[My new, inexplicable Ugg clog boots + Elliott Lucca bag.]
My most primal attractions to things are always acquired by a sidestep—an association to something romantic in a way I’m sure only I find it to be.
Say, the smell of onions cooking in butter. There were two girls across the hall from my mother’s dorm at Sweet Briar who would cook onions in butter. She loved the smell. And every time I stand over the cast iron pan stirring them, my eyes going in and out of focus with the monotony, I think of glamourous college girls with tousled hair and fuzzy mohair sweaters.
I’m bored with ‘inspiration’—I’m choking on it. Forget the obvious—blogs, the learned lines from Almost Famous, pages torn from magazines. You know where the real magic happens.
Me? It’s signed black and white photos of pro golfers from the 80s that line the walls of old restaurants. That bank of pay phones at The Greenbrier with the leather bound phone books from every city and state in the US. Matching sugar pots and creamers. Cable knits. Checking for ticks. Candor. Integrity. The way my dad shuts the French doors to the den when he puts records on.
So… what about you?
[Elton John, Holiday Inn]