew what Kate Spade was. She ordered clothes from the J.Crew catalog and arrived at school in a sweater and tweed cargo pants, prompting her classmates to tell her she looked like she was in college.

Long before she wrote about the business of fashion, Lauren understood that clothes could make you appear older, richer, cooler—or simply like someone who knew something other people didn’t.

After college, she moved to London to work for Quintessentially, the concierge service for the extremely wealthy. There, she encountered a class system far more explicit than the American version. Money could buy the country house and the impossible restaurant reservation, but it could not fix the wrong accent. At the same time, some of the richest people she met wore inexpensive clothes. As I put it, theirs was the world of a 19-pound shirt and a 19,000-acre estate.

Seeing how luxury worked from the inside did not cure Lauren of wanting things. If anything, it made her numb to extraordinary prices. She knows buying a Chanel jacket is a slightly crazy thing to do, but she can also make the case: adjust the price for inflation, buy only a few things each year and keep them forever. Voilà—practically responsible.

What knowledge has changed is her threshold. She still loves shopping, but she wants fewer, better things: the perfect sandal, the perfect button-down, the perfect black dress.

Her disinterest in fast fashion is not, she readily admits, primarily an ethical position. Once you understand how many copies of something exist, it becomes less exciting. Seeing the machinery has not eliminated her materialism. It has simply made the machinery work harder.

So what separates a beautiful construct from a con?

“It is all a con,” Lauren says, before arriving at a more useful distinction. The enduring brands tend to be built by people who are also under fashion’s spell. The designers and executives are not merely fooling the customer; they believe in the creativity and fantasy themselves. When something is manufactured simply because a spreadsheet says there is demand, consumers can usually feel it.

The magic requires talent, hard work, timing and a product strong enough to carry the story.

Charvet is Lauren’s favorite example. The mythology is excellent: a discreet Parisian shirtmaker on Place Vendôme, established in the nineteenth century and supposedly uninterested in marketing—which is, of course, the best marketing imaginable.

But the shirts also deliver. Lauren loves the way the fabric falls, the way they fit and how easily she can throw one over almost anything. At around 400 euros, a Charvet shirt is objectively expensive. But beside the $1,000 shirts sold by designer brands in department stores, it begins to look almost sensible.

This is what Lauren calls the “price-value equation”: not whether something is cheap, but whether it gives you enough for what it costs. Charvet’s colors, fabrics, history and French production all add to that equation. The occasional imperfection does not bother her. Human beings made the shirts; they are not supposed to emerge from a laboratory.

The online quality police may count loose threads. Lauren cares about how the shirt makes her feel.

She is similarly skeptical that consumers express much morality through shopping. People like to say they vote with their dollars, but if a bra fits well, they are probably going to buy it.

Victoria’s Secret proves the point. The company became a symbol of everything supposedly wrong with the old fashion system. Its recovery did not come from becoming especially virtuous. Under female leadership, it returned to sexy products without quite as much leering or corporate self-flagellation.

As I put it, “Vicky went to therapy.”

The company also caught the return of the underwire bra at exactly the right moment. The turnaround was not ideological. Victoria’s Secret rediscovered what people wanted, improved the way it delivered it and stopped apologizing for being Victoria’s Secret.

The bigger challenge for fashion is that status spending has moved elsewhere. Lauren recalls visiting an affluent shopping center in La Jolla and realizing that she and her husband were the only people wearing “hard pants.” Everyone else was in leggings or sweatpants.

These consumers have not stopped spending. The money has migrated to $50 exercise classes, lymphatic drainage, cosmetic procedures, teeth whitening and the full-body renovation that can follow a GLP-1 prescription.

The body, in other words, is the new handbag.

Americans see much of this spending as virtuous because it is framed as an investment in oneself. But it is still consumption. Jewelry may benefit from the shift because it feels more permanent. A bag gets beaten up. Shoes become dated. A diamond necklace can be understood as an asset or heirloom—even when it is also something beautiful that you simply want.

Lauren sees the cooling of the luxury market as a story of consolidation and saturation. For years, consumers around the world signaled taste through the same handful of objects from the same enormous European houses. The pandemic extended the cycle: with nowhere to go, people bought more stuff. Now the monoculture is finally weakening.

That creates an opening for independent brands, although not an easy one. Lauren points out that a fashion company producing $100 million or $200 million a year can be an excellent business without becoming a global conglomerate. The difficulty is reaching customers as multibrand retailers disappear and brands are forced to finance their own stores.

The Row demonstrates the power of patient capital. Its founders had enough security to remain disciplined, choose investors carefully and survive the moment when the whole world moved on to another aesthetic. Most independent designers do not have that luxury. Lauren’s advice is to start small, accept how much is outside your control and understand that most brands do not work out.

People start them anyway because they feel possessed by an idea.

The same dynamics are reshaping Lauren’s own industry. Media is becoming increasingly divided between enormous institutions such as The New York Times and smaller publications built around distinctive individual voices. Puck’s insight was to build its business around its journalists rather than treating them as interchangeable content producers.

As artificial intelligence takes over more commodity news, readers will still pay for expertise, access, taste and personality. I don’t really think about subscribing to Puck. I subscribe to Lauren.

Her recommendations at the end of the conversation reflect that affection for singular voices: Caitlin Phillips’s wonderfully idiosyncratic Gift Guide; artist Sophie Treppendahl; and independent jewelers including Charlotte Chesnais, Sophie Bille Brahe, Danielle Sherman and Sophie Buhai. Lauren reserves special praise for Buhai, whose work consistently passes the price-value test and who, after years of quietly making excellent things, “deserves her flowers.”

We close with one last object.

If Lauren’s son had to understand her through a single possession, she would choose a secondhand red Hermès Bolide given to her by her husband. It is beautiful and deeply coded, but discreet enough to carry to soccer practice without anyone realizing it is Hermès.

The bag contains both versions of Lauren: the 14-year-old who dreamed of attending Paris Fashion Week and the adult who made that dream real while remaining, in her words, “a normal human being.”

She knows exactly what the bag signifies. She knows how its value was manufactured and how the mythology works. She loves it anyway.

She hasn’t been fooled. She has simply decided that some things are still worth believing in.

For this episode of The Materialist, host Marc Bridge sits down with Ivette Stephanopoulos — a 25-year jewelry industry veteran whose career has spanned nearly every corner of the business, from retail and GIA to De Beers, Tiffany, and David Yurman. Recorded on location at the Las Vegas shows, often described as the industry’s “Super Bowl,” the conversation moves from the emotional power of an engagement ring to the unresolved tension between natural and lab-grown diamonds, and from the rise of high jewelry to why so few American brands have built lasting design-driven followings.

A Career Built on Connection, Not Birthright

Unlike many in the trade, Stephanopoulos didn’t grow up in a jewelry family — she fell into the industry through an early job at a small New York retailer. What kept her in it, she says, is that jewelry is fundamentally a “happy industry”: every transaction sits at the center of someone’s milestone, whether an engagement, an anniversary, or a personal celebration. Looking back across her stops at GIA, De Beers, Tiffany, and David Yurman, she describes each chapter as building on the last, deepening her understanding of where a piece of jewelry actually comes from — the mines, the communities, the artisans — before it ever reaches a customer’s hand.

Why a Diamond, and Not a Trip to Jamaica?

Bridge presses on a deceptively simple question: why do diamonds, specifically, carry the emotional weight of a marriage proposal? Stephanopoulos points to rarity, durability, and tradition — a diamond is something a couple can own forever, pass down, and point to as a tangible marker of a “first large purchase” early in a relationship. That sense of permanence, she argues, is what transforms a transaction into an investment in the relationship itself.

The Natural vs. Lab-Grown Divide

The conversation’s most pointed exchange concerns lab-grown diamonds. Stephanopoulos is candid that the natural diamond industry has spent the last decade-plus on the defensive, and that this defensiveness has come at a cost: by failing to proactively educate consumers, the industry ceded significant market share to lab-grown alternatives, which she notes are also more profitable for many retailers — creating little incentive to fully return. Her prediction is one of coexistence rather than reversal: natural diamonds won’t reclaim their former market position, but they’ll retain a smaller, devoted base of buyers who value provenance and rarity. Notably, she points out that virtually no major high jewelry house works with lab-grown stones — at the top of the market, natural and untreated remains the standard.

High Jewelry, Status, and the Idea of “Important”

The two also unpack what separates “high jewelry” from the rest of the market — generally pieces priced at $50,000 and above, often built around rare or one-of-a-kind gemstones. Stephanopoulos describes the purchase process for this tier as an experience rather than a sale: brands cultivate a sense of exclusivity and storytelling — introducing the mine, the artisan, the designer — so that price becomes almost an afterthought. She draws a sharp distinction between something “expensive” and something “important,” arguing that importance is usually personal or sentimental rather than intrinsic to the object itself, while in auction-house language, “important” is often simply a polite synonym for rare.

The Real Problem Isn’t Materials — It’s Storytelling

A recurring theme is Bridge’s hypothesis that the jewelry industry has been held back not by debates over diamonds or fluctuating gold and silver prices, but by a persistent failure of storytelling and creativity. Stephanopoulos agrees, pointing to David Yurman as the rare counterexample: an American brand built almost entirely on design and narrative — the love story between Mr. and Mrs. Yurman, an accessible entry price point, and a broad demographic reach — rather than on metal content or carat weight. Bridge critiques the industry’s habit of leading with material specifications (”it’s 18 karat”) instead of meaning, arguing that materials should justify a price point, not serve as the selling point itself.

Giving Back: The Armenian Jewelers Association

Stephanopoulos also discusses her role as president of the Armenian Jewelers Association, a global organization connecting the disproportionately large Armenian presence across the jewelry trade — from major houses to independent ateliers. The association’s mission includes showcasing emerging Armenian designers at shows like JCK and Gem Geneva, and exploring manufacturing partnerships with Armenia itself, where favorable export tariffs and strong craftsmanship traditions create real opportunity.

Closing Note

Asked about her most recent personal jewelry purchase, Stephanopoulos shares that she recently upgraded her own engagement ring after 20 years of marriage — keeping her original three-stone ring (with plans to eventually pass it to her daughter) while moving into a Tiffany piece in yellow gold, a shift from the platinum that once defined “rare” metal. It’s a fitting close to a conversation about meaning, permanence, and the stories we choose to keep — and pass down.

This episode of The Materialist is a little different.

Usually, we talk with designers, tastemakers, collectors, and creators about the objects they love: the jewelry they wear, the pieces they make, the things they choose to bring into their lives. This conversation is about jewelry, but it is not really about looking at jewelry. In fact, Rob Bates says at one point, “I don’t really like looking at jewelry. It has no interest to me. And I’ve written about jewelry for 35 years.”

That may be the perfect way into Rob’s particular genius.

For decades, Rob has been one of the defining journalistic voices of the jewelry industry. As longtime news editor of JCK, and before that at National Jeweler, he has covered diamonds, retailers, trade shows, controversies, crises, consolidations, family businesses, lab-grown diamonds, conflict diamonds, tariffs, marketing campaigns, and all the strange, intimate, global machinery that sits behind a ring in a case.

What has kept him interested is not jewelry as decoration, but jewelry as a window into how the world works. From Rob’s perspective, the industry is a small town and a global system at once: family businesses and multinational companies, romance and commerce, ethics and marketing, gemstones and geopolitics. It touches “so many people, so many countries, so many lives,” as he puts it. Jewelry, in Rob’s telling, is not merely an accessory category. It is an industry where questions of value, truth, labor, status, love, responsibility, and storytelling all collide.

That journalistic distance makes this a different kind of Materialist episode. Rob is not especially interested in whether a piece is pretty. He is interested in what it reveals. A diamond is never just a diamond. It is a product, a symbol, a commodity, a brand, a promise, a controversy, a livelihood, and sometimes a problem. The same object can represent romance in one context, extraction in another, national development in another, and market disruption in yet another.

Much of the conversation circles around lab-grown diamonds, which Rob identifies as the biggest issue facing the industry today. His analysis is characteristically unsentimental: lab-grown diamonds succeeded not because they invented a radically new use case, but because they inserted themselves into an existing emotional and commercial structure. The mined diamond industry had spent decades building demand. Lab-grown companies arrived and said, in effect: this is the same thing, only cheaper. And, as Rob says, “nothing beats cheaper.”

But Rob is also clear that the conflict between natural and lab-grown diamonds has become less productive than it should be. The two sides “take shots at each other constantly,” even though “both things can coexist.” His deeper critique is that the diamond industry trained consumers to compare numbers and letters rather than meaning, beauty, design, or brand. Once diamonds became a grid of specifications, it became easier for consumers to comparison shop — and easier for lab-grown diamonds to compete on price.

That idea opens into one of the richer themes of the episode: what makes something “real”? Rob’s novels have returned to that question, and the jewelry industry seems almost designed to keep asking it. Is a lab-grown diamond real? Is a mined diamond more meaningful because it came from the earth? Is value created by scarcity, cost, emotion, advertising, history, or use? Rob does not pretend to resolve all of this neatly. “Everything is real,” he says. What matters, in the end, may be the human impact: what kind of person you are, what effect you have on your family, and what effect you have on other people.

The conversation also turns to the moral complexity of diamonds. Rob notes that diamonds have been associated with terrible things, but also that, at their best, they have provided jobs and helped build prosperity in places like Botswana and Namibia. We talk about visiting the Jwaneng mine in Botswana — a vast open pit that is impossible to romanticize as a physical scar on the earth, but also impossible to dismiss when you consider the education, healthcare, infrastructure, and democratic stability supported by what came out of that ground. The bumper-sticker version of the story does not work. The real story is harder, more compromised, and more interesting.

The second half of the episode shifts from jewelry to journalism — and to Rob’s own entrepreneurial leap.

After 28 years at JCK and more than five years at National Jeweler, Rob recently launched The Jewelry Wire, an independent Substack. It is a striking career move: a veteran journalist leaving the security and infrastructure of established trade media to build something in his own voice. He describes the decision with a mix of humor, anxiety, freedom, and disbelief. At nearly 60, he felt that if he was going to try something of his own, this was the moment. “At 59 and a half, I can do it,” he says.

What follows is a wonderfully honest account of becoming an entrepreneur after a lifetime inside institutions. Rob talks about leaving a secure job, worrying that people would think he had been fired, losing sleep, working harder, and discovering that writing is only part of the business. Suddenly, he has to think about marketing, branding, slogans, subscribers, advertisers, positioning, and the question every founder eventually faces: why should anybody care?

There is something especially compelling about hearing this from a journalist. Writers often imagine their work as pure craft: observe, think, write. But independent media forces the writer to become a businessperson too. Rob describes the humbling realization that The Jewelry Wire is not just “me writing on a Substack and people paying me for it.” It is a business, and he has to think like one.

That leads to a larger discussion about the changing nature of media. Trade publications once provided the infrastructure: audience, editing, distribution, sales, advertising, institutional authority. The journalist supplied expertise and reporting. In the new world, especially on platforms like Substack, the journalist becomes the publication. That brings freedom — a more personal voice, more irreverence, more direct connection to readers — but also new pressures. Rob talks about “personal brand,” audience capture, advertisers, canceled subscriptions, and the need to challenge readers rather than simply tell them what they already want to hear.

His definition of trade journalism is one of the best moments in the episode. Trade press, he says, should be like community press — part of the community, but not merely a cheerleading squad. It should help people do business better, but it should also stand apart, tell the truth, and occasionally make people unhappy. That is the tension Rob has lived with for decades: to know a world intimately, to belong to it in some ways, and still maintain enough distance to see it clearly.

That is also why this episode belongs on The Materialist. It is about the people and systems behind the object. It is about the stories that create value, and the journalism that interrogates those stories. It is about an industry that sells beauty and meaning, but is sustained by supply chains, family businesses, advertising, ethics, aspiration, and trust.

And, finally, it is about reinvention. Rob spent 35 years covering entrepreneurs. Now he has become one himself. That shift gives him a new sympathy for the people he writes about — the small business owners, designers, retailers, and founders trying to make something work without any guarantee that it will. He has gone from observing risk to taking it.

As Rob says of the jewelry industry, “You check in, you don’t check out.” The same may now be true of independent media.

Marc Bridge and Danielle Meyer, The Dominick Hotel, NYC, March 27, 2026

What happens when a brand is built not from strategy decks or heritage training, but from instinct, speed, and a refusal to wait for permission?

In this conversation, Danielle Meyer of Spicy Dan shares how her business has grown out of pure creative impulse—designing pieces she wants to exist, then refining them through real-time feedback from her community. The result is a brand that sits in a rare space: playful but intentional, accessible but aspirational, and deeply personal without feeling precious.

We explore the tension between creativity and commerce—why customization works when most brands fail to execute it, how rapid production cycles clash with traditional wholesale timelines, and why her best-selling instincts often contradict her personal taste. Danielle is refreshingly honest about the realities of building a business: procrastinating the unglamorous work, learning by doing, and embracing imperfection as a growth strategy.

At its core, Spicy Dan is less about jewelry and more about world-building—a distinct point of view that customers can step into, whether they’re buying their first piece or their fifteenth. It’s a reminder that in a category where differentiation is notoriously difficult, originality often comes not from invention, but from conviction.

A conversation with Malaika Crawford on flex culture, gatekeeping, and why print still matters.

There’s a moment in my conversation with Malaika Crawford—Editorial Director of Hodinkee Magazine, former fashion-world operator (Mel Ottenberg’s assistant in the Rihanna heyday), and current resident anthropologist of the watch internet—where she says the quiet part out loud:

“Watches are like jewelry with logos. Period.”

It lands because it’s true… and because so much of watch culture is built around pretending it isn’t.

This episode is about that tension: watches as craft and watches as status signal, watches as “timeless” objects we tell ourselves we’ll pass down, and watches as the most socially acceptable way to peacock at a dinner table without tossing your car keys down like a cartoon villain.

It’s also about something else I love: what happens when an outsider walks into a closed room and names what everyone’s been politely not naming.

Who is Malaika Crawford?

Malaika comes from the fashion pressure-cooker—shoots, sourcing, customs nightmares, Met Gala-level stakes—and then, through a pandemic-era twist (and a very specific Deepak Chopra “look for a sign” meditation), she finds herself being pulled into watches. Not just collecting, but writing, shaping, and expanding the editorial voice of the most influential watch media brand in the U.S.

She didn’t arrive to quietly follow the playbook. She arrived and asked, essentially: why is this hobby acting like a gated institution?

The watch world’s fragile ego

Early on, Malaika took heat for writing about watches through a style lens—shooting watches on models, talking about context, clothing, culture. It wasn’t that she wasn’t doing the research. It was that she was threatening the hierarchy.

She puts it plainly: a lot of the backlash wasn’t about movements and calibers. It was about who was “allowed” to speak.

“A lot of them have a very narrow view of what their hobby should be—and who should be allowed inside their hobby.”

And there’s a key distinction she makes that I think explains 80% of watch internet:

Collectors vs. enthusiasts.
The real collectors—the people with serious, historic, museum-grade collections—are often private. The loudest outrage, on the other hand, tends to come from “the cheap seats.” People emotionally invested in the identity of the thing, whether or not they’re actually buying the thing.

Watches as flex culture (and why that’s uncomfortable)

Here’s the provocation at the center of the episode:

“Most of the time, when you’re buying a Rolex or Patek or AP… you want people to know.”

Not everyone. Not always. But culturally? The signal is a feature, not a bug.

And watches have the perfect cover story:

“Watches have a functional alibi.”

You can roll up your sleeve and show the world exactly what you’re wearing while pretending it’s just… timekeeping. That’s why they’ve become, arguably, the most elegant status object on earth. It’s also why people get defensive when someone names it.

Because once you say “this is a flex,” the wearer has to ask: what am I trying to say about myself?

Why watch design gets stuck

One of Malaika’s most interesting points is structural: watches are engineered first, designed second.

In fashion, the creative director is the figurehead and the vision leads. In watches, the movement often dictates the case, and brand “heritage” becomes both asset and shackle.

So you get a stalemate:

• consumers want the watch that signals the brand

• brands want to modernize without losing the totem

• enthusiasts want the “old rules” preserved

• culture keeps moving anyway

Which helps explain why the “jeans” of watches—Tank, Submariner, Speedmaster—remain dominant. The market rewards recognizability and permanence.

The early-2000s era: the most honest watch moment

Malaika calls the early 2000s her favorite era from the “Jane Goodall chair.” Oversized everything. Bottle service. Wrapped cars. Murakami Vuitton bags. Watches became loud.

Panerai. Big Bang. Offshore. Jacob & Co.
Not subtle. Not apologizing.

And she argues something I love: watches may be old-fashioned objects, but they’re reflections of the culture that produced them. The early 2000s watches make perfect sense… because the early 2000s were perfect nonsense.

The Travis Scott problem (and what it revealed)

When Audemars Piguet collaborated with Travis Scott, watch internet lost its mind. Malaika wrote a long piece calling out what she saw underneath the outrage:

“This is veiled prejudice… It’s just not for you. Let’s move on.”

Her argument is simple: luxury brands have always seeded aspiration. If you can’t afford it now, you’re meant to remember it later. The offense wasn’t the marketing strategy—it was who the strategy was aimed at.

And if that made people angry, it probably means the point landed.

Print magazines in a brain-melt era

We also get into Hodinkee Magazine and why a digital-first platform keeps investing in print.

Malaika’s case for print is emotional but also practical: print has limits, and limits create meaning. A magazine forces editorial conviction. It’s a form of human “sign-off” that tells the reader: someone cared enough to commit.

In an era of infinite content, curation becomes the luxury.

The personal stuff: the watches that matter

Malaika’s first personal watch purchase: a yellow gold Reverso on bracelet.
Her most meaningful piece: a rare 1970s Cartier Paris mini Tank, gifted by her boyfriend (who, naturally, is a specialist in the watch department at Sotheby’s—she “can’t escape”).

And that’s the heart of why I love this subject: beyond all the signaling, watches remain an unusually potent way to hold a memory in your hand.

Three things Malaika wants you to notice

She shouts out:

• Michael Friedman and his forthcoming brand Pattern Recognition (philosophical, “past/future/present” time-as-idea watchmaking—six-figure, small-batch seriousness)

• Sarah Ricci of D’Heine jewelry (modern, nonconformist, artist-led work; bespoke rings that look like nothing else)

• Print itself, especially the surge in interiors publishing (she mentions World of Interiors and Never Too Small as part of the new print renaissance)

My takeaway

What I loved most is that Malaika treats watches the way I try to treat jewelry: as objects that sit at the intersection of craft, identity, culture, and desire.

Watches aren’t just watches. They’re social artifacts.
And once you start looking at them that way, the whole ecosystem—gatekeeping, hype cycles, heritage worship, flex signaling—suddenly makes perfect, human sense.

If you listen to the episode, you’ll hear a conversation that is funny, sharp, occasionally heretical, and ultimately affectionate toward the objects themselves—even as it refuses to romanticize the culture around them.

And yes: I still can’t stop thinking about the line.

“Watches are jewelry with logos.”

Listen + subscribe

If you enjoyed this episode of The Materialist, subscribe wherever you get your podcasts, and consider sharing it with the one friend who “doesn’t care about watches” but somehow knows the retail price of a Nautilus.

See you next time—
Marc

Marc Bridge and Monica Stephenson, Anza Gems Worldwide Headquarters, Seattle, WA

Monica Stephenson is the kind of guest who makes you see a familiar object—one you might already love—like it’s brand new. In this episode of The Materialist, we sit together in her Seattle office overlooking Lake Union and the skyline, and we follow a thread that runs from the jewelry counter in a Midwest college town all the way to artisanal gem mines in East Africa—and then back again, into the hands of the designers and collectors who ultimately give these stones a second life.

What unfolds is not just Monica’s career story (though it’s a fantastic one), but a bigger argument about what jewelry can do when it’s treated as both beauty and infrastructure: an object that sparks desire on the surface, and—if you care to go deeper—a vehicle for livelihoods, dignity, and long-term economic power.

A retailer’s education: why the “floor” matters

Monica’s origin story is refreshingly unromantic in the best way: she starts in retail in the early 1990s, selling jewelry while studying art history and fine art at the University of Iowa. That experience, she argues, isn’t a detour—it’s the foundation. Retail trains you to listen, to understand what customers actually respond to, and to translate a piece of jewelry into a reason someone chooses to bring it into their life.

It’s also where she first feels the pull of what she calls the “small sculpture” quality of jewelry—the idea that a piece can be materially precious, artistically rigorous, and emotionally immediate all at once. She remembers being captivated by the intention and artistry of emerging designers, a shift away from mass-manufactured sameness toward jewelry with a point of view. You flip a bracelet over, she says, and it’s as beautiful on the underside as it is on the top—craft as moral clarity.

There’s a personal echo too: Monica didn’t grow up in a jewelry family in the classic sense, but her father worked outside sales for a New York designer and would have merchandise spread across the kitchen table. So the objects were always there—close enough to normalize, just far enough away to remain slightly magical.

And then she says something that is both funny and true: we’re all magpies on some level. We like the shiny things. But for Monica, the “bug” goes deeper than sparkle. It’s the entire ecosystem—materials, workmanship, makers, and the people who carry the knowledge. It’s a love affair with process.

Tech, jewelry, and the limits of a “flat detail page”

From the jewelry counter, Monica’s path bends into the early internet. In the late 1990s she buys the domain for a diamond referral concept and builds what amounts to a matchmaking site connecting consumers to local retailers. It’s an early clue of what becomes a recurring theme in her work: jewelry is relational. It moves through networks of trust, story, and access.

That blend of jewelry fluency and tech curiosity leads to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: Amazon asks her to help launch its jewelry store in 2003. Monica becomes, in her words, “the tech translator to the jewelry industry,” straddling two worlds and learning to speak both languages.

What’s especially interesting is her reflection on why Amazon’s vision didn’t fully match the reality. Jewelry can translate to digital—today we have video, richer storytelling, and much better tools for dimensionality and nuance—but at the time, the attempt was to fit a complicated, largely non-branded category into a UPC-driven system. Watches could behave like that. Diamonds and gemstones couldn’t, at least not cleanly. Even within diamonds, there’s real variance from stone to stone, and the effort to “shoehorn” that complexity into a flat product page was harder than it looked.

When I ask what she wished the platform could have been, her answer is basically a thesis for modern jewelry commerce: more immersive visuals, more dimensional truth, and more designer storytelling—who made it, why they made it, what the process is, and what’s embedded inside the object beyond its specs. The implication is clear: if you remove story, you remove meaning—and jewelry is meaning-driven.

I Dazzle: the closet years and the power of deep storytelling

After Amazon, Monica steps back for family life, has two daughters, and then—like a lot of high-functioning creatives—hits the point where being “only” a parent isn’t enough for her brain. She needs a creative outlet that isn’t organized around snack time.

That’s where I Dazzle returns, this time as a blog. She subscribes to the industry magazines again, starts writing, and—nudged by her husband—channels her ideas into WordPress. What follows is the kind of grassroots editorial work that, in hindsight, feels inevitable: she travels to studios, interviews designers, attends trade shows, reports on trends, and asks the kinds of thoughtful questions that draw people out.

One of the most charming moments in the conversation is when the late Cindy Edelstein recognizes Monica across a trade show floor: “You’re I Dazzle,” and tells her she’s required reading. Monica, who has been writing essentially “in a closet” assuming she has seven readers, is suddenly confronted with the reality that she’s built a real audience—and that the industry is listening.

Why did it strike a chord? Monica thinks it’s because she was doing something that wasn’t common yet: making the designer and the studio legible. You could see the finished piece, but you couldn’t always access the depth behind it, even in a retail environment. Her blog became a window into the people and the process. It served trade readers and everyday consumers alike, and it sometimes even acted as a matchmaker—connecting retailers to designers, and designers to specific gemstones Monica spotlighted (Tucson DM requests included).

It’s also notable how she describes the work: “purely editorial,” not monetized, and financially punishing in the way many truly editorial things are. But she loved it. It was immersive. And it prepared her—without her knowing it—for what came next.

The trip that changes everything: “from the dirt to the finger”

The hinge point in Monica’s story comes almost by accident: she sees a tweet about a documentary traveling to East Africa to film the journey of a gemstone “from the dirt to the finger.” The premise hits her like lightning. She DMs the organizer. They ask if she wants to come—as the resident blogger, “documenting the documentary.”

She does her due diligence, then makes the kind of leap that feels irrational until it becomes destiny: she flies 9,000 miles to the edge of a mine with a group of strangers, having never been to Africa, never been to a source community, never even visited a Montana sapphire mine. It’s the first time she’s seeing the beginning of the supply chain that she’s spent her entire life engaging only at the end.

What she finds is not what the average consumer imagines when they hear “mining.” In East Africa, much of the gemstone mining she witnesses is artisanal and small-scale—surface and alluvial work rather than industrial excavation. This isn’t a corporate capital-markets machine with helicopters and sonar. It’s shovels, picks, hand labor, remote terrain, and extreme uncertainty. Miners might work for weeks or months with nothing to show for it. The labor-to-reward ratio is brutal.

And yet Monica doesn’t describe it with pity. She describes it with respect: passionate people doing backbreaking work, often as a rational alternative to farming in regions with few options. Many are, in a sense, entrepreneurs—independently funded, operating with minimal infrastructure and limited access to tools, geology, or market knowledge.

This is where the episode becomes quietly radical: it reframes the romance of gemstones. The “magic” we associate with a finished stone is real, but the cost of that magic is usually invisible.

“We can fix this.” The naïve thought that becomes a real company

Monica returns to Seattle buzzing with adrenaline and ideas. She writes obsessively. Somewhere in that writing, a napkin business plan emerges. Her first thought is naïve in the way all ambitious plans start: the problem is just access—education, opportunity, resources, market connection. If she can connect the dots, then the system can become fairer.

By the end of 2014, she has a fully formed model. She names it Anza—Swahili for “begin”—because the whole thing feels slightly insane and totally outside the boundaries of what she’s “qualified” to do. And so she begins.

She goes back to East Africa, buys gems at a regional gem market, visits mines, starts building relationships with brokers and dealers, learns export realities, and gradually develops a process. There’s an acknowledgment of the “wild west” element—she’s an unusual buyer in these contexts, a visible outsider, someone not many people have encountered at the market tables. She makes mistakes. Some are costly. But she keeps showing up, keeps buying, keeps investing. Over time, the spectacle becomes credibility.

What’s striking is how she describes her approach to cutting: she often gives cutters carte blanche with the rough, allowing them to “work their magic.” That creative trust—miner to cutter to designer—becomes part of Anza’s identity. The brand is known for unusual cutting, and designers are drawn to it because it feels like the stone has lived a full creative life before it ever reaches a jeweler’s bench.

And Monica learns the business in the only way you truly can: trial by fire, with live capital, sometimes sweating in the bush. Even valuation isn’t purely rational. Color can be emotional. Sometimes the stone that “should” be most valuable isn’t; sometimes the afterthought becomes the star because it resonates with human desire.

Moyo Gems and the work of building a market

As Anza grows, Monica also becomes central to Moyo Gems (“heart” in Swahili), a collaboration that includes commercial partners and the international NGO Pact, plus partnerships with organizations like the Tanzania Women Miners Association and Kenya’s AFWAK. The project is structured around a clear goal: bring market access to artisanal miners—especially women.

This part of the episode is one of the most powerful because it gets specific about what “impact” actually looks like. Monica notes that artisanal miners are marginalized in general, but women miners are doubly excluded—often invisible, literally working on the periphery, combing through tailings. Globally, women may represent roughly a third of artisanal miners; in their region, the estimate is lower. Regardless of the exact percentage, the point is the same: women are present and essential, but structurally pushed away from the power centers of the supply chain.

So they create “market days” in villages—multi-day events where miners bring stones and sit across the table from buyers in direct dialogue. There’s no forced selling. Buyers don’t have to purchase everything. But what’s revolutionary is feedback: why a stone does or doesn’t sell, what the market is looking for, what characteristics matter, and how to negotiate with information instead of vulnerability.

Monica emphasizes something that feels like a guiding principle: ask, don’t assume. When they ask women miners what they want, the answers aren’t always what outsiders predict. One example: women want mobile payments because it gives them control—no outward sign of a transaction, no one can seize the cash, and the password belongs to them. That’s empowerment through financial privacy.

Miners often ask for equipment—excavators, tools—and Monica doesn’t dismiss it, but she also doesn’t romanticize the idea that machinery alone is the answer. She’s increasingly focused on pairing local knowledge with modern geology and practical science, and on what she sees as the biggest lever: market access plus story.

A full-circle bracelet: Anna J. and the moment jewelry becomes proof

One story from the episode lands like a punch of joy.

A miner named Anna J. is the first registered in their market system and one of the earliest participants. She shows up consistently, mainly with sapphires. Then her name disappears. Monica learns she had a stroke. A year or two later, she returns—speech impaired, physically affected, but mining again because it’s a crucial income source.

At a recent market day, Anna arrives smiling, with a pile of sapphires. Monica is able to show her what her stones became: a line bracelet made by designer Emily P. Wheeler, using Anna’s emerald-cut sapphires. Because Monica’s team has worked to keep parcels intact and traceable (including partnerships with cutters willing to preserve provenance rather than mixing stones by size), the bracelet isn’t just “sapphires from Tanzania.” It’s sapphires from Anna.

Anna watches the video, zooming in, speechless. Emily shares the story, and the bracelet sells quickly—proof that meaning can move product, and that provenance isn’t merely a compliance exercise. It’s a value generator.

When I tell Monica this is “why it’s special,” she agrees—and adds a nuance I love: customers come in different buckets. Some buy because it’s beautiful, period. Some engage moderately with the story. And some are lit up by the story—where it came from, who it touched, what it changed—and that story becomes the reason to buy.

She doesn’t judge any of those buyer types. In fact, she frames it as the unique genius of jewelry: it can speak on a purely physical level, but the deeper you go, the more meaningful it can become.

Not philanthropy: the case for an economic engine

If there’s a single idea that defines Monica’s mission, it’s this: this is a business, not a charity.

She’s blunt about it because she’s seen what happens when the work is framed as philanthropy. Philanthropy can be episodic. People move on. Funding cycles end. Attention shifts. And, in her words, “the continent of Africa is very tired of pure philanthropy.”

Instead, Monica is committed to building a sustainable economic foothold—a flywheel where miners have baseline financial security, and then responsibility and long-term improvement can follow. Survival first. Once survival is stabilized, people can invest in better practices, education, equipment, and community outcomes.

Her metaphor is perfect: don’t give someone a tractor; create the conditions where they build a business that needs a tractor.

She also points to a subtle but profound marker of progress: women moving into broker roles at market tables. Historically, brokers were men—an easier, higher-leverage position that controls information and pricing. Monica describes watching a woman broker sit beside an older woman miner, put her arm around her, and carefully walk through each line of a transaction, helping her count her money and understand exactly what was happening. Monica sees it as the point of it all: women moving from subsistence into authority without losing the uniquely human care that makes communities work.

Progress shows up elsewhere too: improvements in local faceting through upgraded equipment, the rise of youth workshops, growing prosperity in the region, and ambitious projects like the GEM Legacy campus that will expand vocational training. And on the business side, Anza itself has become something real: employees, growing demand, daily DMs asking where to buy and how to connect. Ten years ago it was Monica in a closet. Now it’s a functioning engine.

What’s next: translating trust into systems

Monica’s next challenge is the one so many mission-driven supply chains face: how do you turn meticulous, relationship-based work into a durable system without losing the soul?

She’s hired a compliance and supply chain expert and wants to formalize what Anza has been doing informally but carefully—creating a digital representation of provenance and process that can travel with a stone. They’ve explored blockchain, but implementation at source is hard. The goal isn’t buzzwords; it’s transferability—making it easier for anyone who buys an Anza stone to also inherit the story and the proof.

At the same time, she’s committed to the on-the-ground work: continuing to show up, especially for the women miners, and continuing to address challenges that were articulated years ago but remain only partially solved.

She ends the episode, fittingly, by talking about what she’s wearing: an extraordinary alexandrite ring, a necklace made for her 30th anniversary that includes many Anza gems, and bracelets made from Tanzanian beads polished by students and assembled by youth artisans. Jewelry as daily reminder. Jewelry as visible progress.

And then she points our attention to another group that’s often overlooked: women gem cutters—faceters whose work is math, science, and art at once. They are the antithesis of the “black box” fantasy that a machine spits out a finished gem. Every stone has its own optical reality, its own refractive index and critical angles, its own quirks and inclusions to navigate. The cutter doesn’t just “finish” the stone—they collaborate with it.

If you love jewelry, this conversation will make you love it more. And if you’ve ever wondered why certain objects feel “worth it,” Monica offers a compelling answer: sometimes the worth is beauty. Sometimes it’s story. And sometimes it’s the rare case where beauty and story fuse into something that isn’t just lovely to wear—but powerful to participate in.

If you want to find Monica, she’s at Anza and on Instagram as I Dazzle—still doing what she’s always done: making the world behind jewelry more visible, more human, and more meaningful.

Marc Bridge and Randi Molofsky, The Peninsula Beverly Hills

There are people in the jewelry world who write about it, people who sell it, people who design it—and then there’s Randi Molofsky, whose superpower is weaving all of these worlds together. Randi doesn’t simply work in jewelry. She connects miners to designers, designers to retailers, and collectors to pieces that will live on their bodies and in their lives. She is a translator, mediator, curator, and—by her own admission—a sentimentalist with impeccable taste and a love of objects that carry stories.

In this episode, recorded in sun-drenched Beverly Hills, we go deep into the heart of contemporary jewelry: where it comes from, how it gets made, who gets to participate, why it costs what it costs, and how personal style—and personal history—shape the objects we choose to carry with us.

But we start at the beginning, with a young woman from a small Maryland town who loved fashion magazines and dreamt of a job at Vogue, only to discover a very different world in the pages of National Jeweler.

A Connector Before She Had the Language for It

Randi never set out to work in jewelry. She studied journalism, imagined a career in fashion media, and took an interview at a trade publication she’d never heard of. They hired her—“young, passionate, and totally green”—and that job changed everything.

As the fashion editor at National Jeweler, she was suddenly immersed in a universe she didn’t know existed:
• trade shows
• gem-cutting studios
• retailers’ back rooms
• global supply chains
• and, eventually, gemstone mines in Africa

A trip to the Tanzanite mines in Tanzania was a defining moment. Standing at the foothills of Kilimanjaro, meeting miners and witnessing the challenges and humanity embedded in every stone, Randi began to understand jewelry not as a product but as a global system of craft, risk, beauty, and meaning.

That perspective—ground-level humanity fused with aesthetic sensitivity—is what shapes her work today.

The Jewelry World’s Great Misunderstanding

“There’s nothing harder,” Randi says, “than helping a consumer understand where the value in jewelry actually comes from.”

We live in a world where you can buy diamonds at Costco. The average consumer sees sparkle, price, maybe the four C’s—not the miners, cutters, alloy-makers, bench jewelers, or the hands the piece passes through before it lands in a box on a dresser.

Randi argues that jewelry suffers from an education gap. We romanticize the final object but rarely discuss its life before us. One of her goals—whether mentoring designers or advising retailers—is to bridge that gap:

Jewelry is not a commodity. It is a collaboration between earth, craft, culture, and the deeply personal taste of its wearer.

The Case for Uniqueness in a Saturated Market

Randi’s agency, For Future Reference, works with emerging independent designers to shape their identity, build collections, manage wholesale, and navigate a retail landscape that has become simultaneously more crowded and more challenging.

She tells every would-be jewelry designer the same thing:

“Don’t do it.”

Not because she doesn’t love this world—she does—but because the cost of entry is enormous, the margins volatile, and the competition intense. Designers fail not for lack of vision, but for lack of support. Randi’s work is to be that support: part strategist, part editor, part therapist, part guardian.

She looks for designers whose pieces form their own vocabulary—work that is visually identifiable, that tells a story only its creator could tell. “Authenticity,” she says, “is the only real differentiator left.”

Vintage as Liberation: Lowering the Barrier and Raising the Joy

In addition to championing contemporary designers, Randi has built a thriving business sourcing unsigned vintage fine jewelry—pieces made with craftsmanship equal to the old houses but without the brand stamp or the six-figure premiums.

Vintage, for Randi, is more than a category. It’s a philosophy:

• sustainable
• personal
• expressive
• democratic
• endlessly unique

She delights in watching a customer discover a 1960s gold ring or a pair of 1980s carved earrings remade into bangles, realizing—often for the first time—that jewelry can be both exceptional and accessible. Vintage also introduces stakes and emotion: “Nothing will haunt you like the vintage you didn’t buy,” Randi jokes (and every collector knows she’s right).

To her, the future of jewelry isn’t mass luxury; it’s individualism.

Clown Couture, Sentimental Safety, and the Life We Build Around Ourselves

Randi’s personal style is bold, colorful, layered, and full of humor—what she calls “clown couture.” Her wardrobe is primarily vintage; her home is filled with handmade objects created by friends; and her jewelry is a living archive of her life.

On the day we spoke, she wore a torque necklace strung with nearly a hundred charms—bat mitzvah gifts, pieces of family history, tokens from her travels. Around her wrists and fingers: Harwell Godfrey rings, a Retrovi piece, a luminous opal from Tucson turned by Jade Ruzzo into a drumhead ring, hand-curated gemstone huggies, and her holy-grail vintage Bulgari Serpenti watch.

Every piece had a story. Every story had a person.

That’s what jewelry is for Randi: connection made visible.

What the Jewelry Industry Still Needs to Learn

When I asked what the industry still gets wrong, Randi answered without hesitation:
we don’t tell the story of process well enough.

The market is full of extraordinary artists—like Vanessa Fernandez, who alloys her own gold and sculpts every piece by hand—yet consumers rarely see the labor, mastery, and humanity that make these objects precious.

The future of jewelry, in Randi’s view, will belong to those who communicate not just what they make, but how and why they make it.

What’s Next

Randi’s year has been strong—despite gold price shocks, supply-chain chaos, and a market that feels like the Wild West. She is expanding her roster of designers, growing her vintage business in new, not-yet-public ways, and continuing the work she cares most about:
• elevating unique voices
• protecting independent creators
• educating consumers
• and helping people find jewelry that genuinely reflects who they are

If you want to follow her world, you’ll find her at ForFutureReference.com, @forfuturereference on Instagram, and on her personal account @randimolofsky, where she posts outfits, vintage finds, and the maximalist joy that strangers in airports now recognize her for.

Randi is adding joy to the world—and there’s nothing better than that.

In this episode of The Materialist, Marc Bridge sits down with celebrity colorist Jenna Perry, the artist behind the signature looks of Kendall Jenner, Bella Hadid, and a generation of “It Girls.” Known for transforming hair into a medium of emotion, identity, and self-expression, Jenna shares how a childhood fascination with her grandmother’s salon visits evolved into one of New York’s most coveted creative businesses.

She opens up about the emotional connection between women and their hair, why a haircut after a breakup can feel like therapy, and what it takes to turn artistry into enterprise. From a 600-square-foot East Village studio to a 40-person salon empire, Jenna recounts the leap from stylist to founder—and how she learned to balance artistry, leadership, and brand-building without losing her creative soul.

The conversation ranges from the personal to the philosophical: what makes a good collaborator, how celebrity and social media shape trends, and why entrepreneurship is as much an art form as coloring hair. Along the way, Jenna reflects on her love of vintage jewelry, creative friendships, and the quiet satisfaction of building something lasting—piece by piece, client by client, strand by strand.

It’s an intimate, high-gloss conversation about creativity, control, and the material culture of beauty.

If you’ve peeked at modern watch culture in the last few years, chances are you’ve felt Brynn Wallner’s impact—whether you realized it or not.

She’s the founder of Dimepiece, the platform that reframed watches through a lens that’s stylish, pop-cultural, and—crucially—women-forward. In our conversation for The Materialist, Brynn unspooled the origin story of Dimepiece, the pandemic moment that sparked it, and why a Cartier on a wrist can carry just as much meaning as a family heirloom or a diploma on the wall.

Who Brynn Is—and Why She’s Interesting

Brynn came to watches through words. While working on editorial projects at Sotheby’s, she found herself immersed in the mythology of the “greats”—Patek, Audemars Piguet, Rolex—and the pop-cultural stories that made models like the Paul Newman Daytona household names. One problem: in all that coverage, women barely appeared.

When the pandemic cost her job, it gave her time. She went to Florida with family, turned 30, and realized she had never once aspired to own a watch. That realization became Dimepiece: first an Instagram moodboard of women (past and present) wearing watches; quickly, a movement. From Princess Diana in a Tank to Rihanna in a Nautilus, Brynn used recognizability to create an accessible on-ramp for new collectors who didn’t speak reference numbers.

She blends pop culture fluency with archival curiosity—and she isn’t precious about it. Brynn is the rare voice who can decode a movement, then ask how it looks with your bracelets. She writes for mainstream fashion titles, sits with Swiss brand heads in Geneva, helps private clients source vintage, and now designs: her recent Timex Intrepid “baby diver” collaboration (co-created with dealer Alan Bedwell/Foundwell) scaled a ’95 design down to 36mm with crisp, wearable styling—and promptly sold out.

What Dimepiece Changed

1) It widened the picture.
Dimepiece popularized a simple idea: if you can see women wearing watches—stylishly, contextually—you can picture yourself wearing one too. Instead of “for her” remixes in pink or diamond-festooned minis, Brynn advocated for intention in design: what would a modern woman actually want to wear every day?

2) It normalized self-purchasing.
In her DMs and interviews, Brynn saw a structural shift: women buying watches to mark promotions, launches, moves, and milestones. The watch as self-made heirloom—not just a gift received—has real cultural weight.

3) It reframed how watches are worn.
Bracelet stacks next to cases. A Tank with denim. A small diver to the beach. Dimepiece treated watches as part of an outfit, not museum pieces under glass. That styling voice mattered—and brands noticed.

4) It nudged brands toward better product.
Cartier’s reemergence of the Baignoire on a bangle—explicitly “meant to be stacked”—was designed with women in mind from the start. The secondary-market frenzy that followed proved the point, and other houses (Omega, Hermès) have put real R&D behind smaller mechanical movements rather than reflexive “shrink it and sparkle it.”

The Topics We Covered (and Why They Matter)

Pandemic acceleration & the waitlist era.
From 2020 onward, watches surged alongside art and other “passion investments.” Supply couldn’t (or wouldn’t) match demand; waitlists ballooned; secondary prices spiked. More people paid attention—some for love, many for speculation—and the culture broadened beyond the old forums and trade catalogs.

Quartz vs. mechanical, minus the snobbery.
Brynn can break down the quartz revolution without turning it into a purity test. The point isn’t to dismiss quartz (or Swatch or Timex); it’s to understand why a movement matters to you—accuracy, romance, serviceability, sustainability, story—and buy accordingly.

Styling and agency.
Stigma around scratching cases or mixing bracelets is giving way to a wear-your-watch life. That’s not carelessness; it’s use. Patina, in this view, is biography.

Heirlooms and meaning.
Brynn’s father passed her his 1980s Datejust—an act that subtly rewrote a familiar script (father-to-son). We talked about the way objects carry memory across decades: the watch you buy now can be the most durable thing your family keeps.

Buying smarter (and calmer).
We got into the collector jargon that can intimidate newcomers—“birth-year watch,” “box and papers”—and landed here: work with trusted sources, focus on quality and condition, and don’t let cardboard + ephemera overshadow the watch itself.

From spotting to making.
Brynn’s Timex project is meaningful not just because it sold out, but because it models a path: research the archives, find an idea with cultural resonance (JFK Jr.’s 1990s Intrepid), scale and style it for today, price it accessibly, and bring new collectors into the fold.

Why Brynn’s Cultural Impact Endures

• She made the watch world bigger without dumbing it down. The scholarship is there, but so are Bella Hadid, Spice Girls, and Getty rabbit holes. That blend is the future.

• She centered women as protagonists, not props. Not just as recipients of gifts—but as researchers, writers, buyers, curators, and designers.

• She bridged media, retail, and product. The same instincts that power a clever Instagram caption can guide a collaboration that sells out and lives on wrists.

• She changed how “serious” looks. You can be meticulous about a caliber and still care how it sits with your Carolina Bucci.

Where to Start (If You’re Watch-Curious)

• Try on everything—from a small steel Cartier Tank Française to a 36mm diver—and notice what you reach for a week later.

• Wear it with your life: stack your bracelets, take the beach walk, accept the scratches.

• If you’re hunting vintage, prioritize condition and trust over buzzwords.

• Mark a milestone for yourself; that’s how heirlooms begin.

Explore Brynn’s Universe

• Instagram: @dimepiece.co

• Features & Interviews: Dimepiece.co

• Timex Collaboration: The Intrepid “baby diver” reissue (now sold out—watch the secondary market)

If you want to go way down the rabbit hole…

• Read Marc’s dissertation on the The Renaissance of the Swiss Watch Industry.

From a small town in Denmark to a sun-splashed bench in New York’s Diamond District, sisters Joy and Sarah Haugaard (the minds behind Lionheart) have built a jewelry universe where heritage, handwork, and human connection matter as much as gold and gemstones. In this conversation, we cover the origins of their partnership, Joy’s second-chance spark in 2020, the storybook that gave Lionheart its name, the community that sustains them, and why their clients don’t want what everyone else has—they want what feels like theirs.

The origin story (and why it had to be the two of them)

Raised “like twins,” the Haugaard sisters grew up inseparable—then bi-coastal—until the phone call that snapped them back together. In 2020, after a terrifying health crisis, Joy decided there was no more deferring the dream: she had to create Lionheart, not as a mood board but as a life. Sarah dropped everything in LA, flew to New York, and they got to work—7:00 a.m. to past-midnight, fueled by neighbors’ casseroles and customers’ letters.

Why Lionheart—and what it really means

The name is a promise. As kids, they worshiped Astrid Lindgren’s The Brothers Lionheart—a tale about two siblings who always find each other and face down every challenge, together. That devotion now shapes the brand’s ethos: courage, loyalty, and pieces that are made to live multiple lives.

Making the personal, universal

Joy learned the craft the old-school way—sales floor to polishing wheel to stone-sorting bench—so Lionheart’s pieces feel deeply lived. Motifs recur: birds (for freedom and their grandmother’s spirit), equestrian emblems (from their childhood around horses), and hefty, sculptural chains and charms meant to stack among the “greats” and still speak in their own voice.

The Legacy collection & giving back

Horses aren’t just a motif—they’re a mission. The Legacy collection supports 13 Hands, an upstate rescue that rehabilitates abused horses (and hosts veterans with PTSD). One signature pendant (their only regular sterling-silver design, also available in gold) sends 100% of proceeds to the nonprofit. It started as a capsule; it’s now permanent.

Who buys Lionheart (and why)

Lionheart clients are confident individualists: they might stack Van Cleef and Cartier, but they want one piece that feels like theirs. The Haugaard sisters don’t chase sameness or easy identifiability; they prefer conversation-starting forms, personal stories, and made-for-you tweaks. Social media helps, but what sustains the brand is the human exchange—DMs that turn into appointments, heirloom ideas that become rituals, and the occasional Sephora line-check where a stranger whispers, “Are those Lionheart?”

Process, practice, and the edit

Joy sketches 40–50 pieces; Sarah insists on the story and the edit—eight or so designs to start—then opens the door to bespoke variations. That tension (vision vs. viability) keeps the work bold and wearable. Their grandmother’s lessons guide the ritual: wear your jewelry, love it, respect it—then take it off at night so you can wear it again, for decades.

Where this is going

Growth, yes—but with meaning. The Haugaards want Lionheart remembered not just for weighty gold and luminous stones, but for how the work made people feel: stronger, freer, seen.

Marc Bridge and Charlotte Groeneveld at the launch dinner for The World of Charlotte Groeneveld, presented by At Present. Raf’s New York, September 9, 2025. Charlotte’s dress is by ALMADA Label, Necklace from At Present.

Charlotte Groeneveld—aka The Fashion Guitar—joins me during New York Fashion Week to talk about how blogging became the creator economy, why authenticity (not algorithms) is her north star, and the thrill/terror of debuting our new jewelry capsule together. From front-row politics to fabric snobbery and the “feel” test, Charlotte traces her path from WordPress fits to building a modern luxury business that’s personal, precise, and proudly independent.

We get into: how NYFW is regaining its spark, the job-to-be-done for creators and brands, and Charlotte’s rubric for partnerships (“know your audience; be consistent; work hard”). She opens up about the mental gymnastics of invitations, the power of a tight network, and why her style starts with quality—then proportion.

Then we unveil highlights from the At Present × The World of Charlotte Groeneveld capsule: an open-front diamond choker that “feels rich” without feeling heavy, its sister version tipped with organic pearls, a rose-quartz-kissed pearl choker, a saturated green fluorite strand with adjustable length, and a (soon!) ear climber. The brief we set for ourselves: make pieces that feel unique yet instantly wearable—day to night, knitwear to gala.

Charlotte also shares what’s exciting her now—from TWP’s fabric-and-fit mastery to the return of the Chloé Paddington—plus why emerging designers face a brutal money/creativity tradeoff while mega-houses wrestle with the inverse. We close with where to follow her long-form writing (yes, Substack) and why community—DM by DM—still matters.

Callouts & links

Houses & heritage

• Chanel – the Karl Lagerfeld photo that inspired her blog’s name and the dream of sitting their shows.

• Ralph Lauren – anchoring NYFW’s renewed excitement.

• Chloé – current collection inspiration + the return of the Paddington bag.

• Valentino – early adopter of working with bloggers.

• Burberry – among Charlotte’s first European brand collabs.

Contemporary & indie she’s watching

• TWP – fabric, fit, and a “keeper” brand; new store out east.

• Nordic Knots – rugs; a home brand she admires.

• Interior NYC – beloved, now-closed indie; she still wears and tags their pieces

• Ellison Studios – Australian home brand; small-batch furniture.

People & media

• The Fashion Guitar – Charlotte’s platform (site & Substack).

• Vogue Runway – street-style time capsule.

• Leandra Medine (Man Repeller), Susie Bubble, Bryanboy, Aimee Song – early era peers Charlotte cites.

• The Frick Collection – where she plans to wear the diamond choker.

Our capsule (At Present × The World of Charlotte Groeneveld)

• Open diamond choker – front-closing, twin diamond tips (elegant, breathable “feel”).

• Open pearl choker – same silhouette with organic pearl tips.

• Pearl + rose-quartz choker – short, sits high; daytime-to-evening.

• Green fluorite strand – lush color; subtly adjustable length.

Sommyyah Awan and Marc Bridge, Hotel Chelsea, New York City, September 13, 2025

For this episode of The Materialist, recorded during New York Fashion Week, I sat down with Toronto-based content creator, communications strategist, and fashion multihyphenate Sommyyah Awan. Known for her irreverent and stylish “dual life” — corporate strategist by day, luxury fashion influencer by night — Sommyyah brings sharp insights on style, material culture, and what it means to live intentionally with objects.

We traced her journey from Houston to Toronto, from Tumblr blogs to TikTok virality, and from sewing her own clothes as a teenager to walking red carpets in Sergio Hudson and Hermès. Sommyyah explained how her training in communications shapes her content, why she thinks of herself as “Hannah Montana,” and how her five beloved F’s — fashion, film, fast cars, flying planes, and foreign policy — drive her creativity.

The conversation moves from her playful irreverence (skateboarding with a Birkin, wearing a necklace backwards) to serious reflections on taste, storytelling, and the enduring power of artisanship. We discuss her philosophy of high-low styling, her perspective on Hermès versus hype-driven brands, and her ambitions for the future — including Substack writing, styling services, and the perfect timepiece.

Sommyyah reminds us that intentional materialism isn’t about being owned by objects, but about choosing what amplifies who you already are. She brings wit, candor, and joy to a conversation that ranges from handbags to geopolitics, lipstick to algorithms, and the meaning of living life at full tilt.

And if you want the full DL on what she chose to wear for our conversation, conveniently she made a video about it here!

Find Sommyyah on Instagram, TikTok, and Substack.

What does it take to translate timeless brands into the digital age—and what happens when you refuse to play by algorithmic rules? This week on The Materialist, I sit down with Ruthie Friedlander, a digital pioneer who has shaped how we see luxury fashion and jewelry online.

Ruthie’s story defies linear career paths. She started as Dan Abrams’ assistant in the early days of Mediaite, carved out one of Chanel’s first digital roles, joined the Olsen twins at The Row when the company was barely 25 people, and later helped lead digital strategy at ELLE and InStyle. Today she runs At Large, the creative agency she “accidentally” founded after burning out on editorial quotas that demanded 80 stories a day. Along the way, she has become a leading voice on what it means to build brands that endure.

Highlights from our conversation:

• On brand integrity: “It’s either right or it’s wrong.” Ruthie draws a through-line from Chanel to The Row to At Large: the best brands refuse compromise.

• On digital shortcuts: chasing algorithms creates short-term growth but erodes identity. She explains why so many millennial “playbook brands” fizzled out.

• On jewelry’s unique challenge: unlike sweaters, fine jewelry brands must finance inventory, consign pieces, and absorb the risk—making scale almost impossible without deep pockets.

• On lab vs. natural diamonds: chemically identical, yes—but “I will always look at natural diamonds and lab diamonds differently from a spiritual perspective.”

• On building healthier workplaces: having recovered from an eating disorder exacerbated by fashion’s culture and starting The Chain, a nonprofit dedicated to eating disorder advocacy in fashion and entertainment, Ruthie is committed to running a company where therapy, boundaries, and health are non-negotiable.

Why it matters for The Materialist community

Jewelry and design aren’t just about objects; they’re about the stories and structures behind them. Ruthie helps us see how storytelling sells, why clarity outlasts trends, and how the jewelry industry mirrors broader questions of value, scarcity, and meaning.

On Instagram, it looks effortless: the infinity pools in the Maldives, the safari sunsets in South Africa, the couture fit checks against a perfect backdrop. Laura and Nicolas Herbert — known to their hundreds of thousands of followers as @laurandnicolas — seem to embody the ultimate lifestyle: global travel, editorial style, and a business powered by beauty.

But as Laura reveals in this week’s episode of The Materialist, the dream is much more complicated.

From Antwerp to Everywhere

Laura began her career in Antwerp’s fashion world. But a six-month trip with Nicolas — meant as a sabbatical — changed everything. They started an Instagram account to document their travels, posted every single day (sometimes setting alarms for 2 a.m. to catch the right window), and slowly transformed a personal experiment into a professional platform. Hotels began reaching out. Fashion brands followed. And eventually, the couple built a dual business: influencer distribution and commercial photography for luxury clients.

The Cost of Beauty

What looks like vacation is actually work. For every perfect sunrise photo, there’s a wake-up call at dawn. For every dreamy campaign, there are countless emails, logistics puzzles, and the stress of feeding an algorithm that rewards relentless output. Laura admits to burnout, to losing the ability to see some destinations as “vacations,” and to the ongoing negotiation of how much intimacy to share with an audience that feels they know you.

“It’s our job to make it look like a vacation — but it rarely is.”

Style, Mystery, and the Magazine Magic

Laura also reflects on how Instagram has changed. Once it was about editorial photography, thoughtful composition, and images that felt like magazine spreads. Now, the push is toward photo dumps, immediacy, and intimacy. Laura misses the mystery and magic of the editorial era — and wonders if there’s a way back. Her own style, she says, is classic but playful: she dresses to the destination, and she believes accessories and jewelry turn an outfit into a statement.

The Places That Still Take Her Breath Away

Despite the grind, there is still wonder. For Laura and Nicolas, South Africa remains the most magical place they’ve ever been — from the conservation-driven safaris at Royal Malewane and Tswalu to the light and food of Cape Town. Namibia, just an hour away, is another favorite, with landscapes that feel cinematic. These are the places where the dream and the reality align.

Listen Now

This conversation is about more than travel and style — it’s about the costs and rewards of turning passion into profession. Laura Herbert shares what it really takes to live the life that looks like a dream.

Laura Herbert and Marc Bridge, The Hotel Chelsea, August 26, 2025

This week on The Materialist, I’m joined by Tiffany Lopinsky — co-founder and president of ShopMy, the platform quietly powering your favorite creators.

We cover a lot of ground: the evolution of influencer marketing, why affiliate and subscription revenue might just save the creator economy, and what it takes to build something useful, without a playbook.

Tiffany speaks with the clarity of someone who’s seen behind the curtain — first as a content creator herself (shout out to Boston Foodies), and now as the operator behind a platform with 175,000 creators and 30,000 brands.

“There’s no playbook for something that hasn’t been done before. Otherwise, you’d have to write the playbook once you do it.”

That could be the ShopMy manifesto — and it wouldn’t be a bad one for the rest of us, either.

📌 Highlights from Our Conversation

• The 3 ways creators make money today
Flat-fee partnerships, affiliate revenue, and subscriptions. (Spoiler: Tiffany thinks the second and third are where freedom — and taste — live.)

• Why micro-influence isn’t just a buzzword
The power isn’t always in scale — it's in specificity. Smart brands know that the right creator with 10k followers can outperform a scripted macro-influencer with a million.

• The changing role of press & retail
Legacy media and department stores are losing ground. Creators now function like boutique editors and independent shopkeepers — and they’re often better at it.

• The invisible architecture of taste
ShopMy isn’t just helping brands find creators — it’s helping good taste scale.

🛍 Brands Tiffany Loves (and Why)

Here are a few brands Tiffany mentions in the episode — all discoverable (and shoppable) through ShopMy:

• Le Monde Beryl — Elegant flats rooted in timeless design.

• Emme Parsons — Sandals and refined footwear with a minimalist soul.

• Porta NYC — Brooklyn-based earthenware shop she can’t stop talking about.

Victoria Gomelsky and Marc Bridge Live from the Fabulous Venetian Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas.

Welcome back to The Materialist. I recorded this special episode live from the jewelry shows in Las Vegas—the annual gathering point for the industry’s global village. Fittingly, I sat down with Victoria Gomelsky, Editor-in-Chief of JCK Magazine, contributor to The New York Times, and one of the most thoughtful chroniclers of the jewelry world for over two decades.

Victoria and I talked about what keeps her coming back to JCK after 23 years, why jewelry is still a face-to-face business in a screen-filled world, and how she ended up with a watch named after her—literally, The Gomelsky.

Some highlights:

"This business runs on trust—millennia ago, you only traded gems with people you knew. That legacy still shapes the industry today."

"Of all industries, jewelry is the most intimate—and the most global. You walk one aisle and you’ve met people from China, India, Botswana, Sri Lanka… it’s like the U.N. in diamonds."

"Shinola’s CEO said, ‘We can’t come up with a name for this watch—what’s your name?’ I said Gomelsky. And that’s how I got a watch line named after me."

"Trade press may not be glamorous, but it's where you learn the real business—the players, the politics, the paradoxes."

We also get into:

• The evolution of women buying jewelry for themselves

• Why trade shows still matter in the age of Instagram

• How the jewelry press balances journalism with brand hospitality

• Her accidental path from Soviet émigré to New York Times travel writer to gemstone editor

Victoria’s storytelling reminds to stay open to serendipity as the best experiences—and the best careers—are rarely planned. You can read her latest New York Times stories here and find her on Instagram at @vikavickyvictoria.

What do you get when a journalism grad, Dallas native, and self-described jewelry “nepo baby” builds a piercing empire in the middle of a pandemic? You get Wildlike—a brand that’s as much about identity, memory, and reinvention as it is about sparkle.

This week on The Materialist, I sit down with my friend Alysa Teichman—co-owner of Ylang 23 and founder of Wildlike—to talk about the deeply personal reasons people get pierced (divorce, fertility, “hot girl summer”), the role jewelry plays in our emotional lives, and what it means to grow up inside a family business and then start your own. Alysa is witty, warm, candid, and sharp.

We talk:

• 🧠 Why piercings are more than aesthetic—they're ritual, rebellion, release

• ✨ What it means to treat retail as a form of public service

• 🛠️ The real work of “making it happen” when you're spinning 18 plates (and wearing 18 earrings)

• 💎 Natural vs lab diamonds: is a lab diamond like a fake Birkin?

• 📈 Rising gold prices, TikTok brains, and why “perfection is the enemy of good”

• 💬 Scott Galloway quotes, “hey guys” videos, and the elusive balance between authenticity and content fatigue

And yes, we also talk about her dog. And her favorite piercing (hint: SEO gold).

📍Find Alysa at or IRL at her Wildlike stores in NYC and Dallas, and her family’s store, Ylang 23.

This week on The Materialist, I sit down with milliner and creative force Gigi Burris, founder of Gigi Burris Millinery and the nonprofit Closely Crafted, which champions artisanal production in the U.S.

We talk about how Gigi went from sewing hats as a Parsons student to dressing Rihanna and being a CFDA Vogue Fashion Fund finalist—while keeping her studio (and her soft-coated Wheaten Terrier shipping manager, Brooklyn Bow) right in the heart of Chinatown. She shares what it means to build a niche brand in an age of sameness, the surprisingly diverse world of hat-wearers, and why confidence is the accessory that really matters.

Highlights from our conversation:

• ✂️ The difference between a milliner and a millionaire (and why she hopes to be both one day)

• 👒 How Rihanna ended up in a senior thesis hat from Parsons

• 🧵 The Vogue Fashion Fund bootcamp that shaped her business

• 🇯🇵 Why Japanese department stores get everything first

• 🎯 Closely Crafted’s mission to revive U.S.-based artisan production

• 💡 “If you're going to be intentional about the way you dress, why would you not do so from head to toe?”

• 👛 Shout-outs to fellow makers: Eve Fehren, Lizzie Fortunato, Don’t Let Disco, and Underwater Weaving Studio.

Gigi Burris O’Hara at her studio and store in Chinatown, NYC

Marc Bridge wearing a Gigi Burris Hat Pin as a Lapel Pin, NYC