Here's what I mean. I once hosted a dinner where, as I always do, asked everyone in advance not just about allergies but about what they simply don't enjoy eating. There's nothing worse than a guest quietly enduring a dish they despise. One of my guests had mentioned she was gluten- and dairy-free, and then lit up telling me about the meals she'd discovered on a recent trip to Hawaii. Instead of taking the safe route, I built the whole table's dessert around her: a decadent coconut-avocado ice cream, gluten- and dairy-free by design and reminiscent of her trip. Unannounced about these tiny details to all but her. And guess what? That guest still brings it up to this day.

Remember that the next time you host a dinner or plan an event. Every detail matters but the one that lasts is how a guest felt in the room.

Which brings me to a Stanza podcast I couldn’t stop thinking about – The Art of Emotional Storytelling, with Anne-Laure Ollagnon, CEO of Airelles, the French ultra-luxury hotel group owned by entrepreneur Stéphane Courbit, whose portfolio of historic properties spans France and now Italy. The part that stayed with me was her point about how a guest feels in a family-owned and operated hotel versus a private-equity owned one. That ownership isn’t abstract, it carries through from how the staff treat you down to the smallest gesture at turndown. That same instant shift you feel between a chain restaurant and a family-run one: the decor, the service, the love in the food, the level of detail. You can’t fake being cared about.

I haven’t done a Taste Notes in a while, and since we are on the subject of luxury and memory, here are a few things I can’t stop thinking about. Each one in its own way a brand betting on a moment you’ll remember.

Ballroom Tennis at the Waldorf Astoria New York (August 27). The newly renovated hotel is turning its legendary ballroom into a tennis court for one night, with ATP and WTA stars – Tommy Paul, Ben Shelton, Leylah Fernandez, and Maria Sakkari – playing exhibition matches beneath crystal chandeliers. Proceeds benefit Big Brothers Big Sisters of America, matched by the Hilton Global Foundation, and ticket holders can book a clinic on the same court. The smart part: the Waldorf took its single most photographed asset and made it the event. That's a hotel that understands its own mythology.

Dior to show Pre-Fall 2027 in Trinity College Old Library (December 4th). The Book of Kells is dark-academia core. I was lucky enough to visit this past fall and you can feel (and smell) the magic. It makes perfect sense for Irish-born creative director Jonathan Anderson to bring the house home. It's also the move of the moment: fashion houses staging shows inside centuries-old institutions, borrowing a sense of history they could never manufacture on their own.

Guggenheim Abu Dhabi will opens to the public (December 11). It joins the Louvre Abu Dhabi, the Zayed National Museum, the Natural History Museum Abu Dhabi, a dedicated teamLab museum, and the Abrahamic Family House on Saadiyat Island. When this much cultural landmarks show up in one place this fast, it's worth asking where the center of gravity in luxury and culture is actually moving. (More on that soon, I'm writing a dedicated post on the UAE’s staggering growth.)

Feast for your eyes.

And if there's a through line this week, it's this… the room, the jet, the ballroom, the hotel, none of it is the product. The feeling you leave with is. Build for that.

xKyra

So here’s the question worth discussing: why do Ferrari and Hermès keep outperforming in an era where every other brand is begging for attention? Because luxury isn’t in the business of satisfying demand. It’s in the business of sustaining desire. And these two go a step further. They don’t just sustain desire, they protect it, the way a family protects its legacy. Revenue isn’t the north star; brand equity is. Call it scarcity marketing if you’d like, though that undersells what's actually happening, because they only say no to the things you want most. Anyone can walk out of Hermès with a scarf. Anyone with a spare $283,000 can order the new Amalfi. Everything you can buy pays for everything you can't. The scarf is desirable because the Birkin can't be bought.

Both are exceptional storytellers and neither has changed their story since inception despite decades of shifting marketing trends. But here’s the argument I actually want to make: their storytelling was never a campaign. Hermès tells its story through production capacity. Ferrari tells its story through racing investment and customer selection. Their operations are their marketing. Everything that follows is evidence.

The Hermès story goes like this: every bag is handcrafted by a single artisan over roughly 25 hours, after years of extensive training. Which means Hermès cannot simply hire a thousand leatherworkers tomorrow to meet demand. That constraint is real and it’s also a choice. Hermès opens roughly one new leather workshop a year and paces its production growth deliberately, which means it could scale faster yet refuses to. That refusal to scale is the strategy. The genius of Hermès is that exact strategic decision has been dressed so beautifully that we all call it tradition. The wait becomes part of the value proposition. And if you’re ever granted the golden moment of being offered a bag, after having invested in other Hermès purchases first, you don’t get to choose what the bag’s details look like. You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit. It’s a rule that apparently applies to both toddlers and Birkin clients. The opportunity is in the offering. The desire is in knowing the offering doesn’t come to just anyone.

Ferrari’s version is the famous line “we don’t sell a car, we sell a dream,” which sounds like something printed on a dealership mug until you actually understand what it means and what it costs to execute. The moment it clicked for me was realizing Formula One isn’t a sport Ferrari happens to participate in. It’s the most expensive content marketing operation on earth and it’s been running since 1950. But Ferrari does something better than telling the story: it casts you in it. When someone buys a Ferrari they aren’t purchasing transportation. If they wanted transportation, there are many other carmakers who would be thrilled to hear from them. They’re being invited into an ongoing narrative of racing heritage and engineering obsession, less a customer and more a custodian who happens to hold the keys to the brand story. And not everyone gets to be cast. The price tag is the least of the gatekeeping. Like Hermès, Ferrari decides who gets offered a new car because, in luxury, preserving desirability matters more than maximizing volume. Owning a Ferrari has to feel like a privilege you earned, not a transaction you completed. The waiting isn’t a flaw in the experience. The waiting is the experience.

In 2025 Ferrari sold fewer cars and made more money. Shipments dipped about 1% to 13,640 cars while revenue rose 7% and operating margins hit nearly 30%, the highest in the entire auto industry. In comparison, Porsche moved twenty times as many cars. And roughly 80% of new production Ferraris are reserved for people who already own a Ferrari, which is effectively Ferrari’s version of the Birkin offer. This wasn’t always the plan. Ferrari learned it through trial and error before converging on a strategy Hermès has long perfected. Analysts now value Ferrari against Hermès rather than against other carmakers. Fascinating to think a company that builds engines is benchmarked against a company that stitches leather. They’re not in the car business or the leather goods business. Rather they’re in the business of preserving desire. And desire, unlike production, appreciates.

Editor’s Note: This piece was inspired by Acquired’s incredible deep dives on Ferrari and Hermès. If you haven’t listened to them yet, I can’t recommend them enough.

Which brings me to where the relationship with their target audience actually begins because it is not at checkout. In luxury the purchase is the midpoint. One thing my career in marketing has taught me is that traditional brands build audiences while luxury brands build communities, and yes, every DTC brand will tell you it builds community too, but luxury communities run generations deep. The customer journey is meticulously orchestrated. At Hermès it’s a named sales associate who knows your purchase history and decides when your golden moment arrives. At Ferrari it’s the dealer courtship, the invitation-only events, the factory visits, the ownership clubs. Notice that none of this is broadcasted rather IYKYK. The top of the pyramid is never treated as a segment; it’s treated as a short list of individuals someone at the company personally knows. (As discussed in the Acquired podcast, Ferrari’s CRM is intentionally small enough that it’s possible they know all 180,000 current Ferrari owners in total, including roughly 90,000 who own a Ferrari but haven’t purchased a new one in the last five years.) These specific customer journeys exist to deepen desire and the growth lever is revenue per member, never headcount, because headcount is the thing that kills exclusivity. Most brands today design their best experiences to win new customers. Luxury designs its best experiences for people who have already invested.

At the highest levels of Ferrari ownership, devotion unlocks experiences that money alone can’t immediately buy. Through Corse Clienti, Ferrari will fly a full team of mechanics to its private Fiorano test track to dedicate an entire day to you and no one else, mold a seat to the exact shape of your body, and walk you through the simulator before you’ve put your hands on an actual steering wheel. Enter the XX Programme and you don’t just own a track-only hypercar—you become part of Ferrari’s development process, working alongside race engineers at six private circuits a year, feeding data into cars that haven’t been built yet. You are paying Ferrari, generously for the privilege of doing its R&D for them. Enter Tailor Made and you’re flown to Maranello (home of the Ferrari factory and global headquarters), assigned a personal designer and walked through curated “worlds” of leather and color, a couture fitting for the horsepower junkie.

None of that is marketing in the way we usually use the word. Nobody is running an activation or pop-up. Ferrari doesn’t need to build brand experiences after the sale because it spent years building one before the sale and the customer paid full price to sit through it. That’s a different type of experiential marketing than the one most brands practice and it’s nearly impossible to copy because you can’t fake a courtship. The deeper the relationship, the greater the access.

So what do you do if you don’t have someone as mythic as Enzo Ferrari or nearly two centuries of saddle-stitching behind you? You can’t manufacture heritage but you can adopt the principle: put the story in the operations, not the advertising. Build constraints that customers can feel. The restaurant that makes reservations nearly impossible to secure (enter Polo Bar in New York). The developer who sells half the building privately before it ever reaches the market. The watchmaker that limits production, publishes the number, and refuses to chase volume. Luxury is built when restraint has a real cost. Otherwise, scarcity is just a marketing tactic.

Protecting desire has costs, and both brands are paying them right now. You may have followed the reaction to unveiling Ferrari Elettrica, its first fully electric car. For decades, Ferrari loyalists have believed the engine was the soul they were buying. When you spend seventy years teaching customers that sound, vibration, and mechanical drama are part of the dream, you don’t get to quietly change what the dream sounds like.

Hermès, meanwhile, has discovered that a carefully protected waiting game can create its own complications. The same purchase-history requirements that have long shaped access to its most coveted bags became the center of a California lawsuit in 2024, with shoppers alleging they were required to purchase other products to gain access. When your scarcity machine works this well, someone will eventually ask a judge whether it is a machine. Desire this carefully protected will attract lawyers just as reliably as it attracts waitlists.

Which leaves me with the question I can’t stop turning over as The Great Wealth Transfer approaches: the largest handover of money in history, landing in the hands of a generation raised in an era of instant access and same-day delivery. The assumed read is that they won’t wait for anything. The evidence suggests otherwise. They camp out for sneaker drops, wait years for coveted watches and often turn the waiting itself into content.

The real question is whether they’ll wait for the same stories, or whether heritage loses to hype once the inheritance arrives. My bet is that the winners of the next twenty years will be the brands that build machinery for making desire inheritable.

Ferrari has already shown us the blueprint. By prioritizing existing owners for much of its production, it has created a system where ownership becomes a relationship that compounds over time. Hermès has its own version; every offer is a lesson in patience that clients eventually pass down.

Personally, I’d still wait. Some things become valuable precisely because they ask for patience, pursuit and a little proof that you truly want them. The brands that survive the transfer won’t be the ones that meet the next generation’s expectations. They’ll be the ones confident enough to keep setting them.

Where the sun stretches across the lakes and the rolling hills and the light settles on the water like it has nowhere better to be. At night the rainstorms roll in and the mood turns from play to calm, the birds tracing their circles overhead, the river running underneath all of it. Montana summers. There is no place quite like it, which is exactly why it has become my escape from the city more times than I can count. I am lucky enough to call it my home away from home.

Some of my best ideas arrive here. Maybe it is the change of scenery, maybe it is the nature, but either way it is giving me life. This summer feels more alive than most. The Knicks won the championship, which, as a card-carrying non-bandwagon fan for a few years now, I am still not entirely over. “Knicks in Five” has become the motto of the season, somehow carrying the full weight of peace, love, and unity.

The World Cup is alive and well across the US, and if you are not watching, you are missing out. I went in claiming England and France as my teams, which is admittedly a bandwagon move, though I would wear either kit in real life. I like to talk “the talk”, to ruffle a few feathers while finding comradeship in unfamiliar rooms. My favorite part this year has been watching foreigners document their first time in the States.

Even as an American, I take real pleasure in the loudly American things, purely for the entertainment of it. Buc-ee’s. Walmart. A good diner. There is a particular kind of taste in knowing exactly what something is and loving it anyway and nothing hits like a large margarita with bottomless chips and salsa, or Texas BBQ done right. I think a lot of Americans are realizing for the first time how wholesome the World Cup is on a global scale. It is the rare sport where countries actually get along and play with some grace. Or, as my brother put it, it is one enormous geography lesson for everyone watching. He is not wrong.

I have claimed this my Sporty Girl Summer and I am fully here for it. Between the Stanley Cup, the NBA Finals, the PGA Tour, Roland Garros, the World Cup, and soon Wimbledon, watching alone could be a full-time job. My days out here are built for it: long, unhurried, stacked with rounds of golf and the kind of slow time I have come to think of as the real luxury. I also finally picked up tennis, something I have been claiming to do for years. It is quite humbling. It looks so much easier than it is and I now have a complete and total respect for anyone who actually plays.

Outside my regularly scheduled sports programming, I have been watching a different kind of spectacle. Jonathan Anderson’s latest Dior menswear show set rave culture against eighteenth-century aristocratic tailoring, with a soundtrack by Fred again.. built the way he builds a track, sampling and remixing until something familiar carries a new meaning. That is where Anderson’s brilliance lives. He reaches into warehouse subculture and walks it back out as couture.

Rivals, on Disney+, has become a new favorite. It uses the English countryside as a stage set for the oldest drama there is: who belongs, who is only pretending to, and how far people will go to be let inside. You come for the humor and stay for the dreamy countryside. Lately I keep feeling a pull towards Britain.

When I am not watching, I am reading, and the discourse I cannot look away from this month is the one about gloriously overpriced drinks. There is the £265 cup of coffee at Shot in Mayfair, poured from Japanese beans grown on the Nakayama estate on Okinawa, an island where coffee has no business growing, which is precisely the point. There is the Japanese grape juice going for $150 a bottle out in Southampton. What fascinates me is that both are positioned from Japan, a country that has quietly become the internet’s shorthand for taste. Having spent a lot of time there, I can tell you the juice and the coffee really are that good. Whether they are worth the markup once they cross an ocean is another question and for the people who cannot make the trip and can afford the experience, the honest answer is: why not.

Luxury was never really about what the object is. It is about what it represents, the ritual and the lineage and the story you are allowed to stand inside. Taste, I am starting to think, is mostly that: knowing precisely what you are buying and loving it on purpose. Whether it is the £265 coffee or the fishbowl margarita, if it brings you joy and a sense of belonging, there is no real argument with the price.

Which brings me to the thing I keep turning over. Everyone says privacy is the new luxury and there is truth in it. If I had all the money in the world, I am not sure I would want to be known. I would rather move through it quietly, incognito, unbothered. But that is only half of what I want and I suspect it is only half of what anyone wants. The same people paying to disappear are also paying to belong. The membership club is that contradiction made profitable: it sells privacy and community in the same breath, a velvet rope that keeps the world out and your people in. Living in New York humbles you with its long lines and its no for an answer, so it is no wonder the city keeps reorganizing itself around the invitation, the curated dinner, the room you had to be asked into.

That contradiction is the most interesting thing in luxury right now and it is the thing I want to spend my time building: rooms worth being let into. Not for the cachet, but for who is in the room with you. If taste is knowing what you are buying and loving it on purpose, then maybe its highest form is choosing your people the same way. I am working on exactly that in New York and wherever it takes me next. Consider this your early invitation.

xx Kyra

That’s what happened for me inside Apparatus.

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Wrapping up NYCxDesign this week, I moved through the usual circuit of galleries and showrooms all exciting, deeply moving and slightly overstimulating taking it all in. A few friends had sent me a similar showroom experience: Apparatus was doing a peepshow. Not metaphorically. A peepshow.

I’ve followed Apparatus for a while, drawn to their sculptural lighting and objects that resist the category of “just furniture” entirely and fall more in line with artifacts evoking feelings of desire and obsession.

The showroom, located in Nomad up a flight of stairs and behind a heavy-duty metal door that tells you nothing from the outside. You are left to discover what’s to come – the most tantalizing form of mystery. On the other side, your world shifts entirely.

The Red Room.

Warm, enveloping, slightly engulfing in the best way possible. It’s the kind of space that makes you aware of your own body moving through it. And there at its center stood the Peepshow with ten viewing windows, each perfectly positioned with an Episode chair. Behind each pane of glass, a Puiforcat silver object lit like a relic for the viewer to wonder, question and slowly observe. The music is low and seductive, the kind that slows your pace without you realizing it.

The experience cards read:

Flashes of silver feed the eyes, while leather and metal meet to hold body, designed to service seduction.

In a world of increasing speed, we propose that time is luxury — not just the hours of dedication required to create an object, but the years of dedication that bring a craftsperson to the highest expression of their skill.

As you lean into an Episode and get to know each other, take the time to get to know what else luxury means and looks like. Art for ritual. Art to hold the senses. Art for heightened living.

This is the language Apparatus Artistic Director Gabriel Hendifar has always spoken in. His philosophy is rooted in the belief that objects are accessories to the human experience, they exist to enrich the way we live, not simply to occupy space. He draws explicitly on the language of seduction and sensuality, aiming to leave you with the desire to touch. His process begins by imagining a complete world – sometimes referencing temporal, cultural and historical touchstones, sometimes simply trying to capture an emotion – and the objects become tangible artifacts of that world, an invitation to join it.

The space itself is built on opposition. Tall architectural elements against low, intimate seating. Heavy objects beside delicate ones. Dark walls cut through with warm, directional light. Cozy couches anchored by tiger print pillows Episode chairs positioned perfectly towards them. The message is clear: sit, stay, be a body in this space.

This is what Apparatus understands that most design brands don’t: that desire is a formal property. That a room can be erotic not through provocation but through precision by the weight of a shade, the placement of a chair, the position of a mirror that makes you observe a specific direction. The BDSM influence running through the studio isn’t decorative, it’s structural. The power dynamics, the controlled reveal, the discipline of craft elevated to the art of ritual present in every weighted chain and textured surface. And like the experience it draws from, the space demands your full presence. Senses sharpened, distractions dissolved, nothing existing outside of that room and what it’s asking of you.

The Peepshow at the center of it all wasn’t a provocation. It was a thesis.

I left and couldn’t stop thinking about Saint Laurent.

Specifically, Vaccarello’s Women’s Spring 2026 collection. The one that played out at dusk against a garden set under the Eiffel Tower. Leather-clad women moving through hedgerows like they owned every shadow. Sheer trenchcoats over model’s bodies that were barely covered but were entirely intentional. Ruffled duchesses in distress were undone just enough to feel dangerous. The whole show pulsing with what Saint Laurent has always done best: provocative femininity delivered with unshakable confidence.

Vaccarello said he’d been thinking about Françoise Giroud’s description of the YSL woman ‘louche by day, countess by night’ and I couldn’t stop tying that exact description to how The Red Room made me feel. His interpretation: leather daddies cruising the Tuileries after dark, rendered as strict as pencil skirts, killer biker jackets, balloon-sleeved blouses.

For his AW25 men’s collection, he’d imagined an encounter between Yves himself and Robert Mapplethorpe, two men who walked on the wild side, one through the lens, one through couture. Both made transgression beautiful.

If you know Mapplethorpe’s work, you feel the connection between these worlds immediately. Fashion, erotic art and interiors all intertwined, the same sensibility expressing itself through different mediums. Which is exactly what Hendifar does.

The parallel isn’t superficial. Both Vaccarello and Hendifar begin with world-building. Vaccarello opens with a cultural and historical reference – Giroud, Mapplethorpe, the Tuileries at night – and builds an entire universe from it that we experience through clothing. Hendifar begins the same way: he imagines a world first, then makes the objects that become its artifacts and builds the rooms that make it real. The Red Room with the Peepshow wasn’t just another showroom, it was a set inviting you to engage with objects and all of your senses.

Both understand that the most erotic thing isn’t exposure, it’s the architecture of the reveal. Using restraint, literal and aesthetic, as a form of seduction. The hand-embroidered brass hanging lamp above the dining table. The filmy trench. The office conversation pit you descend into. The peepshow window you have to lean into. The heavy door you had to earn your way through. Neither gives you everything. Both make you crave more.

I’ve written before about how runway collections can inspire interiors but this was the first time a space made me want to get dressed. With intention. The way you dress when you know exactly what you’re communicating, and you’re comfortable making people feel it.

That’s what Apparatus does. That’s what Saint Laurent, at its best, does. They both insist that desire deserves to be taken seriously. That craft and eroticism aren’t in tension, they actually hold the same standard. Nothing is accidental and everything is felt.

The Red Room reminded me of that. Now I want the entire S/S 26 collection in my closet and in my own future red room.

xx

This is not an essay about what happened to me. It's about what I did next.

I landed with my nervous system still in overdrive. Lisbon didn’t care. It handed me endless hills, a language I couldn’t make sense of and streets that seemed designed specifically to disorient: cobblestones that demanded I watch every step, bikes and tuk-tuks appearing from nowhere, the smell of the sea, grilled fish, and something floral I never identified. There was no room to spiral. The city was too busy being itself.

I hadn’t planned this trip. I left with three days notice and no plan beyond a general sense of which cities I’d move through. The week prior, something had happened. The kind of thing that rewires how safe you feel inside your own life. I didn’t want to talk about it more than I already had to. I didn’t want to sit with it either. I wanted to be somewhere my mind had no history with. So I booked a flight to a city I’d never seen, packed in forty minutes and left.

Sintra broke the pattern completely. My driver dropped me at the top of the hill and left. I had no idea where I was going. The trails turned out to be actual hiking trails: boulders, forest, no clear direction. I barely had service. There was nothing to do but wander.

I’ve always healed in trees. Something about the scale of them, the indifference of a forest to whatever you’re carrying. I wandered for what felt like hours, stumbling into palaces and what felt like secret gardens, the city appearing in glimpses through the canopy below. My mind stayed present in a way it hadn’t all week. Not because anything was resolved but because the next turn of the trail demanded my full attention, and then the next turn, and then the next.

I found the hotel by accident. Valverde Sintra Palácio de Seteais, a palace property with lemon trees and a pool and staff who treated me like I belonged there. I sat with a cocktail overlooking the garden and felt, briefly, like a person in a fairytale. Not performing recovery. Just present.

Later, at Quinta da Regaleira, I couldn't stop taking pictures of the details. The stonework, the archways, the landscape that felt designed for dreaming. I caught myself thinking about getting married somewhere like this one day. Or having a garden that felt this alive. I noticed the thought and stayed with it because a week earlier my mind couldn't travel that far in the future. Sintra gave it somewhere to go.

Cascais reminded me of every sun-bleached surf town I’ve ever loved. I went straight to the beach, Praia da Rainha, the former private beach of the queen which felt entirely on brand. I bought a cheetah print blanket from a woman on the steps that would become my companion for the rest of the trip. I sunbathed, napped, watched strangers live their lives. I jumped in the ocean more than once. The water was cold enough to feel like a decision.

Next to me, a French family had brought pizzas to the beach. They were loud and easy with each other, passing slices, talking over one another, completely unbothered by anyone watching. I made a note to myself: I want to share something this ordinary with people I love someday. The kind of afternoon that doesn’t make it into anyone’s highlight reel and is somehow the whole point.

That evening I found a restaurant a friend had recommended, where the staff gave me what they called the best seat in the house to watch the sunset. I ate the best octopus of my life, drank half a bottle of wine and worked through an unreasonable amount of bread and olives. I went to bed full and lighter than I’d arrived.

The train from Lisbon to Lagos took four and a half hours. Somewhere in the middle of it, tired and figuring out the next connection, I felt the familiar ache of wishing I had someone next to me. I am comfortable traveling alone. I have done it for years. But there is a specific loneliness in the mundane logistics of solo travel, the kind you can’t Instagram your way out of. I made a note to myself: I want to share this someday. The boring parts too.

Lagos was a postcard of a town. Slow and golden, the kind of place that doesn’t perform for you. The first few days I slowed completely. I woke up before sunrise, made coffee and watched the light change from my Airbnb terrace. I journaled in cafes. I cried. I laid on a different beach every day and let the sun do whatever it wanted. The trip had been loud until now. Lagos asked me to be quiet and I didn’t have a choice but to listen.

The hard thing was still there. Of course it was. But something had shifted in how I was carrying it. I was learning that peace doesn't always mean quiet. Sometimes it just means being too present to spiral.

I did a wine tasting under a two thousand year old olive tree at a winery outside of town. Long tables, family style lunch, strangers passing bread and pouring generously. I was seated with eight people from Missoula, Montana. I am from Montana. The chances of that felt absurd enough to be meaningful. They were in their forties and fifties, couples who had spent decades building lives and were now moving through the world with ease and joy. I watched them and felt something settle in me. This is still available. All of it. The decades, the ease, someone to share the mundane and the magnificent with. I hadn’t been able to see that a week earlier.

I hiked the Seven Hanging Valleys trail along the Algarve coast. The cliffs dropping into the Atlantic in a way that makes any problem feel small in comparison. I got lost on the trail which by now felt familiar and right. I treated myself to massages, natural wine and candlelit dinners alone. I soaked up every sunrise and every sunset I could.

I came to Portugal because I needed my mind to have somewhere else to be. What I didn’t expect was that the somewhere else would eventually lead me back to myself. Not fixed. Not over it. But I had spent ten days thinking about octopus and olive trees and cobblestones and a French family eating pizza on a beach. The loop had broken. For someone who couldn’t imagine the future a week earlier, that was everything.

If you’ve ever booked a flight because you needed to outrun your own thoughts — I hope this finds you well. More from The Open Book on living well, even when it’s hard, below.

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This year, more than any other, has been defined by discernment.

Not the surface-level kind– what I like, what I wear, where I go (though, yes, my taste has sharpened) –but something deeper. A refinement of instinct. The willingness to trust myself fully in what feels right, and just as importantly, what does not.

I found myself leaning into my desires in a quieter, more honest way. Not the loud, impulsive ones, but the ones that ask for patience. The ones that require belief before there is any evidence to support them. The kind that doesn’t come with urgency or immediate validation but with a quiet sense of knowing. The ones I would have once questioned or rushed before but now allow to unfold.

At the same time, I had to release control in ways I didn’t anticipate. To accept that there is only so much one can do, and the rest belongs to timing– to the universe, to God, to whatever force moves things into place when they’re meant to.

To accept change, even when it didn’t look how I would have designed it. To move through moments of discomfort without immediately trying to fix or force them. To sit in uncertainty and trust that something was still unfolding behind the scenes, even if I couldn’t yet see its final form.

There were parts of this year that stretched me. A lot.

Moments that asked me to simplify, recalibrate, and restrategize. To be honest about what wasn’t aligned, and to keep moving forward without losing my sense of optimism. There have been many tests and there will continue to be. That is the real work.

Not perfection, but resilience without hardening. Softness, without losing self-respect.

In the midst of it all, I kept returning to what matters most: my relationships. Friendship and family in their most nourishing form. The kind that feels grounding, expansive, and constant. I wouldn’t be where I am today without the extraordinary people I am lucky enough to have in my life. I’m proud of my ability to build connections anywhere, to make friends in every city I’ve ever lived in or passed through, but even more proud of the way I’ve kept them.

To my lifelong friendships, the kind that have witnessed every version of me and stayed anyway, I am eternally grateful. My love for you only deepens throughout the years. (Shout out to my bunnies, my wabi sabi, city girls, cowgirls and squad.) I am loyal to a fault. And if you know me, you know this: once you’re in my inner circle, you stay there.

And then there’s something else this year offered me, something I hadn’t fully trusted in a long time.

My own heart.

Not in a naive way, but in a steady, grounded one. A willingness to open again, slowly. To believe that connection can meet me where I am now, not where I used to be.

I’ve learned that not everyone is good, and that my openness, my fire, can attract both the right people and the wrong ones. But learning to trust my intuition again has changed the way I move. It has allowed me to hold both discernment and softness at the same time.

And if there’s anything I understand more clearly now, it’s this:

Discernment is a form of self-respect. It’s the ability to hold your standards without tightening. To choose with intention. To trust that what is meant for you will not require you to abandon yourself to receive it. To never shrink for others, or allow them to dim your fire.

And maybe that’s what this year has really been about.

Not building a life that looks a certain way but building one that feels real. One that feels like me.

xo Kyra

The host stands before you in a crisp butter-yellow ALAÏA twisted jersey dress, arms open in a way that makes you feel unmistakably expected as if you were the guest of honor.

Inside, the entrance unfolds with quiet intention. Contemporary artwork. A velvet chaise lounge. Beyond it, the low hum of a dining room already alive. The lighting is dim but deliberate. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background. The air carries notes of amber, tobacco, and bergamot.

The oak dining table reveals itself as the evening’s centerpiece. Each place setting is considered: gold-detailed porcelain plates, perfectly pressed napkins, handwritten menus resting on top. Lush florals spill across the center with moss, poppies, and color like a painting brought to life.

At the bar, the host orders your signature drink before you ask. A dirty martini with Hendrick’s and blue-cheese olives. It’s a small gesture, but it lands. She guides you to your seat and introduces you to your neighbor, noting your shared admiration for Rembrandt after recent afternoons lost in his portraits at The Met and The Frick. Guests arrive in waves of familiarity and contrast, the guest list clearly curated. You take quiet note of who you know and who you’re excited to meet.

The perfect dinner party doesn’t announce itself.
You feel it within five minutes of arriving.

What makes the evening memorable isn’t extravagance, it’s the confidence to stop before anything becomes “too much”. This is not instinct, it is design. The feeling that every detail has been considered, then deliberately curated. What registers as ease is never accidental; it is the result of editing, discipline, and a clear point of view.

True luxury has always worked this way. It is not about abundance, but about discernment. It’s about knowing not only what to include, but what to leave out.

A great dinner party, like a great brand, is not a performance. It is a system designed to orient people, to make them feel considered and quietly elevated, without ever calling attention to the mechanism behind it. When it works, you don’t notice the choices at all, you simply feel at ease inside them.

This is where so many brands misunderstand luxury. They confuse more with better. Novelty with meaning. Visibility with presence. But presence, like good hosting, comes from restraint. From confidence. From the discipline to trust that what has been chosen is enough.

Editing Over Excess

At the core of all of this is a single discipline.

The best hosts understand that taste isn’t about doing more; it’s about knowing what to withhold.

It’s recognizing what might feel excessive or overproduced and editing accordingly, so guests never feel self-conscious or out of place. It’s doing the quiet homework in advance: understanding who is coming, their preferences, sensitivities, histories and knowing exactly who to introduce, and when.

From the moment a guest arrives, they are acknowledged. Made to feel important. Each person folded seamlessly into the room. They’re guided and anchored, shown where to sit, how the evening flows, where they belong, before they ever have to ask.

Nothing is announced, yet everything feels intentional. Less performance. More precision.

The most memorable dinner parties are the ones where you walk in knowing only the host and leave having made real connections. The result is subtle but powerful: each guest feels as though some part of the night was designed specifically for them.

This is precisely how enduring brands are built: not by saying everything, but by knowing what never needs to be said.

Food for Thought

Three quiet truths both luxury brands and great hosts understand:

The host sets the energy but never dominates it.
Guests should feel considered, not managed.
Consumers should feel invited, not sold to.

Consistency creates trust.
A host who abruptly changes the tone of the evening loses the room.
A brand that abandons its codes loses credibility.

Familiarity builds trust.
Music that feels known rather than new gives the room permission to relax..
A recognizable brand code gives consumers the same sense of ease.

Fashion, Interiors, Food

What is it about fashion, interiors, and food that makes them feel elegant? You can recognize it instantly when a person, a space, or a dish feels elevated requiring no explanation.

Fashion relies on silhouette, tailoring, and the disciplined repetition of codes over time. Interiors depend on negative space, honest materials, and the kind of imperfection that suggests a life well lived. When trends are forced, a space begins to feel separate from its owner, rather than an extension of how they move through the world.

Food follows the same logic. It is guided by seasonality, trusted favorites, and restraint disguised as effortlessness. Too much intervention obscures the story. The dish should lead, expressing itself through flavor rather than technique.

Across disciplines, the principle is the same: the most elegant choices rarely announce themselves. They are studied, intentional, and confident enough to trust that restraint properly applied is power.

We live in a moment where technology can generate endless options for us. Endless ideas, visuals, campaigns, moments. In that landscape, taste becomes the true differentiator.

Anyone can host a dinner. Few people know how to do it in a way that feels timeless rather than trendy.

I think about this often when it comes to weddings. We are inundated with visions of what an unforgettable celebration could be. We save pins, collect social posts, read Vogue Weddings weekly marking every clever idea, every spectacle, every moment engineered for a wow factor.

Eventually, an underlying question emerges when planning:
What feels like an extension of us?
What feels forced? Is this designed for applause rather than meaning?
What endures once the novelty fades?

The most beautiful celebrations don’t chase memorability. They emerge naturally from identity. When a wedding feels timeless, it’s because it reflects the couple, not the algorithm.

The same is true for brands.

We practice branding every day in our lives from how we host, how we dress, how we cook, how we curate our environments. Luxury simply applies those same principles, with discipline and patience, at scale.

I evaluate brands the same way I evaluate rooms, menus, and hosts: by how they make people feel without demanding attention.

The most powerful experiences are not loud. They are coherent. They respect the intelligence of their audience. They trust that taste, practiced consistently, speaks for itself.

The best brands don’t try to impress. They make you want to stay, and come back.

Share The Open Book

Editor’s Note:

I’ve been thinking a lot about restraint lately. What it means in branding, in hosting, and in how we choose to live. This essay is part of an ongoing series exploring taste as a discipline rather than an aesthetic, and luxury as something felt more than explained.

If this resonated, I’d love to hear how you think about restraint— whether in branding, design, or the experiences you value most.

Consider this an open table.

Leave a comment

We’re living in the golden age of the algorithm, where everyone’s For You Page looks identical, homes have replaced personality with beige minimalism, and somehow every woman on the internet is beginning to share the same face and the same body shape. Sometimes I catch myself wondering: How did we get here? When did individuality become optional?

We live in an era where our curiosities are now being outsourced. Search engines tell us what we like and influencers tell us what to buy. Convenience has quietly replaced curiosity. Instead of wandering, we scroll. Instead of discovering, skim. And instead of forming our own opinions, we outsource them to TikTok trends and ChatGPT.

Are we losing our ability to curate our own likes and dislikes?

These tools are remarkable (emphasis on tools) but they carry a subtle danger: they flatten us, making everything and everyone feel the same. Which is why the people who don’t flatten, the ones who remain vividly themselves, feel almost radical now.

What is it about certain people throughout history who have the kind of allure that captivates audiences for generations? Sofia Coppola, Grace Coddington, Joan Didion, Alice Waters, Carine Roitfeld…just to name a few. These are women people look to for points of view, not trends. For a way of seeing that can’t be replicated, templated, or outsourced. Their taste is their signature: timeless, discerning, quietly influential.

Maybe that’s the real luxury now, having a point of view that is undeniably your own.

Taste is the antidote.

Taste is the luxury you can’t buy or borrow and the one thing the algorithm cannot manufacture. It’s not about having the “best” things, it’s about knowing what’s meaningful and why. Taste is the rare ability to filter infinite options and choose what resonates. It’s having a meticulously honed filter for what deserves your attention, turning the ordinary into the meaningful. It’s how you see and appreciate just about anything with a sort of reverence.

Our attention is the currency that shapes our taste. From the books we read, to the articles we highlight, from the conversations we indulge in, and the corners of the internet we let influence us. Algorithms feed us what’s popular. Taste guides us to what’s personal.

The painting you see once and can’t stop thinking about for days, take that feeling seriously. Look up the artist. Learn the medium. Understand its origin story. Notice how your conversations shift simply because you took the time to engage with something that resonated with you. That’s how taste is crafted: slowly, intentionally, through curiosity rather than consumption.

The algorithm can tell you what’s popular, but it can’t tell you what’s yours. I’ve always believed taste is emotional before it’s visual. It’s the feeling of “this moves me” before we even understand why. Lean into that feeling.

In a world sculpted by algorithms, taste becomes identity – and identity becomes the greatest luxury of all. Taste is a form of gentle rebellion.

P.S. I can’t tell you enough how excited I am to have Substack as a space to curate my own taste. There are remarkable writers, researchers, and tastemakers to discover here.

How Beauty Shaped Me

Beauty raised me long before I knew it. Not beauty as vanity but beauty as heritage, the kind you inherit the way some families inherit land or heirlooms.

I grew up studying the world with a quiet veneration: the architecture of faraway cities on my travels through India, the elegance of old craftsmanship in Japan, the way afternoon light drapes itself across New York City, the stories tucked inside art, fashion, interiors, and cuisine from every place I’ve been, and every place I’m still longing to go.

I didn’t realize it then, but this was the training ground for everything I do now. It’s the reason I see the world through narrative, culture, atmosphere, and aesthetic intelligence. Taste isn’t formed through scrolling, it’s shaped through exposure. And beauty was my earliest teacher.

I have always been subconsciously drawn to the quiet codes of luxury before I even knew them. The weight of a well-made object. The confidence of classic design.The romanticism of history preserved through texture, ritual, and fine detailing.

Beauty became my language.
Attention became my superpower.

Beauty was the door that opened my heart and mind to the lifelong quest of curating good taste.

We only have so many hours in the day, which means we choose, consciously or not, what we give our minds to. What we consume becomes what we cultivate. What we study becomes what we embody. We are surrounded by beauty – in art, music, fashion, interiors. Beauty is everywhere. But how does one discern what counts as “in good taste”?

The answer lies in the effort you spend understanding why it moves you and what makes it timeless. That extra layer of curiosity elevates taste from preference into identity.

Hundreds of books and films come out every day, and like you, I am overwhelmed at the thought of never being able to read every book or watch every movie. My days simply won’t allow it. This is where extra consideration comes in: deciding which book or film deserves your attention, what genuinely moves you. Will it be the film by a director whose artistry you adore? The autobiography that teaches you something you’ve been craving to understand?

I’ve read books that made me laugh, cry, dream bigger, or simply do my job better. But the books that have transformed me most lately have been the classics. And you understand very quickly why they’re classics. They endure because they reveal something about human nature that doesn’t expire. They remind us that beauty, meaning, and story have always mattered long before algorithms, and long after trends.

Why Storytelling Has Become My Purpose

Storytelling is where all of these threads — taste, luxury, beauty — braid together. Because taste without expression is just instinct, but taste with language becomes a world.

Luxury houses have always understood this. Ralph Lauren, Chanel, Dior — they don’t just sell products; they sell a perspective, a story, a world you want to live in.

Storytelling, for me, has the same effect. It allows me to build a world and community you want to be a part of and brings light to the art of noticing. It’s the way I make sense of what moves me, the bridge between the beauty I witness and the meaning it creates. Every place I’ve traveled, every book I’ve loved, every object I’ve held onto for too long they all become part of the narrative I’m shaping, a lineage of taste formed through paying attention.

My purpose is to help people develop their own aesthetic lineage returning to curiosity, trusting their eye, and experience beauty with depth rather than speed. As I grow into the woman I envision, one with exquisite taste and deep admiration for life, I hope it inspires you to grow into your own too.

My hope is that this space becomes a sanctuary for those who crave depth, beauty, and meaning, not the algorithm’s version of them, but their own. Sometimes I worry that if we don’t protect our inner worlds, the world will happily flatten them for us.

Beauty taught me how to see. Taste taught me who I am. And now, in a world rushing toward sameness, choosing what genuinely moves you might just be the greatest luxury (and the most gentle rebellion) left.

On this Substack, I explore the intersection of taste, identity, design, culture, and the subtle luxuries that make a life feel refined: art, interiors, fashion, food, travel, and the stories behind them. This is where I document what’s real in a world that’s becoming increasingly artificial.

Luxury can be found in the things we are conditioned to overlook: time, health, peace and abundance. It’s not about having more, but about noticing more. It’s the way we move through our days with attention, intention, softness, and a quiet confidence that begins within.

Having moved uptown to the Upper East Side in Manhattan I am reminded daily just how lucky I am. Central Park is my backyard, somewhere I frequent daily to find joy and yet this is a place that people visit from all over the world as a destination. The leaves are shifting into their autumn palette, and somehow I keep finding new routes to walk. It’s amazing to think that something as simple as taking a different path encourages neuroplasticity – the brain’s way of adapting, renewing, and forming new neural connections. A tiny shift in direction can quietly reshape who we are becoming.

And maybe that’s where I’ve been lately, in the deep work of becoming.

Lately, I’ve been exploring manifestation through the lens of science rather than mysticism. The more I learn, the more it becomes clear that manifestation isn’t wishful thinking, it’s identity work.

Manifestation is the process of turning a future possibility into your present reality by aligning your thoughts, beliefs, and actions with the outcome you want.

It’s not magic, and it’s not about forcing an outcome. It’s a shift from negative self-talk into a new identity. It’s choosing to build the world you want to live in instead of waiting to be rescued by one. Coco Chanel, a mystic in her own right, said it best: “My life didn’t please me, so I created my life.” We forget that we have more agency than we think. Our future begins in the place we rarely examine: the way we speak to ourselves. Instead of looking outward for permission, we look inward for direction.

This isn’t always glamorous. It requires shadow work, honesty, and the willingness to sit in stillness with yourself analyzing your deepest insecurities, fears and emotions.

That’s where I’ve been lately.

Anyways, I’ll write more about manifestation later but if you’re curious start here:

• Podcast: Explaining manifestation through neuroscience and emotional regulation. Listen here.

• Book: Manifest by Roxie Nafousi. Practical, grounded, clear.

• Article: Cassandra Grey’s reflection on how she manifests is elegant, real and human.

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Recent Taste Notes*

*Otherwise known as things I can’t stop thinking about lately

Reading: The Age of Innocence. Edith Wharton’s portrait of Gilded Age New York is brilliant, romantic, and quietly devastating. Beneath the beauty lies desire, restraint, and the bittersweet ache of choosing duty over longing. The ending stays with you.

Watching: Frankenstein by Oscar winner Guillermo del Toro reimagines Mary Shelley’s classic tale. Dreamy cinematography and unforgettable costuming that will haunt you. Costume designer Kate Hawley shared how the character Victor Frankenstein’s outfits were inspired by David Bowie and Prince. The film was also Tiffany & Co.’s first Netflix partnership in which they loaned archival High Jewelry pieces, famed diamond necklaces and rare objects for the film. And if you’re a art history lover you’ll notice inspirational nods sprinkled throughout the film.

Listening: “West End Girl” by Lily Allen. If you know the lore, it makes the storytelling that much more rich.

Workout: Swapping my long distance runs for long walks. I’ve noticeably watched the inflammation leave my body.

Scent: Dave by Henry Rose. People stop me to ask what I’m wearing. Warm vanilla gourmand, quiet luxury fragrance that feels like a warm memorable hug.

Savor: Dan Dan Noodles & Pork Dumplings in Chili Oil at Birds of a Feather in Brooklyn. Filet Mignon and Coconut Cake with Passionfruit Sorbet at Polo Bar. For Thanksgiving, I’ll be making these GF Pumpkin Pie Cookies for the hostess.

Places: I recently visited The Berkshires in Massachusetts for the first time and it certainly won’t be my last. If you are looking for a little escape outside of the city, stay at Doctor Sax House for a more boutique experience or Prospect cabins for chic glamping. Dine at The Cliff House (make sure you book a reservation during sunset.)

Wearing: Uniqlo sweater – the hype is real. Great quality at a low price. I’ve come across multiple fashion podcasts, articles and substacks praising these sweaters which I had to try myself and can agree they’re pretty great.

Beauty: Poiret Savon Pour Le Visage cleansing bar. Violet Grey–approved and genuinely worth it. This cleanser makes your skin feel deeply clean without drying.

Practice: Repetition > Rumination. We become what we repeatedly tell ourselves, not what we overthink.

If you’re also in a season of refinement, choose one small ritual to honor yourself this week. Luxury begins with how we treat our attention.

xo Kyra

Share The Open Book

(Check out the full SS26 collection here if you haven’t experienced it in its entirety yet, it’s truly a world of its own.)

Blazy’s resume reads like a tour through some of my favorite ateliers: Maison Martin Margiela, Céline, Bottega Veneta, just to name a few. Each distinct, yet all grounded in design intelligence. What I’ve always admired most about him is his ability to fuse craft and innovation such as flannel shirts and “jeans” sculpted entirely from leather are only the beginning.

What if those same innovative principles shaped a room? Could an accent chair be woven from old books using the Japanese Momigami technique? Or a block coffee table crafted from stacked vintage denim? Inspired by Blazy’s experimental touch and CHANEL house codes, I let my imagination wander to a space most of us dream of: a walk-in closet expansive enough to hold not just our clothes, but our stories.

*Reader note: Listen to the CHANEL S/S 2026 Spring Show Soundtrack here while reading this, or dreaming up what your closet might look like someday.

CHANEL has always embodied timeless elegance and the feminine spirit. I still remember dreaming of my first collector’s piece, the Beige Lambskin Classic Double Flap from Lagerfeld’s era. I hunted for it across Europe and Japan until I found her in pristine condition at a boutique in Omotesando, Tokyo. (A story I’ll save for another post on vintage hunting in Japan.) That purchase sparked something deeper within me; the thrill of curating a personal archive of rare, storied pieces.

Naturally, such treasures deserve a fitting home: an expansive closet layered in color, texture, and quiet opulence. A place not just to dress, but to dream.

To complete the vision, I asked my dear friend Grace Masingale (Ideal Grace for some) is a true vintage CHANEL aficionado, to help curate a selection of rare and collectable pieces every dream closet deserves. From the Brown Python Double Classic Flap Jumbo (CHANEL no longer uses exotics) to the Tweed Floral Double Flap, and of course, the White Quilted Lambskin Hula Hoop Bag. (Rumor has it Kris Jenner has one tucked away, too.)

My own dream closet will be my secret babe cave, a sanctuary where inspiration, beauty, and magic come to life inside. An extension of personality: refined, intentional, and joyfully elevated. Let’s take a tour of three different dressing rooms inspired by the many looks of CHANEL SS26.

Beyond the collection itself, the most talked-about element of CHANEL’s Spring/Summer 2026 show was the set design. A celestial dreamscape of cascading orbs suspended like planets against a stark black void. The models appeared to walk through space itself, each step reflecting light and fantasy. In many ways, Blazy is reviving the sense of spectacle and imagination that defined Karl Lagerfeld’s tenure when Chanel’s shows were more than fashion, they were entire worlds unto themselves. See here.

Translating that mood into interiors, imagine glossy black lacquered walls and sculptural storage units that mirror the colors and textures of your wardrobe — mysterious, sensual, and endlessly chic. A planet-like chandelier casts a warm cosmic glow above a chaise draped in tweed like texture, a subtle nod to the house’s timeless codes. And of course, no dressing room is complete without a plush sheepskin upholstered bench to hold the thirty items of clothing you’ll inevitably try on or perfect lighting that feels like art itself, perhaps a life-sized sculpture of a woman floor lamp holding her own radiant orb.

After looking deeper into the thought behind this collection, from the craftsmanship to the cosmic set, I learned that Gabrielle Chanel herself was fascinated by the mystical. From astrology to tarot, her curiosity for the unseen made sense of why this show felt like an imaginary conversation with Coco herself and a return to her personal style, both masculine and feminine.

This imagined closet embodies that same duality: sleek yet sensual, structured yet spiritual. The polished Red Sherwood cabinetry feels like the perfect place to spread out a few tarot cards (or Coco’s favorite Lenormand deck) to determine your look (or your fate) for the day, all while lounging on this daybed. And while you or Coco might not be clutching prayer beads, this purple-and-gold layered Gripoix chain could easily take their place.

This room itself feels distinctly Blazy with oddly satisfying oxblood wallpaper, the sculptural Bottega Veneziana chandelier, and the ostrich-feather floor lamp. It’s a space that invites introspection and imagination, the kind of room where you can picture Matthieu Blazy and Coco Chanel in quiet conversation about the past, present, future.

A walk-in closet should always open into a vanity room surrounded by mirrors and bathed in perfect natural lighting not just to set your makeup for the day, but to define your entire look and mood. There’s something endlessly regal about pairing pink and gold as the focal tones here. Each drawer and shelf glows with a subtle golden hue, spotlighting your shoes, clothing, and jewelry like pieces of art.

Every vanity needs a statement sofa, ideal for when the girls come over to get ready (and, naturally, to take photos on). When they ask about the astrology-sign pillow, it becomes the perfect conversation starter, a playful entry point into your imaginative world. Suspended above, a pink ostrich-feather chandelier feels both feminine and chic, while a hand-knotted gold rug grounds the room in quiet opulence.

A black lacquer credenza adds a touch of mystery, balancing glamour with depth. The accent mirror hangs at just the right height for those final touches, like a swipe of CHANEL Rouge Coco lipstick. A Gabrielle Chanel print pays homage to one of the most fabulous women to ever do it, and a Green Quilted Patent Leather Vanity case sits ready for makeup on the go.

This walk-in closet is designed for the superwoman who does it all. The woman who lives a life of intrigue, glamour, and constant motion. May she always look, and feel, effortlessly fabulous.

—

Maybe the real fantasy isn’t the runway, it’s creating a world at home that feels just as magical. Here’s to closets that tell many stories, chandeliers that spark imagination, and dressing rooms that make us believe in a little everyday alchemy.

So tell me, what does your dream dressing room look like?

xx

Anderson’s arrival was one of the most anticipated appointments in recent fashion memory, especially following Maria Grazia Chiuri, who had been at the helm since 2016. At Loewe, Anderson turned a heritage leather house into a cultural force with his wit and attunement to the cultural zeitgeist. He has always been able to balance reverence for history with a sharp eye toward the future, pulling younger generations into the conversation. His Dior debut carried that same spirit: a dialogue between house codes and contemporary imagination.

Precise, modern, playful. The collection was unmistakably Anderson, yet still part of Dior’s lineage: Yves Saint Laurent’s youthful modernism, Marc Bohan’s pragmatism, Gianfranco Ferré’s architectural drama, John Galliano’s theatrical flourish, Raf Simons’s minimalism, Kim Jones’s tailoring, Maria Grazia Chiuri’s feminism, and, of course, Christian Dior’s New Look. Anderson stepped into the conversation adding his own chapter to the house’s evolving narrative.

In an Fashion Neurosis podcast interview, Anderson once said: “I’ve always wanted to talk about my process because in the end why I ended up in this industry is because I was inspired by other people. I’m hoping younger people look at me and then be inspired to try too.” That spirit of dialogue between the past and present, between designer and audience felt alive on the runway.

For me, fashion has always been about more than clothes. It’s art, architecture, and storytelling stitched into fabric. Anderson’s Dior didn’t just make me think of garments, but of entire worlds. What if these looks slipped off the runway and into a living space? What kind of room would they create?

That became my experiment: translating Dior Spring 2026 into a “family room” concept. Why a family room? Because it’s where conversation happens. It’s where stories are told and retold, much like this collection wove together the voices of Dior’s past with Anderson’s present. Anderson himself often shares his fascination with interiors and craft, often sharing ceramics, furniture, and sculptures reminding us all that fashion and design aren’t separate, but deeply intertwined.

Anderson is an incredible storyteller across mediums, from Loewe’s reinventions to his collaborations with Uniqlo, and even costume design for the films Challengers and Queer. His Dior didn’t ask us to simply admire it but to gather, listen, and imagine. And what better setting for that than a family room, alive with movement, conversation and its own layers of history to tell?

Though I don’t have a formal background in fashion history, I’ve always been obsessed with piecing it together through books, magazines, and interviews. Dior, to me, has always felt like a language: a vocabulary of house codes passed down and reinterpreted through decades. Anderson’s updates to the iconic Bar jacket and the New Look silhouette caught my attention, as did the way florals appeared through abstract rosette heels and delicate embroidery. These felt like moments to be celebrated as I imagined how a family room might hold onto heritage while making space for play.

Jonathan Anderson’s message was clear. To honor Dior is not to repeat it, but to reframe it. And maybe that’s true of design in all forms. There are always rules, codes, expectations but the real joy comes from bending them into something new. Something uniquely you.

That evening left me wondering: why does it feel like fashion and food are more intertwined than ever before?

Lately, I've noticed a clear uptick in the ways fashion borrows from food across editorials, immersive experiences, and even in the garments themselves. From campaigns styled so well you want to eat them, to designs that evoke flavor and texture, brands are embracing the full spectrum of sensory marketing. And it’s not just clever content. These layered, tangible experiences are shaping the emotional core of brand identity. They aren’t just selling products, they’re serving stories.

Historical Appetizer: When Taste Became Symbol

Is fashion’s fascination with food new? Not quite. While we’re currently in a moment of experiential maximalism, the dialogue between the two has long been ripe with symbolism, seduction, and subversion.

Consider Salvador Dalí, the surrealist master of deliciously disorienting imagery. When I discovered he had written a cookbook, Les Dîners de Gala, I had to track it down. Known for his obsessions with Freud, food, and eroticism, Dalí believed both sex and cuisine stimulated the subconscious. Lobsters, in particular, recurred throughout his work. To him, they weren’t just crustaceans they were aphrodisiacal symbols. Their hard shells, soft interiors, and exaggerated forms echoed themes of indulgence and repression, desire and danger.

It’s no coincidence that one of the most iconic moments in fashion history involved a lobster.

In 1937, Dalí collaborated with Elsa Schiaparelli to create the “Lobster Dinner Dress,” a pristine white silk organza gown emblazoned with a bold red lobster printed across the skirt. The placement was no accident, both suggestive and shocking. At a time when women were expected to be modest, this dress served as a rebellious statement. Schiaparelli blurred the line between garment and art, teasing conventional fashion norms by embedding sexuality and surrealism into couture. The dress wasn’t just decorative at the time it was disruptive. It invited the wearer (and viewer) to think, to feel, and to reconsider what fashion could say.

By the 1960s, that interplay evolved into Pop Art. Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s soup can didn’t just critique consumerism; it celebrated it. Warhol ate the soup daily as a child. To him it was comfort, nostalgia, Americana. What might seem like a mundane pantry staple became a sacred object, immortalized through repetition. In fashion photography of the era, food imagery from soda bottles, bananas and bubblegum became visual shorthand for appetite, youth, and rebellion.

What ties these moments together is the realization that food and fashion are both mediums of identity. They allow us to project, to express, to indulge.

Editorial Bites: Food as a Visual Metaphor

Foods are increasingly being used in editorials not just as props, but as symbols that suggest mood, energy, and emotion.

Think of a pomegranate. Depending on the cultural lens, it can represent seduction, fertility, wisdom, or transformation. In Greek mythology, Persephone’s consumption of pomegranate seeds tethers her to the underworld—a metaphor for descent, mystery, and cyclical rebirth. In Persian and Islamic traditions, it represents paradise and the lushness of hidden complexity. Its vivid color, ruby shine, and tightly packed seeds all speak of sensuality and richness.

Contrast that with a hot dog. On the surface, it’s unserious, kitschy, quintessentially American. But when deployed in an editorial, especially one shot in New York, it can evoke joy, rebellion, humor. Hot dogs in a fashion sense signal a kind of playful femininity that doesn't take itself too seriously. In this way, even a food as humble as a frankfurter can tell a story about status, nostalgia, or wit.

Whether fruit, pastry, or an iconic childhood snack each holds potential cultural resonance. When brands understand this, they can unlock storytelling that resonates across taste, touch, memory, and meaning.

Experiential Meals: Dining as Brand Immersion

My first introduction to the fashion-café phenomenon was in Tokyo. Walk the polished streets of Omotesando or Ginza and you’ll encounter more than luxury flagships. You’ll discover Dior cafes, Gucci restaurants, and Maison Kitsuné coffee counters. In these spaces, cappuccinos are dusted with cocoa CD monograms, and pastries are decorated with brand motifs. You sip from porcelain printed with the same patterns as the latest collection. It’s retail as a ritual, eating your way into the brand.

Are these cafes intended for die-hard customers or for the aspirational fan? The answer is both. It’s democratic luxury. For the price of a $14 latte, you momentarily step inside the dream.

In New York, branded food moments often take the form of pop-ups: a Miu Miu popsicle cart parked outside Casa Magazines. A Chanel diner serving pastel-hued matcha to launch a new fragrance. These activations create not just trending content but also culture. The urgency, the intimacy, the exclusivity all heighten desire.

At Gucci Osteria in Tokyo, I was served a tasting menu that felt more like a runway presentation. Each course had a story; each bite was both nourishment and narrative. The chef played the role of creative director, translating the Gucci world into flavor. Rich brocades became umami-laced sauces. Embroidered flowers turned into edible petals. In that moment, the connection between food and fashion crystallized; it's not just thematic, but visceral.

Product Pairings: Edible Campaigns, Palatable Packaging

Jacquemus might be the modern master of food as branding. Lemons falling from the sky. Banana trucks winding through L.A. streets. Butter on toast as an invitation. The house’s signature yellow is no longer just a color, it’s a flavor, a mood, a memory that sticks.

These playful campaigns don’t just get likes they get remembered. They surprise and delight. They stretch a fashion house’s presence from the closet to the kitchen, from desire to digestion.

Loewe’s recent tomato campaign took this edible ethos to new heights, literally. What began as a meme, a perfectly ribbed tomato photo so vivid it seemed ripped from a hyperreal produce ad, transformed into a seasonal narrative. The image found itself turned into an opulent clutch, printed onto limited-edition packaging, and even inflated into a full-scale hot air balloon that soared above Cappadocia. Suddenly, the tomato wasn’t just an ingredient. It was a motif, a metaphor, a moment.

And the sensory layering didn’t stop there. Loewe released a tomato-scented candle, part of its growing home fragrance collection, designed to deepen the brand’s narrative through olfaction. Creative Director Jonathan Anderson explained that he created the scent to "capture the olfactory memories from my childhood." A whiff of green stems, sun-warmed soil, and ripe fruit becomes a portal blending nostalgia, nature, and domestic intimacy into a single inhale.

This is symbolic storytelling at its sharpest: turning the humble tomato into an object of aesthetic reverence. It speaks to ideas of seasonality, sensuality, and even rootedness. In Mediterranean cultures, the tomato is tied to heritage. Loewe recontextualized that cultural richness as luxury without losing the rawness or realness of the original symbol.

Color trends follow a similar path, increasingly flavored by food. Matcha green. Espresso brown. Tomato red. It’s not just “green,” it’s “pistachio,” “sage,” or “avocado.” Food vocabulary lends emotional nuance and sensory association. It helps us feel something. It’s the difference between “pink” and “cotton candy.”

In this new visual and sensory lexicon, foods are more than props; they become portals. They conjure entire aesthetics, evoke memory, and create new categories of taste. In every sense of the word.

The Branding Recipe: Why Food Works for Fashion

So why is this all working?

Emotional resonance is where food and fashion most deeply intertwine. Food is comfort, intimacy, memory such as the taste of your grandmother’s cookies, a late-night slice with friends, the ritual of morning coffee with a lover. Clothes do the same thing. They hold our stories: where we’ve been, who we are, how we want to be remembered. A scent, a shade, a texture, they can all transport us. A silk dress can remind you of a first date just as much as the smell of cinnamon might transport you to your childhood. When brands tap into these emotional echoes through scent, color, or narrative they create more than style; they build connection.

And right now, connection is sensory.

The best brand experiences aren’t just seen; they’re felt. Heard. Tasted. Smelled. It’s butter, not just on toast, but as the visual cue for soft leather. A cherry, not just as fruit, but as a high-gloss red lip. Brands are blurring lines between visuals and physical sensation — translating aesthetics into something we can practically feel on our skin. It’s about evoking desire in every sense of the word. That’s why a great campaign doesn’t end with a swipe — it lingers.

Culturally, it tracks.

We’re living in a moment obsessed with what’s real. Wellness, farm-to-table, slow fashion aren’t just trends, they’re expressions of a deeper craving for authenticity in a world that often feels synthetic. Today’s consumer wants more than product; they want provenance. They want the story. That’s why brands like Bode, Gabriela Hearst, and Loewe feel so relevant. They speak the same language as the farmer’s market: sun-washed, earthy, sensual, slow. Clothes that feel lived in, materials that hold history. It’s fashion as nourishment.

And here’s the brilliance: food is the access point.

Not everyone can buy couture but anyone can eat a croissant stamped with a logo. Food becomes the most democratic entry into luxury. It’s edible branding, palatable desire. And it makes a brand feel not just aspirational, but alive.

Digestif: Taste, Considered

Fashion’s food fixation isn’t just clever, it’s cultural. It’s giving us new ways to connect, to feel, to understand taste as both aesthetic and appetite.

The next time you see a fruit in a fashion spread or sit down at a branded café, ask:

What story is this trying to tell?
What feeling does this evoke?
Is this branding or is it nourishment?

And then, perhaps most importantly: does it satisfy?

Bon appétit.

To think it’s been nearly three years since I moved to the greatest city in the world still feels surreal. Time flies when you're not just having fun, but intentionally soaking up every moment. I arrived in New York alone, in the quiet aftermath of heartbreak, hoping for brighter days and a way back to myself. What I found instead was something deeper: a renewed sense of wonder.

This city taught me how to fall in love again: with art, with strangers, with the joy of simply walking, watching, and slowly rediscovering myself in the beautiful chaos.

New York is endlessly generous but to truly know her, you must live her. You must let her break and remake you. You must embrace the madness. Only then can you understand why people sacrifice so much just to call it home. I’ve always believed that wherever you live, you should contribute to the heartbeat of the place whether through creativity, kindness, or conversation. How we show up shapes the soul of our cities.

Spend just one weekend with me here and you’ll understand how impossible it is to feel bored, or even lonely. There’s always something happening: a gallery opening, a dancing street performer, a new restaurant with a six-week waitlist that’s somehow still worth it. And even if you are sad, this is a city where you can do things while sad and just when you least expect it, a stranger will yell as if you are in a movie “Get outta here!” and it will make you laugh out loud. You’ll smile and say to yourself: I love this city.

It’s always the little things.

There’s so much more I could say, but instead, I’ll turn this into an ongoing series. A collection of favorite places, recent discoveries, and high-taste notes that feel distinctly New York. Some are classics. Others, new treasures. All are worth revisiting.

And if you find yourself lucky enough to try any of these, do let me know. I’d love to hear how the city meets you.

Favorite Bites

Cactus Wren – Lower East Side

Elevated neighborhood dining wrapped in familiarity and warmth. Their playful take on the classic Seven-Layer Dip upgraded with caviar is delightfully indulgent. The Fruits de Mer is an elegant centerpiece, perfect for slow conversations and shared discovery. For dessert lovers: the Mochi Crêpes Suzette is a showstopper. Unforgettable.

Emilio’s Ballato – Nolita

A timeless institution, passed down through generations and still somehow a secret. The best Chicken Parmesan I’ve had in the city, no notes. It feels like a sensory portal into someone’s Italian upbringing, comforting, familiar, and full of unspoken tradition.

Cafe Zaffri – Union Square

A cozy hidden gem where the flavors and decor transport you. The Breads & Spreads and Grilled Octopus are both masterfully done.

Favorite Drinks

Superbueno – East Village

Playful, inventive cocktails with a Mexican twist. Nominated #2 on North America’s 50 Best Bars list and rightfully so.Their version of a “vodka soda” layered with guava and subtle heat is a revelation. But what won me over was the craftsmanship: the ice cube, perfectly cut, melted exactly on pace with each sip. Don’t miss the Green Mango Martini, a batched tequila-based dream quite popular among guests.

Sip & Guzzle – Greenwich Village

A speakeasy-meets-haiku kind of night. Unpretentious and perfect. Nominated #5 on North America’s 50 Best Bars list. Having fallen in love with their Tokyo flagship (The SG Club), I had high expectations for their New York debut and every fiber of my being was satisfied. The Wagyu Old Fashioned? Sublime. What to order for the table: Uni Fried Rice Nigiri, Volcano Roll and Electric Chicken.

Jacques Bar at The Lowell – Upper East Side

A place for martinis and old New York elegance. My go-to order: a dirty gin martini, perfectly chilled and served in unforgettable glassware. This is a city where great martinis are a love language and The Lowell speaks it fluently.

Recent Cultural Fixes

Finishing the Women’s Half Marathon in Central Park — A love letter to my body and the city. There’s nothing more iconic than running through Central Park in spring when the blooms are in full swing and the support from strangers brings you to tears. The Harlem Hills were unforgettable in a brutal way. However, the finish line was pure joy.

Knicks game energy at Madison Square Garden — If I could pick one word to describe this experience it would be electric. Especially experiencing the Knicks in the playoffs. If you know a Knicks fan, you know this passion. And if you don’t, go to one game and you’ll be quick to understand. Go Knicks.

Parlor Tricks at Chelsea Living Room — Sexy. Magical. Slightly surreal. An intimate dinner party where magic meets burlesque. Held monthly. Ideal for a girls’ night or third date that turns into something cinematic.

This Month’s Taste Note

New York tastes like a freshly chilled martini, served with a side of extra crispy fries shared with your best friends that you haven’t seen in awhile. It’s the perfect hug after a long winter’s hibernation.

There’s more to come but for now, this is my little window into the wonder of living here. Until the next volume.

While not everything I own bears the Ralph Lauren name, it could. That’s the power of a brand that has transcended products and become something more: a way of life.

But what elevates a brand from iconic to truly timeless?

I grew up in the Pacific Northwest where mornings began with birdsong and evenings were curled up around a fireplace. My childhood was rooted in nature: daily hikes from our backyard, barefoot summers in the garden, and wide-open skies that seemed to stretch forever. It was quiet, wild, and deeply American.

No one rode horses to school (though I always wished that was a thing), but we had our own kind of frontier.

Now I live in Manhattan. My days filled with Central Park walks, live jazz, and late-night dirty martinis (Hendrick’s, of course). I’ve traded cowboy boots for kitten heels, but the spirit remains the same.

That’s the magic of Ralph Lauren: he never asked us to change but rather he gave us new ways to express who we already are. He understood that the American experience isn’t one thing. It’s many things. And it evolves, like we do.

Ralph Lauren Didn't Only Design Clothes, He Built a World

Ralph Lauren’s genius wasn’t in chasing what was next, but in capturing what was eternal. He didn’t just create clothing, he created characters, scenes, and settings we could all step into. Some of my favorite Ralph Lauren campaigns capture a whole world in a single frame. You can imagine the characters’ lives, how they dress, even how they move through the world.

Every Ralph Lauren campaign is more than a photoshoot, it’s a movie still. A feeling. A life you can almost remember. The lighting, the backdrop, the cool composure of the models, it all speaks the same language: understated aspiration.

He understood that we don’t just want to buy clothes, we want to buy into a world. One that reflects who we are and who we might become. This is brand building at its highest level: when product becomes persona.

• The rugged romanticism of the West (Double RL)

• The ease of East Coast collegiate cool (Polo)

• The quiet elegance of eveningwear (Purple Label)

• The lived-in chic of everyday essentials (Lauren Ralph Lauren)

Through his lens, each of us can find ourselves in the American story making it our own. Whether you grew up in small towns and farmlands or in a penthouse, there’s a version of Ralph’s world that feels like home.

Because that’s what great branding does. It creates belonging.

The Soul of a Story, Stitched Into Every Thread

We remember stories because stories have soul.

Ralph Lauren’s genius lies in weaving heritage, aspiration, and emotion into every thread. He transforms a blazer into a declaration and a pair of boots into a chapter of someone's identity. His brand has never been about being the loudest in the room but rather creating a quiet confidence and a sense of timelessness that doesn’t need explanation because it’s already understood.

That’s the essence of lasting luxury.

Like my little flag pillow, Ralph Lauren pieces are meant to be lived in, loved, and passed down. They linger in memory the same way as a favorite film, a handwritten letter, or a family recipe does.

A $40 Shirt, A Lifetime of Feeling

Last summer, wandering through Greenwich Village, I passed a woman selling clothes on the sidewalk. Tucked between a mix of men’s dress shirts, I found a vintage Ralph Lauren, men’s XL, perfectly worn in and soft to the touch. It was $40, a steal! And to this day, it’s one of my favorite pieces to style.

When I wear Ralph Lauren, I don’t just feel stylish. I feel like myself.

And more than that I feel like the woman I’ve always dreamed of becoming.

That’s timeless branding.

Think for a moment about your favorite brand. What makes it your favorite? The quality, yes. The aesthetics, absolutely. But go deeper: how does it make you feel? Confident? Romantic? Classic? Bold? When a brand becomes a vessel for identity, for aspiration, for memory it stops being “just clothes.” It becomes a story. A world.

This is where Ralph Lauren has always excelled. Not by chasing trends, but by anchoring in storytelling. By creating a vision so rich and consistent, it invites you in to make it your own. Sometimes it even sparks entirely new movements like the Lo Lifes in the 1980s, who put their own spin on Polo and made it theirs.

Ralph Lauren taught me that timelessness isn’t just a matter of style, it’s the strength that comes from authenticity and the grace to let it speak for itself. We don’t just admire the world he built.

We want to live in it.

Why Certain Brands Have A Lasting Impact on Us

Timeless branding is intentional, layered, and deeply human. The brands that endure don’t only sell products, they create meaning behind them. They stay consistent in their values and aesthetic, while allowing room for evolution. They tell stories that feel lived-in and real, archetypes we recognize in ourselves. They evoke emotion. They spark aspiration without alienation.

In a world increasingly obsessed with speed, trend cycles, and attention spans, Ralph Lauren reminds us that the best things aren’t meant to be consumed, they’re meant to be cherished. That’s the kind of branding I want to create. That’s the kind of story worth telling.

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What’s the brand that shaped you and what does it say about who you are now?
I would love to hear in the comments.

Don’t get me wrong: I love a no-frills dive bar off the side of an interstate, a $4 pilsner in hand, with the comforting sizzle of a cheeseburger grilling out back. But even that can feel romantic. Because true taste isn’t about status. It’s about perception. It’s about how we romanticize the details, elevate the ordinary, and choose to live with intention.

The art of taste can’t be taught, bought, or borrowed. It’s not about logos or price tags. It comes from a cultivated curiosity, a reverence for craftsmanship, and a wide range of lived experiences. It’s developed through texture, both emotional and tactile. Emotional texture is what we absorb from the stories we live through; our childhood memories of riding bikes with neighborhood kids, or the feeling of stepping onto foreign soil for the first time as a solo traveler. Tactile texture is what we learn to notice with our hands and bodies: the difference between cotton and cashmere, linen and lace, the worn leather of an heirloom armchair. One moves the heart, the other trains the hand—and together, they shape discernment.

Taste grows through the books you read, the places you visit, the meals you linger over and just can’t seem to forget, the way you arrange your home when no one’s watching. It’s a quiet devotion to beauty. It’s remaining true to your individuality while staying open to inspiration. None of us are shaped in isolation; we carry with us the style of those who’ve influenced us—mentors, friends, strangers whose grace left a mark.

I can still remember walking into the lobby of the Hôtel Costes in Paris for the very first time—dimly lit, velvet-draped, and scented like seduction. I didn’t know you could fall in love with an atmosphere. I wanted to bottle it up and bring that feeling home. It awakened something in me: an obsession with ambiance, with detail, with the quiet power of discretion. That moment sparked my love affair with boutique hotels around the world—spaces where storytelling begins the second you step through the door. The scent, the light, the energy—it all sets the tone for who you become while you’re there. Each city invites a new version of you to emerge. In Paris, I’m the girl who spends her afternoons treasure-hunting at flea markets and her evenings in a black slip dress, Chanel 444 pressed to her martini glass at the Costes bar, flirting with the idea that I just might meet a charming gentleman.

Traditionally, we associate good taste with refinement: an elegant, sophisticated eye for beauty and quality. And while that still holds true, I believe we’re in the midst of a more nuanced evolution. Today, taste is contextual. It’s deeply personal. It lives somewhere between cultural fluency and emotional depth, informed as much by memory as by aesthetic codes.

There’s an aura to someone with taste. A quiet confidence. You notice it in the way they set a table, share a story, or reference a line from a novel that still lingers in your mind. They speak with intention. They make you feel included, not inferior. Their world feels considered, but never performative.

As Julian Fellowes once said:

“Good taste on the whole is a sort of co-worker with good manners… If your taste is grand, then it should be grand in a way that allows people who are not grand to appreciate the things you have. If it’s designed to make them feel small and obscure, then I don’t think that is good taste. I think that’s showing off.”

Exactly.

In this space, we’ll explore what it means to live a tasteful life—through the lens of fashion, travel, interiors, art, and cultural memory. We’ll go deeper than trends and peel back the layers of meaning, history, and emotion that shape a life well lived.

This is the beginning of a longer conversation—about cultivating elegance not as a performance, but as a practice. A way of moving through the world with discernment, curiosity, and heart.

Welcome to The Open Book—a journal for those who know that good taste is not about having everything. It’s about knowing what matters.

“Taste Notes: May 2025”

• Reading: Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

• Watch: John Galliano on System Stories

• Listening: Ralph’s New York

• Scent: Charlotte Tilbury “Magic Energy”

• Savor: Brightland Garlic Olive Oil “Rosette”