Since so many New Yorkers leave in summer, the city always has that back-to-school energy this time of year. We all return with a tan, a couple of stories, and an excitement (or dread) to begin a new school year. Except we’re in our 30s. I still buy new pens though.

Somewhere around Labor Day I drop back into my rituals: the workout schedule I abandoned back in July, the return to my early mornings, the big brainstorm day where I sketch out my professional plan for the next four months. January always feels like a new year made under duress: cold, dark, hungover. September feels earned. I’ve had the summer, I’ve made the mess, and now there’s real appetite to get back to work.

With that appetite comes fashion week, the return of the art world, and, as a stylist, a return to prepping clients for the new season. With fall right around the corner, I've been deep in seasonal styling prep for clients. I'm usually sourcing from all over the web, and lately that's meant using the Shop app instead of having a hundred open browser tabs. I posted a video about it here, and you can shop some of my favorite pieces here. Sponsored by Shop

Now onto this month’s recommendations. As always, The Edit is a monthly curation of everything I’ve been loving. Below you’ll find:

• Books that stacked my nightstand

• Art exhibitions in NYC I swooned over

• Home decor I’m inspired by

What I’m seeing:

The art world is famously quiet in August, and the fall season begins late this year with the Armory Show (New York’s international art fair) taking place the week of September 24th. Galleries typically open for the season about a week prior to the Armory, so mid-September will be prime time for a New York gallery crawl. I’m particularly excited for a few upcoming shows at Hauser & Wirth, as well as Jordan Wolfson at Gagosian, and Taryn Simon at the Guggenheim. If you want a fun and free evening activity, @thirstygallerina lists all the New York gallery openings by neighborhood, as well as which ones will be serving wine.

While it’s still nice out, may I also suggest doing a day at the Noguchi Museum in Astoria (my favorite place in New York), heading up to the Met Cloisters to enjoy their spectacular grounds, or spending an afternoon at The Frick Collection and hanging out in their perfect garden.

What I’m reading:

Good Material — Dolly Alderton
This is the last of my “fun beach read” recs before we move into fall. If you want something light and funny to squeeze in over the last few pool weekends, this is it. I laughed out loud multiple times.

The Woman Destroyed — Simone de Beauvoir
Famously in a 50-year open relationship with Jean-Paul Sartre, Beuvoir was a French existentialist, theorist, and feminist. In Woman Destroyed, she puts her theory into practice with stories of three women as their lives slowly unravel.

The Metamorphosis — Franz Kafka
A re-read for me (I may have recommended this a year ago). The Metamorphosis is one of those stories that everyone can relate to on some human level. It’s a classic, sobering story about transformation and its cost, and it felt right as we transition out of summer.

The Goldfinch — Donna Tartt
I fell in love with Donna Tartt after reading The Secret History this summer, and Goldfinch is her Pulirzer prize winning 800-page magnum opus. I’m only on page 30 (I have a habit of reading multiple books at once) but enough people have vouched for it that I feel confident recommending it anyway.

What I’m buying (home decor edition):

After running around outside all summer, September brings a return to nesting into my space. I’m five months into decorating my Brooklyn brownstone apartment, and below are a few pieces that have made it feel extra cozy.

My favorite room in the house is my reading nook. What was once an awkwardly shaped hallway has been transformed into a cozy corner to read books and listen to records. On the floor is a walnut Nordic Knots rug—expensive, I know, but if you’re someone who loves sitting on the floor, I think it’s worth it. The colors are also chef’s kiss.

Since the room is quite narrow, I was on the hunt for a vintage daybed forever, but couldn’t find anything that wasn’t dilapidated or stained. I ended up with the Fabienne Daybed from Lulu and Georgia. It has that vintage look while also being brand new and coming with white glove delivery (I have no idea how I thought I was going to carry a daybed up my stairs).

My record player sits on top of an antique cabinet I found on Facebook Marketplace. I love mixing new pieces with thrifted finds, and the trick to Marketplace is training your algorithm. Search and save your favorite design pieces, and it’ll quickly learn your taste and start delivering gold.

And of course, we can’t forget scent. I finally caved and got the Loewe tomato candle, but I also love Fig Tree from Diptyque. And resin incense sticks have become my replacement for Palo Santo, they burn longer and have a stronger throw.

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Until next time,

Lily

“I don’t really understand this place,” I replied.

“It will make sense once you leave.”

When I turned to look at her, she was gone.

Ibiza was a place I’d always scoffed and rolled my eyes at, mostly for its popularity and the mental image I had of makeup sliding off my face, drunk at a day party. At the same time, I knew if I ever found myself there I’d have a fucking blast.

The Ibiza invite came from Mr. Porter, who invited me to a leisurely lunch in partnership with Orlebar Brown.

*Orlebar Brown, by the way, makes the best men’s swimwear. Try these, these, and these and thank me later.

The first leg of the trip was with the Mr. Porter team, whom I adore and who made work feel like anything but work. I decided to extend my stay, turning the “work trip” into an eight day vacation that ended up teaching me an invaluable lesson on life, love, and beauty.

Maybe there is something to Ibiza, after all.

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If you follow me on Instagram, you saw one version of my trip: the glittering, sun-kissed, paella with a spritz version. What you didn’t see were the mishaps. The misfortunes. The phone call that landed like a bomb in the middle of the vacation.

It was day three. We were dressed for dinner, lying on top of the covers, ten minutes before we had to leave. Our phones were plugged into a shared outlet by the headboard, my cord stretched awkwardly across the bed because I always forget to bring my European adapter. But really, it’s because I know he will always remember to bring his.

And then the phone rang.

I’m not going to tell you the contents of the call (and don’t bother calling me after you read this, I won’t tell you), but it was the kind of phone call with bad news that you remember for the rest of your life.

We sat on the bed, the weight of the news sitting like a boulder between us. With his back against the headboard, he stared ahead at the empty TV screen. I stayed flat on my back, watching the ceiling fan go around. Neither of us moved for a long time.

Our reservation was forty minutes ago.

“We should go,” I said eventually.

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to be a little late,” he said into the phone as we waited downstairs for a cab that felt like it was never going to come. I rummaged through my purse and applied an expired lipstick I found in the bottom of my bag.

We rode silently to dinner, our bodies rattling in the backseats. I fixed my eyes out the window to stop myself from being sick. He sat with his forehead pressed against the driver’s headrest. Neither of us reached for the other.

The cab dropped us off a block from the restaurant, some town holiday had blocked off the street. We walked up a steep hill in silence, me struggling in my heels. By the time we reached the door, we had rearranged ourselves into a perfectly normal pair arriving fashionably late for dinner.

The host led us to our table. It was a charming little restaurant, with hanging lights in the backyard and a vibrant natural wine list. Cuuuute, I said in my California voice.

We fumbled through a painful dinner, rising every so often to comment on how lovely the wine was, how delicious the sourdough was, how cute the cat was that circled our feet, and then settled back into heavy silence.

Would we like to see the dessert menu? Yes, absolutely.

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That night set up the current we rode for the rest of the trip. Up, down. Up, down.

It was this is the worst day of my life, said earnestly out loud.

And then dancing on a table at Pacha until the sun came up, laughing in genuine joy and ecstasy.

It was him screaming FUCK and slamming his fist on the dashboard, the rental car mishap that was never really about the rental car.

And then sitting cliffside, salt water drying on my skin, at one of the most beautiful beaches I had ever seen.

It was hangovers. Wrong turns. Us, hungry and depleted, exchanging sour looks from under a restaurant awning on the one day it rained all year, both of us thinking the same thing and neither saying it.

And then it was us at 2 am, skinny dipping under the stars during the Lion’s Gate portal, stating our dreams and intentions into the night sky.

They say that Ibiza is an energy center. There are stories of sirens and UFO sightings, 19th century texts with accounts of celestial beings and spiritual portals.

But nothing felt spiritual about this trip.

Still, I was curious. I’m a sucker for anything woo-woo. In between courses at a beach lunch, I pulled my phone out of my bag and dove into Google.

Most of Ibiza’s spiritual mythology centers around Es Vedrà, a massive rock off the island’s coast. It’s what drew so many of the hippies over the decades. But Ibiza’s spiritual importance dates back thousands of years. In ancient Carthage, Es Vedrà was sacred to Tanit, the deity associated with fertility, war, dance, and feminine power. To this day, Tanit remains Ibiza’s spiritual matriarch.

I put my phone down.

“Did you know Ibiza is an energy center?” I said to him across the table as a waiter brought out a salted whole fish.

He shook his head. “Of course it is,” he said sarcastically. “The weirdest cosmic shit happens on our trips together.”

As a cosmic girlie, I took that as a compliment and put away my phone.

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We extended our trip an extra two days to stay for the solar eclipse. He had organized for us to watch the eclipse at Silencio, a beach club on the island’s west coast with a small cove that gets a view of the sunset every night. We’d be able to watch the eclipse right as the sun went down.

I was treading water when it started. The moon, low on the horizon, began sliding over the sun. The light in the sky slowly began to dim. Day was turning into night.

Everyone on the beach went quiet: the crowd sitting on the shore, the groups scattered on the rocks, us bobbing in the ocean. All of us watching the same sky.

And then it went dark. Totality. Everything was silent except the water lapping against my chest and a boat rocking somewhere in the distance.

Slowly, the moon crept its way across, and sunlight poured back onto the beach. Cheers and whistles flew into the sky. I looked back at the shore, everyone cheering with joy and disbelief.

In astrology, the sun is identity. The self. Masculine, yang. The moon is the unconscious, the inner world. Feminine, yin. During a solar eclipse, the moon passes in front of the sun, and for a moment, the subconscious obscures the identity. The ego gets eclipsed.

It was our last night in Ibiza. And if that wasn’t a metaphor for the whole thing, I don’t know what is.

After a long dinner and a one hour drive back across the island, we got back to our hotel around 1am and began packing. I piled my clothes into my suitcase, sandy shoes alongside wet bathing suits, shoving everything down with my hand. I watched as he carefully folded each shirt, every swimsuit fully dried and tucked into a corner.

I draped myself onto my mound of clothes and pulled out my phone. It was 3am. An Instagram Reel appeared on my feed informing me there was a meteor shower tonight.

So we did the only reasonable thing two exhausted, salty people with an early morning flight would do: we left our suitcases open on the floor and walked down to the beach to watch the meteor shower.

We found a rock formation just off the shore and climbed onto it, laying down on our backs, shoulders touching.

The first shooting star came quickly. Then another. And another.

“Did you make a wish!” I said every time.

Every time he said, “No.”

We lied there, counting each shooting star out loud, until our eyes grew heavy and the rock began leaving a dent in our back.

It wasn’t until I was home, unpacked and back in my own bed, that I understood what the trip had actually been trying to teach me.

It wasn’t about the bad. Or about the good. It was about the ability to hold both fully and individually. It was about the ability to receive bad news, and in the same breath, dance until the sun comes up, relish in beauty, enjoy good food.

The bad doesn’t ruin the good, and the good doesn’t erase the bad. They just eclipse each other, sharing the same sky.

Until next time,

Lily

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It’s been last minute trips to the Hamptons, swimming topless in pools and dancing until the sun comes up. It’s been sleepovers at my best friend’s house and prank calling everyone in our contacts list like we’re pre-pubescent again. It’s been backyard parties and Slip-N-Slides and drinking coffee on my fire escape.

July has been hosting dinner parties, cigarettes on Brooklyn stoops, and seeing someone who is so far from checking off the boxes on “my list” that it’s making me reframe my list entirely.

It’s been cozy and local, and all the while I’ve been quietly plucking away at my novel. I’m on draft three, which is the “line edit.” Meaning, the story is on the page and now I get to paint with words and tinker with sentences. Which I do for an hour every morning before starting the workday.

Life is simple and precious and sweet.

Now onto this month’s recommendations. As always, The Edit is a monthly curation of everything I’ve been loving. Below you’ll find:

• The films that left an impact

• Books that stacked my nightstand

• Art exhibitions in NYC I swooned over

What I’m reading:

The Secret History — Donna Tartt
This is going into my “favorite books of all time” list. Maybe I’m biased because it reminds me of my college experience at Sarah Lawrence. Or because I would totally join an Ancient Greek quasi-cult. But it’s an amazing book if you like dark academia.

Flesh — David Szalay
Flesh is a sparse, slightly brutal portrait of a man’s life. The writing is cold and controlled, so perhaps not for everyone, but it was this year’s Booker prize winner for a reason.

Lost Lambs — Madeline Cash
Funny, sharp, and strange, Lost Lambs is a story about a family coming apart at the seams. I won’t say I loved this book, but Cash’s voice is reason enough to put it on the list. It’s a solid beach read that you’ll likely laugh out loud a few times.

The Language of Limbs — Dylin Hardcastle
A sweeping, lyrical novel about queerness and womanhood spanning the 70s and 80s through the AIDS crisis. The book moves like water. And though it’s a bit devastating at times, the novel’s oceanic quality keeps it poetic and beautiful.

The Big Leap — Gay Hendricks
This one’s a self-help book. (I like to read something informative in the morning and fiction at night). It’s about the idea that we sabotage our own success and happiness once we hit an internal ceiling of how good we think life is allowed to get. Worth it if you’ve ever caught yourself doing that.

What I’m watching:

Pierrot le Fou
My favorite Godard film. I watched Pierrot le Fou for the first time in college, when we were learning about French New Wave. And this one stuck with me. From the color scheme to the romance to the absurdity, the film feels like summer in the best way.

A Bigger Splash
Another summer banger. Tilda Swinton, a villa in Sicily, and a group of beautiful people slowly destroying each other over a sun-drenched weekend—sounds like a Luca Guadagnino film to me! (It is)

Trainspotting
A grimy, kinetic film about a group of heroin addicts in Edinburgh. Sounds bleak, I know, but Ewan McGregor’s monologue and the style inspo alone is worth the watch.

Pillion
A queer romance about a shy man pulled into a BDSM biker gang. Not for everyone, but there’s something tender about it. Plus, two hours of Alexander Skarsgård looking sexy never killed anyone.

Call Me By Your Name
My annual summer rewatch. I don't think I'll ever tire of it. It's the ache of first love and the way certain summers change you forever. Plus, the dad’s monologue at the end is worth the annual reminder.

What I’m seeing:

Ok, I’ll be honest. I haven’t seen much art this month. Maybe it’s moving to Brooklyn that has me wandering around the city less. Or maybe it’s the season. Instead, here’s a list of gallery shows I intended on going to, that are running into August as well.

New Humans: Memories of the Future — The New Museum
This one I actually did see. The recently renovated New Museum has finally reopened, and the current exhibition traces the anxiety of technology and what counts as “human.” It’s unsettling, and a little overstuffed, but very of the moment. Through August 9

Botero in New York — Sotheby's
Sotheby's first single-artist show at its Breuer building spotlights Fernando Botero's formative years living in Greenwich Village in the 60s. There are more than 20 paintings and sculptures pulled straight from the Botero family archive, some never before shown publicly. Through September 7

Tarot! Renaissance Symbols, Modern Visions — The Morgan Library
The Morgan Library is one of my favorite spaces in New York City. So even if you don’t care about Tarot, it’s worth a visit to the library regardless if you’ve never been. This two-part exhibition traces tarot from its origins to its adoption by Surrealists and contemporary artists. Through October 4

clinamen — Park Avenue Armory
French artist Céleste Boursier-Mougenot fills the Armory with massive pools of water and hundreds of drifting ceramic bowls that chime as they collide — part sound sculpture, part meditation chamber. Go in the late afternoon and just sit with it for twenty minutes. Through August 9

Giacometti in the Temple of Dendur — The Met
Seventeen Giacometti sculptures installed in and around the Met’s Temple of Dendur, in dialogue with the ancient Egyptian art that shaped his vision. We love Giacometti! Through September 8

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Until next time,

Lily

Yes, I’m a bandwagon fan.

My friend got us a table at Gus and Marty’s, a delicious little Greek restaurant in Williamsburg. Small wooden tables lined the sidewalk, and a TV on wheels had been rolled out onto the street. The air was thick and humid. A waiter poured chilled orange wine into our empty glasses, condensation dripping down the side of the bottle.

The outdoor tables were piled with people. Friends flowed in and out. Everyone’s seat pointed the same direction: towards the TV. People passing on the sidewalk stopped and lingered in front of the screen. Cabs pulled over to check the score.

“This is so cute,” I said, cutting into a spinach pie, my eyes on the screen. “I love sports!”

As the game went on, I found myself leaning forward, more and more invested. I cheered with my fellow diners at every score, and hung my head when things weren’t looking good. I couldn’t tell you why I cared. This game did not affect my life in any way. But I had a feeling it was about something more than just basketball.

I’m not going to pretend to remember the score, and I’m not going to pull the stats, but I remember the final quarter feeling like the whole city was collectively holding its breath.

Someone at my table noticed that the television inside was a few seconds ahead, so we abandoned our plates and wine glasses and moved inside. I stood behind two older women who were seated at the bar, so close I could smell their shampoo. One of them turned and smiled at me. I smiled back.

By the final minutes, every outdoor diner had pushed inside, and the whole restaurant was on its feet.

In the last minute, Brunson floated the ball into the basket, and the Knicks won.

The entire restaurant erupted. The entire city erupted. A symphony of screams, cries and laughter. I jumped into my friend’s arms and screamed we did it—sarcastically, of course, but also with a tear rolling down my face.

The group poured onto the sidewalk. Cheers and honks echoed through the streets. I returned to our table to find a gay couple finishing off our wine straight from the bottle and sharing a sloppy kiss.

We quickly paid our bill and I kissed the restaurant owner on each cheek. We ran through the streets, four blocks to Bedford Avenue.

The avenue had already exploded into celebration. Fireworks flew into the sky. Bodies filled the streets. People swung from traffic lights and climbed onto street signs. Everywhere I looked someone was dancing, laughing, or screaming Let’s fucking go!

Firetrucks pushed through the crowd, honking in celebration. Firemen leaned their bodies out the window, exchanging hugs and high fives. Groups of friends climbed onto the truck’s roof, removing their shirts and swinging it above their heads. Policemen and young kids exchanged hugs. Old bodega owners stepped out from their shops. In a city of eight million people, it felt like every single one of them was outside, celebrating a win the city has been waiting for for fifty-three years.

I finally got home around two in the morning (by way of a forty-five minute bike ride because car and subway seemed impossible), and went to bed feeling like I had just been a part of something bigger than a basketball game, even if I couldn’t yet say what.

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I spent the next morning in bed, doing my standard hangover social media scroll. My entire feed was videos from last night. Mamdani dancing in the crowd with a jersey over his suit. Teenagers helping garbage men clean up as dawn broke. I watched footage of the same celebration on a West Village corner from six different vantage points. Then I stumbled upon a post about collective effervescence and hit the save button.

“Collective Effervescence,” the post explained, “is what happens when thousands or millions of people experience the same emotion at the same time.” That harmony, that shared feeling of joy, belonging, and togetherness, is what we all felt last night.

The term, coined by French sociologist Émile Durkheim, explains the transformative effect of millions of people gathering around something larger than themselves.

I scrolled past another post: “You don’t care about sports, you care about community.” I forwarded it to my girlfriend, the one whose arms I jumped into last night. She responded immediately. I was literally just about to send you this. Next message: Also, my head hurts.

I never expected sports to be the way in which I experience community in such a large scale. For those few hours last night, politics, age, income, and background didn’t matter. Sanitation workers danced alongside investment bankers, and for one night it felt like we were all a part of something together.

I realized how hungry I was for that feeling of togetherness. I also realized that, aside from sports, I couldn’t think of a single place in which society can come together in that same way. It’s not religion. It’s certainly not politics. In a world so isolated, so uncertain, can sports save humanity? I say that half-joking. But I also may not be joking at all.

A couple weeks passed, and I had more or less forgotten about this question. Until one afternoon I was walking with a friend down the streets of midtown Manhattan. We had just gone to the spa, and we were headed to Grand Central to take the 6 train downtown to grab a bite.

We were walking down 43rd street, where we saw a crowd of people gathered outside a sports bar, watching a World Cup game through the window. I grabbed his elbow and pulled him into the crowd. His eyes were on the screen. Mine were on the people. Gathered on the sidewalk were traveling families on vacation. Men in suits on their lunch break. Old couples. New York City kids holding their bicycles. Italians. Indians. Europeans. A homeless man scanning the floor for cigarette buds. The crowd was so diverse, I couldn’t guess who everyone was rooting for.

Suddenly, everyone on the sidewalk started clapping.

I looked up at my friend and said, “Who’s playing?”

Until next time,

Lily

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There were nine of us on the boat. Two Italians, three Brits, a couple from Hong Kong, and two Americans, one of them being myself.

It was the second day of a press trip (hosted generously by Mr Porter and Zegna), and we were on our way to lunch on a tiny island in the middle of the sea.

On the boat ride to lunch, I found myself watching the Italian couple. The husband, who must have been in his forties with long salt and pepper hair, stood on the side of the boat in silence, his eyes closed, his face turned to the wind. His wife found her perch on the sundeck and immediately stripped down to a bikini, smiling up at the sun. I followed suit, crumpling my dress in my bag and pulling a straw hat over my eyes.

On the ride out, the Italian couple were the only ones not making conversation, not taking photos, just looking over at one another and exchanging the occasional glittering smile.

For an hour we rode through open turquoise waters, passing jutting rock formations and dramatic coastlines. Finally, we arrived at a tiny island surrounded by crystal-clear water. On the top of the hill was a small white fisherman’s house where lunch was to be held. The boat anchored and a small tender picked us up and drove us three minutes to the island.

Three hours passed at lunch. After fresh shrimp and salad and white fish and gelato and cake and wine and cigars and espresso, we returned to the small platform to get back on the boat. Our group of nine was standing on the platform, our bags at our feet, as the tender boat pulled up to the dock.

I saw limbs moving at the edge of my vision and looked behind me. The Italian couple was removing their clothes, undressing into their swimsuits. The wife pulled a pair of goggles out of her bag, looping one around her neck and handing the other to her husband.

“Do you mind bringing our bags onto the boat?” she said to the attendant. “We’re going to swim there.”

The attendant nodded.

And then they both dove into the sea. I stood on the platform watching their arms lap against the water until their heads became small on the horizon.

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It wasn’t the swim itself that stayed with me. It was the goggles.

It struck me that my bag had always been packed in anticipated inconvenience. In preparation for what might go wrong—sunscreen, chargers, Advil, cameras, battery packs. They packed for anticipated delight. Because of course they’d swim to the boat. Why wouldn’t they?

There’s a phrase in Italian, dolce far niente, which translates to “the sweetness of doing nothing.” Nothing is something Italians do quite well.

As a traveler, I must admit I romanticize this notion. The long lunches. The afternoon naps. The lingering espressos. I fly across oceans for the chance to give myself permission to enjoy life the way Italians do. To experience pleasure without the burden of feeling like it needs to be earned.

But there’s nothing exotic or extraordinary about dolce far niente. It’s simply…existing. It’s presence without guilt or permission. It’s not doom-scrolling. Not bed rotting. It’s not active recovery or cold plunging or a yoga class. It’s nourishment. Nourishment in the nothingness.

When the press trip ended, a friend and I flew to Sicily to spend a week with no agenda.

We stayed in a boutique hotel perched on the edge of a cliff, a 19th-century mansion that was converted to a hotel in the early 1900s. It was here where we spent a week doing absolutely nothing.

It was just:

Eating a peach in a hot car, my hands wet and sticky.

Salt drying on my shoulders after a swim.

The sound of a man sweeping the sidewalk outside his shop.

Looking someone in the eyes and telling them, I’m having a really nice time.

Lingering beachgoers in the 6pm sun, no one in a hurry to leave.

An afternoon espresso.

My bikini hanging from a clothesline.

The towel that never fully dries.

A cigarette passed back and forth across the table between courses.

Gelato on my chin.

Winding coastal roads, my head out the passenger window, watching the full moon follow us home.

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And now I sit here in Brooklyn, back at my little neighborhood cafe, with a fading tan and a Sicilian pendant around my neck, thinking about becoming the kind of woman who packs a pair of goggles in her purse. The kind who plans ahead for joy.

I’m writing an essay about doing nothing. Which feels like a very American thing to do.

Until next time,

Lily

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The below menswear guide is for

• The man who needs to refresh their summer wardrobe

• The girlfriend shopping for a man in her life

• The last minute Father’s Day scramble

If you still haven’t gotten something for your dad for Father’s Day (hello my fellow procrastinators!) fear not, everything below is available for next-day shipping. And if you’re in NYC, same-day delivery is on the table. Which means if you order by 10am, you can have it wrapped by dinner.

Let’s get into it.

SHIRTS + TEES

Every man needs a white linen button down. I love this dark brown as well. This embroidered neutral long sleeve is great for easy dinners, and the Orlebar Brown blue striped number is a fun splash of color.

Good tees are a non negotiable. May I recommend getting one in white, brown, and cream.

SHORTS

To the men who refuse to wear shorts in summer…you’re missing out. These long army green shorts are amazing, as are these brown pleated pair. You can’t go wrong with an everyday black pair or slightly dressier cream. And these navy pathworks are so fun!

TROUSERS

White wide leg trousers are a must for summer. As is black. For neutrals, I love these ATON light brown trousers, or a slightly more formal pleated cream.

SUMMER SHOES

For sandals, I’m loving brown fisherman or black leather. You can’t go wrong with espadrilles. And white sneakers are a must for travel days.

LIGHTWEIGHT OUTERWEAR

For summer nights, I love this linen blend double breasted blazer, which also comes as a suit. If you’re willing to splurge, this STÒFFA brown blazer is to die for. Or perhaps this lightweight overshirt to layer over a tee.

ACCESSORIES

Summer is the time to have fun with accessories! A bandana is great worn around the neck or wrapped around the head for beach days. You can’t go wrong with stacking a few beaded bracelets. And maybe it’s time to treat yourself to a pair of Jacques Marie Mage sunglasses?!

Happy summering,

Lily

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Today's conversation is with Julian, a former New York club kid but a forever party animal. Julian shares what it was like to party professionally, and makes a case for the unexpected sanctity in having a good time.

Lily: Ok so, what is the definition of a club kid?

Julian: The idea of a club kid more accurately is referring to a very specific subculture in the early to mid 90s in New York City. It was this time of booming economy and lots of decadence and nightlife happening. These groups of people, mostly queer people, would come out and dress up in wild outfits that they had made. There was this aesthetic blurring the lines of grotesque and sexual. And obviously blurring gender lines.

I was more of a second wave club kid. Similarly you had a really booming economy. Clubs, instead of funneling all their money into hiring models or celebrities, would hire these kids who made crazy outfits. A lot of them were fashion students or just had crazy personalities. They’d give them free liquor and 150 bucks a night to show up places and make the environment more lively.

Lily: How did you get into this? How did it start?

Julian: I’ve always wanted to be amongst the most interesting things happening where I am. I’ve lived in a lot of places: New York, Rio, Prague, Melbourne, New Orleans, Los Angeles, Chicago.

Also, my parents are big party animals.

Lily: Oh, interesting.

Julian: It’s been a burning desire throughout life.

Lily: Wait, why? Do you know?

Julian: Did you see Inside Out 2?

Lily: The movie about the emotions? Yes.

Julian: There’s this concept in the second movie where core facets of [the girl’s] personality are related to core memories. So for me, my parents would take us to this wild dance party every New Year’s. It was very multi-generational. Bassinets next to the DJ booth vibe.

Lily: Wait, where are you from?

Julian: I was born in Indianapolis, but I grew up in a very bohemian hippie art bubble. A bit of a hippie commune.

Lily: Okay, love. Go on.

Julian: So anyway, I was probably 5 or 6. I don’t remember the party, but I remember coming home from the dance party on that New Year’s, and it being 4 in the morning and laying on my bed and just feeling so satisfied. Like, I danced to every song. I killed that party. That core memory made me want to party.

I had been living in Brazil, and I came back to New York in 2015. I wanted to buckle down here and meet a lot of friends. So I started going out.

Lily: Did someone recruit you? Or was it a natural formulation until you’re like, oh, this is what I do now.

Julian: Into the financial aspect of it?

Lily: Yeah. Was that a big part of it or not really?

Julian: Oh, definitely. It was my main source of income for periods of time.

I was offered the job and it seemed like a great way to make money. I was going out anyway. So it became a pretty easy transition. I wasn’t so good at it, honestly. I think I put too much effort into it. I would dress up so much.

Lily: The photos are amazing, though. I can’t believe you’re at the club in some of these outfits.

Julian: Oh, I love a creative prompt. But I think I cared too much. I’d want everyone to be having fun. I’d be trying to coordinate with staff to make sure alcohol delivery was better and that everyone was feeling well taken care of. I think the people who were really good at it didn’t really care. They just treated it like any other party that they went to and didn’t even think about it as a job. I think in some ways my manic work ethic made me not very good at it.

Lily: That’s so funny. It’s also interesting that you viewed the partying space as such an expansive and empowering space to be in. Partying, especially now, can have such a bad rap. But it sounds like it really filled your cup in the best way.

Julian: Yeah, the idea that partying is shallow or vapid or escapist or whatever. That’s always a little bit true. But the other truth is, what else are we here for? We’re supposed to dance around fires and play drums. This is the way that we build community. These are ancient rituals. Mating dances, witchcraft, church and prayer — these collective unconscious group identities are what we are trying to form all the time. For me, as a generationally secular person, a party always seemed like the best one. It had the best politics. The most interesting people.

Lily: I love that framing so much.

Julian: It’s not an inherently ethical act, but I push back on anyone saying that it’s inherently unethical. The aesthetics have changed a bit, but it is the most ancient ritual that humans engage in, in a lot of ways.

Lily: We have forgotten how to have a good time. It’s kind of depressing.

Julian: Play is really important too. Maybe I tend to over-holisticize, to make up a word, some of it. I’ll read an article and I’m like, “Oh, psilocybin reduces the signs of aging? I knew it.” That’s why I’ve been doing it every week for 15 years!

Lily: [Laughs] Totally. The club kid is a really interesting role because you’re kind of at the intersection of art, fashion, nightlife, performance, self-invention. I find myself comparing it to, which seems like polar opposites, inviting models into a club. Who sit there, look pretty and do the opposite of perform.

Julian: Well, there’s a performance to that too, you know?

Lily: That’s so true.

Julian: Some of my favorite artists, party animals, and people are models.

Lily: I guess the performance for them is to be an object. At times a sexual object.

Julian: The club kid aesthetic isn’t particularly sexy, you know.

Lily: The schizophrenic clown you told me about earlier? Yeah, maybe not.

Julian: A lot of the style is intentionally grotesque. That’s where a lot of the fun and catharsis comes from. But yeah, it didn’t necessarily lend itself to bankers wanting to pay a lot of money to fuck people.

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Lily: Where are you living during this? Where were you going home to?

Julian: My longest stint in this time period was pretty wild. I lived at this quote-unquote “art co-op” at Myrtle and Broadway. We had one window in the kitchen. There were like between 8 and 11 of us living there.

Lily: That’s exactly what I envisioned.

Julian: It was definitely a chaotic living space — domestic violence, rats, cockroaches, fights and feuds — but it was very interesting.

Lily: It is interesting. These kids are not making a ton of money, but then you enter this small world and you’re a spectacle. What was that dynamic like?

Julian: There was certainly a level of exploitation there; but at the same time, it was a space where a working class Black trans creative from the Bronx could gain status and money simply by being fabulous.

Lily: Were you awake during the daytime? What were you doing in daylight hours?

Julian: Mmm. No. I have a very outdoorsy aspect to my personality that does require being out during the day. But I think during that period, 2015 to 2019, I was mostly nocturnal. I was left to my own devices. I would wake up at 5 or 6 PM, eat a burrito, and start getting ready.

Lily: Wow, how was your mental health?

Julian: I’ve always eaten pretty healthily and I’ve always slept enough. I’m definitely a drug enjoyer, but I never had a serious addiction. I had moments that weren’t great, but I think it was pretty fine.

When I look around at others, I feel like people’s mental health is pretty, you know, it’s pretty much who you are. We sometimes try to justify people’s negative mental health by blaming them and their behavior. But I think that I’m always going to be a B+. No matter how good or how bad things get. It’s still going to be a B+. That’s luck. That has nothing to do with my actions.

Lily: You think it’s just luck? The amount to which we are capable of feeling good?

Julian: I think that ultimately humans are a combination of genetics and in-utero circumstance that we are then birthed into. A world that we’re constantly reacting to. I think that’s true of all animals.

Lily: Right.

Julian: I kind of don’t believe in free will, I guess, as a concept. You are who you are, you know?

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Lily: I was at Library 180 earlier today, a reference library of old archival magazines. I was looking at photography books from New York in the 70s and 80s. Nightlife was such a part of culture in New York. I don’t know if that exists now.

Julian: I don’t know, right? Who knows how we’ll decide to be nostalgic about this time period.

Lily: So true.

Julian: We look back and point to these places like Tunnel or Studio 54. Media was gatekept by specific people. Richard Avedon taking photos. We can look back and be like, oh my God, this looked amazing. But if you look at Instagram photos with terrible filters of Flash Factory, it’s not going to hold. It’s not as curated. Not as beautiful.

I will say that I really wish more clubs had no-phone policies. I think it really helps everything.

Lily: Totally agree. So do you think this nightlife world exists now?

Julian: I think it does. We just don’t know about it. Or we’d go and wouldn’t like it. I don’t necessarily have the same amount of fun at those parties that I would have when I was 25.

As far as nightlife in general, what’s happening now is a whole different scale. Sweaty castles in deep bum-fuck Brooklyn, full of 5,000 of the most beautiful people of all varieties dancing for 28 hours. It’s on such a larger, grander level now. It’s also a lot more egalitarian. The model of making everyone pay 30 bucks is so much better than relying on some investment banker to pay for everyone there, you know?

Lily: Wait, tell me where this is happening. I want to go.

Julian: I’ll tell you off the record.

Lily: Ha. Okay, fair. What do you think contributed to the success of the club kid’s second wave?

Julian: The success of the second movement relied so much on the community’s OGs. Icons and elders who were still involved in it. Amanda Lepore, Richie Rich, Sophia Lamar. I think that holding respect and space for the older icons in the community, instead of trying to make it all a bunch of early-20s people, was important. If we looked back and it was a bunch of white NYU students, it would look like the tackiest thing ever.

Lily: [Laughs] Totally.

Julian: But since we can look back on this group of people from around the world, who are all beautiful in different ways — fat, skinny, buff, seventeen to seventy-five — it makes it a lot more beautiful and genuine. It feels more like an actual tribal coming together of all these weirdos.

Lily: It harks back to your upbringing. Having multi-generations of families having a good time together. Which is my favorite part of this conversation — your framing of partying. The fact that it’s so communal and cathartic. It’s a spiritual experience for you.

I’ll go to Kundalini or a ballet class or SoulCycle searching for that feeling of completely letting go, being embraced and embracing the people around you.

Julian: Humans have a need for revelry and group identity and catharsis and ritual. I think nightlife is a great source of all those things. I was listening to this music writer for the New York Times talk about Taylor Swift. She was saying what made a Taylor Swift concert so meaningful for so many people is that you have these issues — unrequited love, someone cheated on you, or whatever. And then you go into a stadium of like 100,000 people who are all singing about it with you. And that being a really therapeutic, quasi-religious experience.

Music, lights, dance, people around you, sex. We’re all just trying to beat drums around a fire.

Lily: I fucking love that.

Julian writes about art, nightlife, and debauchery on his recently launched Substack. You can also find his podcast Slut Talk there too.

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Until next time,

Lily

Summer is my favorite season but ironically my least favorite time to be in New York. Once the weather starts to heat up, I begin to …

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“I’ve been wanting to write this short story for years,” he told me, scooping up a chunk of gruyere cheese. “But I can’t get myself to start the first page.”

“Why not?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I’m lazy.”

I watched him carefully twist the melted cheese around his fork.

“You’re not lazy,” I said to him. “You’re scared.”

I’ve been thinking about fear a lot lately.

For the past six months, I’ve been on my own internal expedition to locate the root of my fears. I’ve always known I’ve had them. We all do. But I didn’t know what exactly what mine were.

I was at dinner the week prior with my friend Jess. We agreed to describe each other in five words. Her words for me were: fun, sparkly, thoughtful, chic, and hesitant.

Hesitation.

I was impressed that she was so perceptive to see this. The way I charge toward something, but skid my heels to a stop the moment I actually approach it.

Coincidentally, this has been what I’ve been working on internally for the past six months. Wanting to understand why I hit the wall, and how to run through it. Or climb over.

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Throughout the years of becoming an adult, I’ve slapped on layers of thick and sloppy avoidance, which made the root of my fear impossible to see. It also meant that accessing it involved months of ruthless and messy digging. And I haven’t even hit the bottom yet.

As I’ve been thinking about my own fears, I’ve started to see it in others. I’m starting to believe that fear is the root of most of our adult neurosis.

The anxious dater fears being abandoned.

The avoidant one is afraid of the pain that comes with losing someone, and avoids it altogether.

The artist who's reluctant to show their work is afraid of being seen.

The one who never starts the project is scared of failure.

The person who edits themselves before they speak is afraid their full selves will drive people away.

The person who keeps themselves perpetually busy is afraid of what they'll find in the quiet.

The one who spends forty minutes editing a caption and never posts it is afraid of the judgment that comes from being witnessed.

The one who never asks for help is afraid that needing something makes them a burden.

The one who holds back from their own financial success believes that they’re not worthy of it. Or maybe they learned that people with money are bad, and deep down believe that if they become successful they will become bad too.

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It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to understand that the root of our fears come from childhood. We know this. What we are not aware of, however, is the ways in which we run on autopilot as adults, protecting a wound that was punctured thirty years ago.

We walk around protecting an outdated program. Telling ourselves we’re “not a writer” or “bad with money” because it gets us off the hook faster. We chalk it up to bad luck or being lazy. Shrug and move on.

I’m not going to pretend to know how to write a prescription on how to locate and overcome your fears, but I can share how I’ve begun to access mine. (Work in progress)

The Body Sends Cues

This was the doorway in for me. I found that my body was sending signals that my conscious brain wasn’t aware of. Whenever I got close to a moment of vulnerability, there was a tightness in my chest. The sudden urge to flee. My breath would shallow. My neck would suddenly tense up. I started tracking when these physical sensations would arise. They were my clues.

It’s also what led me to somatic therapy. (I have my first session this week!) Your mind can intellectualize something away. Your body can’t.

Avoidance

Avoidance looks different for everyone. It can be the urge to abandon a project. Or not wanting to start it altogether. It can be cutting a vulnerable moment down with a joke, picking unavailable partners, or over-filling your calendar. When you notice the sensations and sit with them instead of avoiding, now we’re getting somewhere.

Locating the Scene of the Crime

This one is still tricky for me. But locating the original moment, likely in childhood, can be the key to unlocking this whole thing.

The child who got laughed at during a school play. The boy who watched his parents fight about money every night at dinner. The girl who needed something and was told “you’re fine.” The child who was the peacekeeper in a chaotic house. The teenager who got excited about a dream and was shut down by a parent or teacher. These are all examples of a specific moment where that fear got hardwired in, and we spend the rest of our lives protecting it.

For me personally, locating exact memories has been challenging. My memory is foggy (protection!). But I’ve been able to get close to it through talk therapy, analyzing my dreams, free journaling, and psychedelics. It’s for this reason that I’m venturing into somatic therapy, in hopes that my body will reveal information my brain is protecting me from.

Naming it

Everything has more power in the dark. Sometimes just naming the fear out loud—to a friend, family member, your dog—can loosen the grip. Shame thrives in secrecy.

Perhaps at this point of the essay you are saying to yourself, “Okay, Lily, you’ve danced around it enough. Now you name your fear.” And to that I say: “I don’t know exactly what it is yet.” I’m still in the process of dragging mine into the light.

Rewiring

I’m going to be honest I haven’t gotten to this part yet. But based on the books I’ve read and the podcasts I’ve listened to, the next step is in revisiting the scene of the original wounding. To bring your adult self back in that moment and give the child something they didn’t get: a witness, a protector, an ally, etc. This can be done through visualization, therapy, or journaling/writing a letter to your younger self.

I don’t think the goal is to never be afraid. I wish that was what healing looked like—that one day I’d wake up and move through the world open, free, and with a neck that never got tense.

But I don’t know if the fear ever fully leaves. Maybe it does? That would be nice.

Maybe it’s just your relationship to it that changes. Maybe it’s feeling the tightness in your chest before you hit post, before you say the vulnerable thing out loud, and doing it anyway.

What’s that quote on Instagram? Feel the fear and do it anyway?

Maybe it’s just doing the scary thing, and seeing that you’re ok on the other side, regardless of the outcome.

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

Until next time,

Lily

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I think that’s why I actually have cool style. (Self proclaimed)

I’m a men’s personal stylist and fashion influencer, and have been for over a decade. It’s literally my job to teach people how to dress, but the irony is, I don’t think style can be taught. And I definitely don’t think it can be bought.

The most stylish people I know are not in the fashion industry. And they’re definitely not on Pinterest searching for fashion inspo. Here are a few of them:

I don’t think he even realizes it, but my friend Andrew shows up in an impeccable outfit every time I see him. An avant-garde horror director and cinephile, his style reflects his love for the genre. Lots of leather, texture, and, unsurprisingly, a lot of black.

Cheryl, a corporate consultant who doubles as a bassist in a rock band on the weekends, has been rocking the indie-sleaze look before Vogue named it a trend. Her love of music, and her insane vinyl collection, shows up in her style.

Then there’s the fisherman who sits at the end of the dock in Red Hook. He’s always in beat up work boots and layers of old tattered textiles. He has no idea he looks like a Greg Lauren s/s 2016 runway model.

Your style is a byproduct of your life. You can’t buy it, but you can develop it by exposing yourself to things that have nothing to do with your clothes.

It was a Thursday afternoon and I had a handful of events I’d RSVP’d to. The first two were fashion events, followed by a gallery opening and an interior design event.

At the fashion events, everyone’s style was…fine. I wasn’t shocked by this. I’ve grown accustomed to being unimpressed with the style of most fashion influencers, and I seldom find myself inspired by someone “in the fashion industry.”

The crowd at the art and design events was a different story entirely. In those rooms, people had style. Unconventional, weird, inspiring, highly personal style.

Why do the people in fields outside of fashion dress so much better than those within it? Why is it that in a room full of fashion influencers, most of them look like a cheap replica of a Pinterest photo? Why does my yoga teacher’s outfit inspire me more than the girl next to me with half a million Instagram followers?

I realized that style doesn’t have anything to do with fashion. It’s an external manifestation of your internal consumption. It comes from the art you gravitate towards, the music you listen to, the places you travel to, the books you read.

Maybe that's why the style of someone who hasn't developed a point of view yet falls flat. When your outfit comes from an algorithm, a trend, or a screenshot of something you saw online, there's nothing behind it. The clothes can be good, but it’s somehow hollow and uninspiring.

This is something I think about a lot when clients come to me hoping to discover their own personal style. How do you teach that? Where does it come from?

A guy who goes to art galleries develops a visual literacy that shows up in how he puts an outfit together, even if he never consciously thinks about fashion.

To have good style you need to have a point of view. To have a point of view, you need to develop personal taste. To develop personal taste, you need to consume culture.

There’s an input/output equation that happens in the creation of personal style.

I do most of my reading at night, usually something Russian or literary fiction with a sharp and biting protagonist who doesn’t shy away from ruthless honesty. On weekends, I visit galleries and find myself drawn to artists who work from the shadow side of consciousness: Basquiat, Schiele, Bacon, Rothko. When I travel, I gravitate toward coastlines, the kind with dense fog and a tumultuous sea. I come alive at rock shows that embrace rebellion. I blast The Strokes, The Ramones, and The Cure on vinyl in my living room.

None of this is about clothes. But all of it shows up in my style. The messy haircut and smudged black eyeliner. The monochrome, the leather, the distressing. The pull toward designers like Ann Demeulemeester, Rick Owens, Haider Ackermann.

When I onboard a new styling client, my first questions have nothing to do with clothes. I want to understand who they are, what they’re into, what inspires them. Where do they travel? What makes them unique? How are they weird?

The goal isn’t to dress like someone with taste. It’s to become someone with taste. Everything else is what follows.

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I don’t know what the word actually means (allegedly it is: existence or experience beyond the normal or physical level) but this is my definition.

An excerpt from my journal:

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I went to bed that night feeling like I had made some sort of grand discovery. Like I had unlocked a part of myself I never knew how to put into words.

The next morning I woke up and set out for a day of transcendence.

It’s tempting to blame the city for its lack of options—New York isn’t exactly synonymous with spiritual connection. But you can create moments of transcendence in a major city, you just have to work a little bit harder.

I took the subway uptown. It was snowing. The first of three major snow storms that winter.

The snow slapped against my face as I walked three avenues from the 92nd street station to Cooper Hewitt. When I arrived at the museum, I shook layers of snow off my trench and clunked my combat boots together and walked inside.

Built in the late 1800’s, Cooper Hewitt is a 64 room mansion that was turned into a museum. With wood paneling, ornate details, and a grand staircase, stepping into the space is its own kind of spiritual experience.

I found my way to the listening room—the destination of this morning’s snowy schlep. Devon Turnbull, a legendary audiophile, built a HiFi listening room inside the museum. I had seen it on TikTok and saved it to go one of these days. It was even more beautiful in person.

On a little wheeled stool, Devon quietly plucked through his record collection and placed records onto the turntable, turning knobs with his back to the room.

I sat in a windowsill with my head leaned against the glass. For four hours, I listened to Devon play records while watching snow fall onto Central Park.

The room was lined with massive speakers and subwoofers, and each layer of sound penetrated my skin and reverberated inside my body. I closed my eyes. I opened them. I closed them again. Strangers drifted in and out of the room.

Around 4pm I left the museum. Snow was still falling. With no agenda and nowhere to be, I crossed Fifth Avenue and wandered into Central Park. I walked until my toes went numb, taking twists and turns, walking under trees and rambling onto trails. The park was covered in a blanket of pillowy white snow. I felt so happy I could scream.

By the time I got home, the winter sun had set. I drew a bath and sat in it while reading the Ottessa Moshfegh book I had picked up at the bookstore on my way home. I was relaxed. Like actually relaxed. In a way I haven’t felt in a long time. Was this it? The regulated nervous system everyone talks about? Had I cracked the code? Should I move to Bali?

When I got out of the bath something flew over my head. Is that a fucking flying cockroach???? I stumbled back, swatting the air above me.

And then it landed on my wrist. A little yellow ladybug.

In the dead of winter, on the fifteenth floor of an apartment building in Manhattan, during a snowstorm, a little symbol of good luck had found its way into my home and onto my hand.

I watched it crawl up my palm.

I still don’t know how it got in there. Maybe it was seeking refuge. But ever since that day, every time I feed myself, like really feed myself in this transcendent way, a ladybug always finds me.

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With my free hand, I took a photo of the ladybug. I thought about sending Beth a photo with an accompanying explanation. But I knew the response I would get. “Cuteee” or “love that!”

There goes Lily on her woo-woo shit again.

That’s the irony, I guess. Deep connection, the kind that makes me feel connected to the trees above me and the strangers next to me and the universe around me, can’t be explained. I can’t translate it or pass it along.

So maybe this is my religion. Maybe my version of God can be found in a ladybug. Or a good record. In a perfect wave. On a Brooklyn dance floor.

Until next time,

Lily

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Part 1 is here — start there if you missed it.

AARON: So I reconnected with this guy from high school. I kept seeing his posts online. I said, “Hey, you were a piece of shit in school. Why are you wearing a three piece suit and driving a Benz? What are you selling? What’s going on?” He’s like, “Well, I’m in Naples.” I said, “Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I want in.” So I went to Naples. I’m thinking, man, this guy’s in the cartel. This is my time to shine.

LILY: Mh-hm…

AARON: He invited me to lunch and said we’re going to talk. So I sit down and he’s with two much older, very done-up women. One of them has a Pomeranian in her hand. The epitome of Naples, Florida. People go there to die with their money. Again, white money, right?

LILY: Right.

AARON: So we have lunch. I make them laugh. I touched their backs a couple times. Then they hand my friend this brown envelope. I sat back and said to myself, this piece of shit is an escort.

Now, you are a woman. You know when women are much older there’s an, um, transition. They don’t want anything sexual. It’s more companionship. Men, from now until they fucking hit the ground, there is always a sexual innuendo. Right? They’ll say, “I just want to take you out. I don’t want to do anything.” And then they want you to touch their balls.

LILY: [laughs]

AARON: With women it’s more like arm candy. They’re widowed. They have more money than God. I’d go to events with them, which I’m terrible at because I’m just at the open buffet the whole time.

LILY: How long did you do this for?

AARON: I lasted about a year. It’s this whole underground situation. They refer you to their friends.

LILY: This is insane. So in Naples, is it just the women who are doing this? Or do all old people there have young arm candy?

AARON: It’s exactly that. You’ll see a lot of younger girls. You know, old white men love Latin women. I was intrigued because I’ve never seen it with women. Everyone wants to feel loved. Everyone wants to feel special. And that’s where I come in. I love making people feel special. Even when I was younger. Even now. My friends love taking me out because they know Aaron will take the leftovers. Aaron will take the ugly one. I’m not saying there ever is an ugly one. I find beauty in everybody. I just love making people feel wanted and special. I think if you listen to people, everybody has their own story. Everybody’s got something special about them. Something beautiful.

LILY: That’s a lovely sentiment. So I’m wondering, the bar you work at now in New York, are you getting sexual advances while you’re behind the bar? I also want to know if this is normal because you’re the first bartender I’ve had a real conversation with. Is this part of your guys’ job?

AARON: Yes. It really is. In any setting, whether it’s a luxury setting or a dive bar, people tend to come up to the bartenders. The conversations always shift to either political, which I avoid, or sexual. They tell their stories. You know, “My boyfriend isn’t doing this for me.” People are so open with us. Then they’ll have a few drinks and it becomes, “What are you doing later? Where do you live?”

LILY: The bar is such a loaded space because most people come with an expectation—to meet someone, get laid, have fun, etc. And there you are as, not to say the lowest hanging fruit, but now it’s your responsibility to meet their expectations of the night.

AARON: Mh-hm.

LILY: Do you enjoy it? I’m having a hard time understanding if you feel like this is your duty, and you’re a bit of a people pleaser, or if you’re actually–

AARON: I do. Nine times out of ten. I love this shit. I love making people’s nights. I love giving people something to remember. But alcohol is very scary, and can make it or break it. Sometimes people will get too intoxicated and get really pushy. And then I go up to your room. Now what?

I learned to feel out the couples that are first-timers. They always start arguing afterwards. That’s happened to me and it’s fucking scary. Like, you invited me to help you out, buddy. To spice up your marriage. And now you’re angry because she’s enjoying it more than you thought. I’ve had boyfriends come into the bar and be like, “You’re the guy that hooked up with my girl!” Blah, blah.

LILY: So when you walk into work, you really have no idea what’s going to happen that day, huh?

AARON: I have a go bag on me 100% of the time.

LILY: Shut up.

AARON: I never know what the fuck I’m going to get into. Every place I’ve worked is a different dynamic with different people. New York is the most unexpected city I have ever worked. I never know what to expect.

LILY: I need to know a bit more about the New York dynamic. And where you work specifically.

AARON: So I got here in May. This is the only place I will ever work. I will never work anywhere else.

LILY: Please go on. I’m all ears.

AARON: New York is a mixture of all the most insane human beings from all over the fucking world all living in one place.

LILY: Accurate.

AARON: It’s so much unchecked mental health. I have a story that I’m like, still right now, trying to process. I’m traumatized in a sense. I’m so fucking sad about what happened.

LILY: What happened?

AARON: I met somebody. I go through phases. I’ve been in a redhead phase. I don’t know. Redheads are so fucking beautiful and unique and they’re all insane. Every redhead I have ever had an experience with is fucking crazy. So I met this one. A little older. Beautiful. I knew she was a little crazy, a little ADD, but whatever.

When you meet someone, looks can be very deceiving, right? You walk and see me with a bow tie, you have no idea that I’m covered in tattoos and an absolute lunatic.

LILY: Uh-huh.

AARON: So I saw somebody wearing fur. Beautiful. Clean. Smelled good. Had multiple animals — like four dogs, three cats. I’m like, bitch, you live in a beautiful apartment. There’s no way you have that many animals in the city and live in a shitty apartment.

LILY: This is at the bar you work at now?

AARON: Yes. A five-star diamond hotel.

LILY: By herself?

AARON: By herself. So, I’ve been trained since working there that a beautiful woman sitting at the bar by herself, she’s a working girl. I hate that because my sisters are beautiful, and there are times they want to go out and have a drink and not be judged. But sadly, in this city, I am often proven wrong. So she wasn’t and I was fucking mind-blown. So we hung out, had a great time, she invited me back to her place. I walk into this fucking house and... Okay, I have broken my nose so many times. I have done a lot of drugs. My sense of smell is gone.

LILY: Where’s this going…

AARON: So I walked into this place and every one of my senses was screaming. It was like I walked into an episode of Hoarders.

LILY: Shut up.

AARON: Dog shit all over the floor.

LILY: Stop!

AARON: It should have been a condemned fucking house. I’m so overwhelmed with the smell, the sights. With everything going on. I didn’t know what to do. I was like, “Hey, can I use the bathroom?” I was having a panic attack. I was freaking the fuck out. I’m so OCD, Lily. I could not be in that apartment. I didn’t even see a bed.

LILY: Was it a small apartment?

AARON: It was a pretty decent fucking apartment in Gramercy. Just absolutely filthy and I felt so bad for the animals. And for her. Because if you don’t know that you’re living like this, you have a problem.

How did I not pick up on it? I was having a full conversation with this person who was very intelligent. That’s when I realized this city is so full of unchecked mental health, bro.

LILY: Wait, so did you stay or did you go?

AARON: Oh, hell no. There’s not much that I wouldn’t do, but that blew my fucking mind.

LILY: That’s what’s interesting about New York compared to other cities. We can’t see your car. Or your home. All we have is what you walk in the door with. You have no idea what people’s lives are actually like. That’s why people are such good scammers in New York. As long as you have a couple good outfits, you can get away with anything.

AARON: You can get away with anything. It’s so crazy.

LILY: You’ve been amazing. Thank you.

AARON: You are seriously so cool. This has been great. Let’s all get together soon and hang out soon. I need to hang out with some somewhat normal people.

LILY: I’d love to. Thank you again. Bye.

AARON: Be safe.

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It’s also my birthday month. So don’t forget to wish me a happy birthday ;) I’m turning thirty-three, and last year my birthday gift to myself was freezing my eggs. So now, every year when my birthday approaches, I’m reminded I have to pay storage for my 28 eggs sitting in a freezer in Midtown. There’s something kind of ironic and hilarious about that birthday reminder. The call that says — you’re a single woman in your thirties! That’ll be two thousand dollars please!

But real talk, I have been loving my thirties. I learn more about myself with each passing year, and it’s fun to witness myself slowly take shape into something that resembles a grown-up. (Keyword: resembles!)

Anywho, now onto this month’s recommendations. As always, The Edit is a monthly curation of everything I’ve been loving. Below you’ll find:

• The books that stacked my nightstand

• The art exhibitions in NYC I swooned over

• The shops I frequented

• Art, dance, and theatre I’m eyeing in NYC for April

What I’m reading:

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden — Joanne Greenberg. Written around the same time as The Bell Jar, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden is also a book about a young woman's madness. Except Greenberg's novel is stripped of the glitz and glam of Plath's New York. The book is set mainly in a mental institution. Semi-autobiographical, Greenberg takes you inside the mind of a woman struggling with schizophrenia. And while I sometimes felt I was going mad myself reading this, it was so fascinating to see just how relatable her condition could be.

Bunny — Mona Awad. This book was so weird and I mean that in the best way. Magical realism horror written in a literary style, Bunny is the story of a timid student who gets sucked into a cult at her MFA program.

What My Bones Know — Stephanie Foo. I'm only halfway through this one. I Never Promised You a Rose Garden took up most of the month (it's neither bad nor long; it was just a slow read). What My Bones Know is a memoir about a woman discovering she has Complex Trauma and her journey to healing.

What I’m seeing:

Louise Bourgeois: Gathering Wool — Hauser & Wirth. I fucking love Louise Bourgeois. Her work lives in the subconscious, using art to process emotions and trauma around the body. As a woman, this show felt deeply moving in a way I can't really put into words. (Also I bought this book there, which I'm obsessed with.) On view until April 18.

Anish Kapoor — Lisson Gallery. Kapoor's large-scale sculptures are genuinely stunning. Massive mirrored shapes interact with the space and create spatial illusions. Also it's a great place to take a mirror selfie. On view until April 25.

Whitney Biennial 2026. Every two years, the Whitney Museum puts on the Biennial, which is essentially a pulse check on what American artists are making and thinking about right now. It's been running since 1932 and has consistently stirred up controversy. I am actually on my way to see it right after I finish writing this. Based on the current climate in America, I have a sneaking suspicion about what the art is going to feel like.

Where I’m shopping:

L.LBean Japan Edition. Last weekend I went to the L.L.Bean Japan Edition pop-up in Brooklyn. And, wow, I was not aware of the lore. L.L.Bean, I learned, is huge in Japan. So big that they launched their first store outside of Maine in Japan in 1992. Think oversized silhouettes, unique cuts—you know, the cool Tokyo way. The brand’s Japan Edition came to the states with a Brooklyn pop-up that had lines around the block. (A very fashionable line, might I add.)

I loved the collection for spring, especially the jackets. They look deceptively simple on the hanger, but the construction is where it gets interesting. I got the Bean’s Long Field Coat, which has this high collar closure that feels very fashion forward. And the Prospect Harbor Hoodie, which has a cocoon silhouette and curved hem. Both feel like something you’d find in a small Tokyo concept store. You can shop the collection here. And you didn’t even have to wait in line!

Disclosure: Paid partnership with L.L.Bean

Brooklyn Flea. The Dumbo Flea is officially open! It's a great way to spend a Sunday, and I have found some serious gems there over the years. I never spend much time on the clothing, but things like home decor, jewelry, frames, vintage cameras are all worth a look. For vintage clothing, I like to head to Front General Store around the corner.

Ven Space. As spring approaches, I've been shopping with my male styling clients to fill in their wardrobes for warmer weather. No matter the client, we almost always end up at Ven Space. Tucked into Carroll Gardens, this is the best menswear store in New York, hands down. Lots of small-batch designers and a really thoughtful curation.

Looking Ahead (April Art & Culture in NYC)

Dance

• Martha Graham Centennial Celebration — New York City Center

Art

• Marcel Duchamp — MoMA

Theatre

• Death of a Salesman — Broadway

• Dog Day Afternoon — Broadway

Until next time,

Lily

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Today’s conversation is with Aaron (name changed for privacy), a bartender at one of priciest hotel lobby bars in New York. I met Aaron as a customer, and by the end of my first drink, I knew I needed to sit down with him.

We had so much to discuss I had to split the conversation into two parts.

AARON: I love New York. But working in Aspen, to be honest, kind of ruined me. I’ve been to forty-three countries. I’ve worked in eight. I think about Aspen almost every day of my life.

LILY: Wait, why? The beauty?

AARON: Aspen is white money.

LILY: Oh!

AARON: Aspen is American white money. People don’t give a shit about how much their food is, they don’t care, they will spend it to have fun. It’s fuck you money. I couldn’t get enough of it. I was like, this is where I belong.

LILY: I’m curious what about that resonated with you?

AARON: That’s so interesting. Why does it resonate? I grew up with nothing. I’m not a bougie person. I don’t wear designer brands. Maybe it’s because I got a taste of something I’m not used to. It’s so intriguing to me because I would never spend fifteen grand to spray a bottle of Ace of Spades. I’ve watched that happen, and to me it’s disgusting. But it’s also like, how? How do you do this?

LILY: Ha, makes sense. The bar you work at now in New York is definitely “fuck you money” too, no? That place is insane. I felt like when I got there, we locked eyes, and I was like, we’re the only sane people in this room.

AARON: No, straight up.

LILY: So how did you get into bartending? Let’s hear your story.

AARON: I was born to Middle Eastern immigrants. The area I grew up in on the East Coast was predominantly black. It was pretty hood. I came from a very religious household. I was just the black sheep. I wanted to be different. I wanted to be a badass, this bad boy.

LILY: Where do you think that rebellion stemmed from, do you know?

AARON: When something is pushed on you, coming from a religious background, you’re more curious. When someone tells you no, you’re like, well, why? I was a volunteer firefighter for four years. I loved it. Every aspect of helping people. Seeing all this crazy stuff. Saving people. I had this Superman complex. But I got injured pretty badly. I got caught in a house fire.

LILY: What?

AARON: Yeah, I have third-degree burns on both my legs.

LILY: Was your suit on?

AARON: I didn’t have my suit on. That was that Superman complex. As a volunteer, you’re supposed to fall back and watch the guys do their thing. I just wanted to save someone so bad.

LILY: That’s kind of metaphorical in a way.

AARON: Right?

LILY: That’s what you get for trying to be a hero.

AARON: Yeah, so it changed my life. I felt like I wasn’t going to recover. They made me feel pretty bad. They said I might not walk.

LILY: Wow. How old were you?

AARON: Twenty-one. The human body is so fragile and at the same time so unbelievably resilient. So I recovered. After that, there’s this Amish community program where you live with them for weeks at a time—

LILY: Sorry, what? You went to live with the Amish?

AARON: I hated the feeling of being a victim. I came out of the hospital and people were acting like I was dying. Like I had cancer or something. So I said, get me out of here. I thought I was going to be chilling on a farm smoking weed. I thought it was going to be like a resort in the middle of farm country.

LILY: Uh-huh…

AARON: Come to find out, I get up there and, oh my God, I’m up at the ass crack of dawn milking cows. I wanted to lose my mind. I was there for a week and a half. That’s when I was like, what can I do that could make money and let me travel at the same time and meet all these crazy people? So I started bartending. I totally bullshitted my way into it. One of the first bar gigs I ever got was Webster Hall.

LILY: Wow.

AARON: Yeah, one of the biggest nightclubs in New York. I fell in love with it. The chaos. The nightlife of Manhattan. I ate it up. I’m such a yes man. I was in this free fall. And when you are so new and fresh, you want to just absorb it all.

LILY: Especially given your personality.

AARON: Oh man, it’s like dynamite.

LILY: A recipe for disaster.

AARON: So dangerous. I just didn’t really care, you know. I loved drugs. I loved partying. I loved finding all these sex parties. I was enamored by what New York really is. And I said, okay, if this is New York, what else is out there?

LILY: What year is this roughly?

AARON: Probably 2011. So I did a few gay bars in Hell’s Kitchen, which is interesting because a lot of them hire straight guys. Now, Lily, here’s where I had an epiphany. I have three sisters. A lot of my relatives are women. I realized very quickly how aggressive men can be — gay, straight, it doesn’t matter.

LILY: Working in the gay scene specifically?

AARON: The gay scene and the club scene. I realized I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want this nightlife. I want the one percenters. I want the people that are on vacation having fun. Not the ones unleashing after a bad week.

LILY: Did the energy feel dark? Is that why you shifted from it?

AARON: It was very dark. The people I was working with were always intoxicated. Always on drugs. I quickly realized there’s a different type of bartending on the luxury side. So I started working at a beautiful luxury property in Aspen. One of the best parts about working in a mountain town is you work your ass off in winter, then in the off season, you get to travel for two months and spend all the money you just made. Which is my favorite thing to do. So this couple invited me to St. Barts, which has always been a dream of mine, so I was like, I’d love to come with you guys.

LILY: Wait, like customers? Were these regulars at the bar who you built a relationship with?

AARON: So, I worked at a luxury brand that was a club destination. For this family, it was a third-home situation.

LILY: Got it.

AARON: So they’d come and spend eight weeks at a time. You get to really know them and their families. They just, like, trust you with their kids. It’s fucking unbelievable. This is white people shit.

LILY: [laughs]

AARON: I wouldn’t trust anyone with my kids. Are you kidding me?

LILY: “Give them to Aaron, he looks nice!”

AARON: Yeah, what? Me? Dude, are you insane? That reminds me of another really good story with the kids.

LILY: You’ve got a lot of stories up your sleeve, don’t you?

AARON: You have no idea. Okay, so this couple loved me. I had this weird feeling they were both gay and married for tax purposes. Something was off about them. But I didn’t give a shit. They had a place in St. Barts.

LILY: Of course.

AARON: So they flew me out. It’s supposed to be a three-night thing. On the second night the guy was getting really touchy-feely. But they were a little intoxicated. Not a problem.

LILY: Okay, and then what?

AARON: We get back from dinner. They were trying to get me drunk, but I don’t really drink. I felt so pressured. I realized, oh my God, they brought me here because they want to sleep with me.

LILY: Oh…

AARON: I was like, look, I’ll totally fuck your wife. That’s not a problem. I’m just not comfortable having you join. You know, that whole cucking thing. This was when cucking was not really a thing, or nobody knew that term, but now I get it. Some people like watching their wives get, uh, banged out, right? I felt very pressured.

I’ve always felt like, if you’re not comfortable in a situation, walk out. But wow, it really takes a hands-on experience, sadly, to understand how people get into these situations. Because I was so uncomfortable and I did it anyway. I’m trapped on a fucking island in the middle of nowhere with these people who control how I get home.

LILY: You’re in a very expensive place to fly out of, too.

AARON: Absolutely. I had money, but I didn’t have money like that. I was like, man, this probably goes on so often and people have no fucking idea. These girls go on these trips thinking they’re just getting to experience a beautiful place.

LILY: And then add in the component of physical safety, as a woman. You’re buff and tall. We can’t protect ourselves in the same way.

AARON: I was going to say. I’m a big fucking dude. I felt uncomfortable and threatened. It doesn’t matter how big you are. It’s a psychological game that they play, right?

LILY: This is actually really dark. I mean, it would have been one thing if they said, “Hey, this is our kink, do you want to come on this trip and have some fun?” But to just put you in that position? It’s crazy.

AARON: And Lily, I’m so big on — every time I meet somebody, I tell them straight up: this is who I am, take it or leave it. This is why I love New York so much. On the East Coast, people are very straightforward. I can tell who’s from here because they don’t bullshit me. I was just in California, and it’s night and day. I would ask people, “Hey, do you love your drink?” And they’d be like, “Oh my God, it’s so good.” Then I’d turn away and they’re like, “Ugh, this is disgusting.”

LILY: People think the bartender can’t see or hear them, but you’re standing right there.

AARON: Oh, it’s so true. I hear everything. People really think we can’t hear them.

LILY: So you get to be this witness. You’re like this invisible voyeur.

AARON: God, I have so many stories. I don’t even know where to — let’s skip Aspen for a little bit. So after Aspen I went to Naples, Florida. That’s where I got into, um, the older women situation.

LILY: Wait, hold on.

AARON: Naples is considered Grandpa City.

LILY: What’s the older women situation?

READ PART TWO HERE!

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Until next time,

Lily

They are as follows:

MILES · 33 · Salt Lake City · Marriage Date: “When we’re forty” · Status: Open

My first pact is with Miles, my best friend in college. He was the first person I met when I stepped onto campus, and remains one of my closest friends to this day. One night outside of a party in junior year, we agreed that if we were both single by forty we would buy a big plot of land in Northern California and call it a day, sleeping with other people if necessary. We solidified the deal with a spit handshake.

CHASE · 36 · Miami · Marriage Date: 01/01/2027 · Status: Cancelled

Next is Chase. Chase and I matched on Raya in 2021, and after a few clumsy dates, our relationship evolved into a flirtatious friendship that included him being my unofficial business consultant and me taking over his lease when he moved to Miami. On a drunken night outside a bar at 3am, we agreed to meet at a church in Vegas in two years and get married if we were both single. A Google Calendar invite was sent. As the date approached, Chase requested a one year extension.

I recently ran into a mutual friend who informed me that Chase was considering proposing to his current girlfriend. I texted him a screenshot of our cancelled standing reservation. To which he replied “Damn. Report as spam ¯\_(ツ)_/¯”

WHIT · 45 · New York City · “Start a Family” Date: N/A · Status: Open

Next is Whit, who I was in an emotionally serious yet technically unofficial relationship with. After several months of on-and-off-again emotional entanglement, Whit proposed we start a family — have children and all live together in a big beautiful brownstone he would pay for. When I asked, “Well, would we, like, date?” He confidently said: “No.” I told him I'd think about it.

FLETCHER · 45 · New York City · Marriage Date: 12/31/2029 · Status: Open

Then there’s Fletcher. Fletcher and I are not terribly close friends nor have we ever had a romantic encounter. He’s a two degrees of separation friend, but I’m always happy to be in his company whenever he comes around. He’s conventionally attractive, tall, muscular, and absolutely hilarious. One night at a house party, Fletcher and I found each other on the couch, lamenting our most recent romantic flops. We agreed to get married if we’re both single in five years. We high-fived and created a Google Calendar invite for Dec 31, 2029.

ROMAN · 29 · New York City · “Shacking Up” Date: 2/14/2027 · Status: Open

Last is Roman, who I spent Valentine’s Day with this year at a downtown wine bar, commiserating about our love lives. Slumped over two glasses of chilled red at a tiny bistro table, Roman proposed that if we are both still single by Valentine’s Day next year we should “shack up,” and a calendar invite was set for February 14th of next year. A year, however, feels too soon and sends me into a low-level panic. I will be requesting an extension.

Welcome to the pact economy. When you’re always the bride and never the girlfriend.

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What having five marriage pacts says about me specifically is a discussion for another time. But I do think the pact itself points to something real about the way we date now.

Everyone wants intimacy. No one wants to assume the risk of actually choosing someone.

Because if you were to put any of these hypothetical future relationships into action today, one or both parties would immediately spin out. We’re not ready! It’s not the right time! My person is still out there!

When the options are endless, choosing one person can start to feel less like romance and more like closing a hundred tabs you’re not ready to lose. So we create emotional insurance plans, backup boyfriends and social safety nets. All here to absorb the risk of ending up alone while we sample every flavor and explore every option.

I could probably build a great life with any of these men I have pacts with. That’s the irony. In fact, I’m fairly certain I could be happy with about 75% of the people I’ve ever gone on a date with. But that would require actually choosing one. Settling on something. And settling? We don’t do that around here — not when there’s another app, another option, another almost.

So instead we make pacts. Little jokes with deadlines and Google Calendar invites. And while I’m not actually going to marry any of these men, there’s something underneath the bit that feels true: this quiet need to know that in a dating landscape that offers everything and guarantees nothing, there’s still something to fall back on.

Just in case.

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Until next time,

Lily

But through it all, I of course have been making time to see art, read books, watch films, and listen to music. Which I am here to share with you today! As always, The Edit comes with a monthly curation of everything I’ve been loving.

Below you’ll find:

• The books that stacked my nightstand

• The films that left an impact

• The art exhibitions in NYC I swooned over

• The songs I liked this month

• Art, dance, and theatre I’m eyeing in NYC for March

What I’m reading:

Little Birds — Anaïs Nin Nin was writing about female desire and a woman’s interior world long before it was trendy. Also famously commissioned to write erotica, Little Birds is a collection of erotic stories that are sneakily intellectual.

The New Me — Halle Butler Bleak, funny, and uncomfortably familiar, The New Me is basically two hundred pages of a protagonist swearing she will get her life together…starting tomorrow.

Acts of Service — Lillian Fishman A story about sex. But really, a story about desire, power, and the strange intimacy of being truly seen by someone.

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As a full-time creative, this is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.

I’ve always been naturally disciplined. I treat deadlines like a personal challenge. I eat my vegetables and do my squats. Even as a child, I would run home after school to get started on my homework.

Maybe it’s my ballerina upbringing that hardwired me towards discipline. Maybe it’s an eldest daughter thing. Maybe I tie my worth to my unwavering accomplishments.

But as I’ve been writing my first novel this year, I’ve been learning that creative discipline is its own special thing.

I’ve always thought the life of an artist was one of a glamorized free spirit. I thought to be an artist meant floating around in a kaftan with long, tousled hair. That the creative workflow meant getting hit with random spurts of inspiration, followed by beautifully manic bouts of genius that last into the early morning hours.

What I’ve been realizing lately is that to be an artist, or in my case specifically, a writer, is thirty percent creative flow and seventy percent brutal, unsexy discipline.

The first draft of my book was essentially an orgasm on a page. I wasn’t trying to make it good. I was trying to make it exist. I wrote quickly and messily, ideas spilling faster than I could organize. Characters took twists and turns. Plots revealed themselves to me. Revelations! Inspirations! I would wake up at three in the morning with an idea and illegibly scribble it down in the dark.

And then it was done.

And then I read it.

And then I realized. Holy fucking shit. We’ve got a lot of work to do. This is just the beginning.

Based on conversations I’ve been having with friends—painters, photographers, filmmakers, and writers—this is the point where many creatives abandon their work. That initial creative flow that comes with a new idea is the fun part. What comes after is sobering. Compound that with day jobs, families, and social lives, and the discipline required to protect your art becomes non-negotiable.

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Finding the routine

For me, I’ve found that creativity thrives within boundaries. It seems counterintuitive, but freedom loves structure. Setting a creative routine removes the element of choice, chance, and chaos—which only distract from your work. Maybe you work on your art for two hours every morning. Or for ninety minutes after dinner. Maybe you dedicate Sundays to your practice.

For me personally, I write from 5-7pm Monday through Friday. I’ve found that my brain can only focus once everything else from the workday has been done.

When I look at the routines of other writers, an unwavering schedule seems to be something they all have in common. Sylvia Plath wrote when her children were sleeping. Toni Morrison wrote in the hours before dawn. Murakami, who wakes up at 4am to write, has said that keeping to a strict routine without variation is the whole point: “The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it's a form of mesmerism. I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind.”

Creating the Container

Once you’ve carved out a routine, that time is what I call “the container.” It’s an empty white box, a playground for the mind. Discipline is not the enemy of creativity, it’s the container that creativity lives inside. I put my phone in another room, silence my notifications, and for two hours solely exist within that blank space.

I never know what will happen in the container on any given day. Some days are unexpected and exciting. Others feel like a slog. Some days I end the two hours feeling like I didn’t accomplish anything at all.

Discipline as spiritual practice

There’s a reason so many artists throughout history have had rituals. Beethoven counted exactly sixty coffee beans every morning. Tchaikovsky took a two-hour walk every single day. Didion had her “sacred hour” of mandatory isolation to review the day’s work.

I have my own little ceremony when I sit down to write. I light incense, dim the lights, and put on the same ambient playlist. It’s not about “creating a vibe.” Nor is it about productivity. When I talk about discipline in this way, it’s devotion. It’s reverence.

When I honor my creative routine in the same way I would a spiritual practice, it transcends into something higher.

The creative life, I’m learning, is a practice. And like any practice—movement, meditation, love—the work is in showing up. Not with perfection, and definitely not always with brilliance, but with the willingness to sit down and do it again, and again, and again.

Until next time,

Lily

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It’s safe to say I’ve mastered the skill of enjoying my own company. Partially, it’s in my nature. Growing up as a bit of a lone wolf type, I’ve always felt more comfortable being on the periphery as opposed to smack dab in the center of the circle. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that solitude is a skill, and one that nourishes me endlessly.

The other week I booked a solo trip upstate. I got a little house in the woods and rented a car for a six night trip to focus on my novel. Every morning I put on a record, Brian Eno’s Music for Airports or a Max Richter album, and walked down the stairs to the kitchen. I’d make a whole milk cappuccino and sway to the music as I waited for the espresso machine to warm up. I sat by the window with my coffee, did two pages of stream of consciousness journaling, before sitting down at my desk to write from 10am to 4pm. There was a massive snowstorm that week that piled four feet outside my doorway, so I had no option but to stay in and savor in my solitude. When the workday was over I would cook dinner, read in the bath, and sit by the fire with my sketchbook (I ran out of things to draw so I started drawing nude self portraits).

For the most part, I tried to keep my phone in a desk drawer in the attic, which I would pull out intermittently to find messages from friends like: Are you ok out there? Are you lonely? or Wait, you’re there all by yourself? To which I answered: Yes, I’m ok. No, I’m not lonely. And yes, I’m actually thriving.

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There’s a difference between solitude and loneliness. Solitude is a decision. It’s something actively nourishing. Solitude is where I have space to think, process, and ideate. It’s in solitude where I come up with ideas and untangle mental threads. Loneliness, however, is a feeling. I’ve felt lonely in a crowded room. I’ve felt lonely in a relationship. And of course, I’ve felt lonely in solitude.

I wasn’t always so comfortable in my seclusion, though.

In 2017 I went through my first heartbreak. You remember the feeling, don’t you? The gut wrenching first love that leaves you sleeping on your couch for a week and sobbing at the CVS pharmacist asking if they have 5-HTP. I felt like the floor was completely pulled out from under me. Free falling, I had no anchor. I didn’t know who I was without this person.

I realized, in this, that I needed to learn how to be alone. Not by myself—not going to the movies alone or grocery shopping alone. But how to be alone in this world. So naturally, like all heartbroken twenty-three year olds do, I booked a solo two-week trip to Bali.

I started in Canggu, where I pushed through tourists and hitched rides on the backs of motorbikes. Then I moved to Ubud, where I stayed in a treehouse at The Yoga Barn, going to daily yoga classes and living off kitchari and herbal tonics. My trip ended in Uluwatu, in a janky airbnb, where I scrambled down cliffsides and disappeared into barren rocky beaches.

One of the last nights in Uluwatu I took myself to a fancy dinner on the beach. I remember the way the hostess looked at me when I said “table for one,” with a smile of pity as she studied my face. I sat there, my feet in the sand, surrounded by couples on their honeymoon. I ordered an appetizer, entree, and dessert. Halfway through my main course, the sun was setting on the horizon. It looked like it was on fire. I watched as it began to dip it’s massive sphere into the ocean. Next thing I knew, I had kicked off my shoes, abandoned my meal, and was running fully clothed into the ocean. I swam in the warm water as the orange sunset poured over my body, my long silk skirt tangling between my legs. I laid on my back, floating, and realized that no one knew where I was. I was somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean, thousands of miles away from anyone I knew. In that moment, I felt truly alone. And I felt truly happy. It’s still one of my fondest memories to this day.

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It was on that trip nearly nine years ago where I really learned what it means to enjoy your own company. In my solitude I learned what my actual preferences were. I learned who I was. What I liked. What I didn’t like. I learned what I wanted. Who I wanted. And how to decide when it’s time to go home.

There’s an obvious stigma towards people who spend time alone. I’m very familiar with that poor thing look as I sit alone with a steak frites at the corner table of a brasserie. It’s this pitying look that makes some people afraid to spend time alone. No one wants to look like a loser, a loner, with a big sign on their forehead that says NO ONE WANTS ME. But as I claw through my steak with a knife, I relish in the fact that while they think I may have no one to dine with, I’m choosing to dine alone.

Solitude has also made me more discerning in who I do spend my time with, understanding who nourishes me and why. As a result, my friendships have deepened and gotten more meaningful. Because if you’re running up against my time with myself, you’ve got some stiff competition.

Until next time,

Lily

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As always, The Edit comes with a monthly curation of everything I’ve been loving. This month I found a few new favorites: a new favorite author (Ottessa Moshfegh), a new favorite film (The Phantom Thread) and a new favorite place to spend a winter afternoon in New York (The Cooper Hewitt Listening Room).

Below you’ll find:

• The books that stacked my nightstand

• The films that left an impact

• The art exhibitions in NYC I swooned over

• The Spotify playlist I made for quiet winter nights in your room

• Art, dance, and theatre I’m eyeing in NYC for February

What I’m watching:

Phantom Thread This film officially goes into my All Time Favorites category. If you’re a fan of beauty mixed with treachery (my personal favorite combo), you’ll love this Paul Thomas Anderson film. It’s a love story for aesthetic yearners who are also a little toxic ;)

It Was Just an Accident Four former Iranian political prisoners navigate seeking vengeance on the man who tortured them. The film itself is gripping, but knowing the director risked his life to speak out against Iran’s regime makes it something else entirely.

If I Had Legs I’d Kick You This film was amazing and also kind of made me never want to be a mother. An A24 anxiety attack (think Uncut Gems for moms), it’s claustrophobic, relentless, and uncomfortably real about the stress of modern motherhood.

The Mastermind An art heist film, but not the kind with car chases. The kind with a bumbling art-loving deadbeat dad and an amazing jazz score.

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