ISSUE 20: Is the Art World in a Rut, or Am I?

We take a break from our previously scheduled programming for a minor existential art-crisis.

There’s a question I seem to find myself asking every September: Has the art gotten worse, or have I just been looking too long? After another Armory Week spent pacing over concrete floors and weaving between booths, I still don’t have an answer. What I do have is a growing folder of iPhone photos of things that felt important for a second—until they didn’t.

It's not that the work is bad. Much of it is, in fact, technically impressive—deeply considered, labor-intensive, beautifully made. Some of it is even moving. But over time, even the most vivid gestures start to blur: another oversized textile painting with a cryptic phrase stitched in script, another half-melted figurative sculpture with limbs arranged just so. Another piece that looks like it’s mid-apology for being there in the first place.

This isn’t unique to the Armory Show. It’s true of all the satellite fairs, the galleries in Tribeca, the ones uptown too. What you start to feel, when you look at a lot of art all at once, is less a sense of innovation and more of repetition. Not this again, I catch myself thinking, not another dripping clown face, not another resin-coated tongue-in-cheek relic.

And then, of course, I panic—Am I becoming cynical? Jaded? Have I hit my expiration date on feeling awe in a white-walled room?

But just when I’ve resigned myself to becoming the kind of person who only cares about mid-century ceramics and original cyanotype prints, I come across something that stops me cold. Something that has clearly taken time—not just to make, but to think through. Something that hasn’t been over-designed for social media, or built with a curator's checklist in mind. It doesn’t even have to be loud. In fact, this year, the pieces that felt most vital were often the quietest: a series of obsessive ink drawings, a small painting with a color so precise it felt invented, a tapestry that seemed to hum at the edges.

There’s a mood right now—across Armory and its adjacent art ecosystems—that’s both chaotic and controlled. A kind of beautiful messiness is surfacing: layers, textures, edits, imperfections. But it’s not lazy. The best work is mess with intention—images that show their scaffolding, their doubt, their rigor.

Maybe that’s why I’m not entirely hopeless about where we’re at. Maybe the repetition I’m seeing isn’t just trend fatigue, but a recalibration in real time. A turning inward. Maybe we’re just at a point in the cycle where sincerity looks suspiciously like sameness—until it doesn’t.

So no, the art world isn’t dead. But it is, like most of us, tired. And trying.

This week’s goodies: some of the pieces that struck a chord amid the early September doldrums.

Next week: we return to featuring those making beautiful things that make me feel decidedly un-jaded.

ISSUE 19: Mellis Fine Has Good Taste

There’s a specific kind of intimacy in the jewelry made by Mellis Fine. It doesn’t come from overt sentimentality or grand statements, but from the quiet symbolism baked into each piece: a lock, a key, a gem chosen with care. These aren’t accessories; they’re tokens—meant to be kept close, worn daily, and layered into your personal myth.

What makes the work feel so special is its balance of weight and play. The pieces are solid—crafted in real gold, built to last—but never bulky or showy. There’s softness in the lines, a certain sweetness in the symbolism, but also a satisfying seriousness to how they feel on your skin. They don’t scream for attention. They settle in, as if they were always meant to be yours.

And then, of course, there are the stones. Tourmalines, sapphires, and garnets glint quietly from within their settings—each one slightly irregular, chosen not only for sparkle but also for personality. These are jewels with character.

Mellis Fine’s keys and locks aren’t just motifs—they're small, sculptural gestures toward connection. Toward privacy, secrecy, trust. A key as a promise. A lock as a keepsake. Together, they hint at something tender, something protected.

To wear Mellis Fine is to participate in a quiet ritual. You fasten the chain. You feel the weight. You carry the story forward.

GTW: What does good taste mean to you?

MF: When someone is really really good at making, curating, or has a good eye for a specific style. I don’t think a specific style (like mid century modern, organic) is “good taste”, but the act of understanding the basics of form, contrast, composition applied to any flavor of style - that’s good taste.

GTW: Who in your life do you think has the best taste?

MF: I really love Shea McGee and her team’s style. She’s built an entire brand being able to blend modern and traditional, each space feels intentional. I also think she has a great fashion sense! I’ve been really inspired in my own home by the way she designs homes.

GTW: Is there a specific object in your home or studio that brings you daily joy?

MF: I have a green marble tray with beige and caramel veining that I am absolutely obsessed with. I’m a neutral girl at heart so it fits my home decor style, but I also photograph my jewelry pieces on it and it’s just magical.

GTW: What’s the last thing you truly fell in love with—an artwork, an outfit, a space, a moment, a person?

MF: A trip last year to Chamonix, France. The hotel balcony had the most gorgeous, peaceful view nested between the mountains. It was the more romantic view I have ever seen and it’s basically seared in my brain.

GTW: What’s one piece of advice you’d give to someone developing their own taste or creative identity?

MF: Look at a LOT of inspiration and styles, don’t assume at first. See what keeps resonating with you when you have an impulse of ooo I like that. List it, save it, whatever you want to do. Then go back and look at the patterns. Normally you’ll find something repeated. Then go find an artist or designer that’s know for those things, observe and try your hand at it. You will not be a pro out the gate, play and practice. Everything is a skill, imo!

GTW: What’s a reference point you always return to—an image, a place, a material, a song?

MF: Hmmm.. textures. I’m a neutral lover, and I like versatility. Anytime something feels “plain”, sometimes a simple texture jazzes the whole thing up. It’s true of jewelry or an outfit, or interior design and completing a space.

GTW: Has your idea of beauty or style changed over time?

MF: Absolutely! Time is super precious. I want to be in spaces that make me happy, spend more time on things that make me happy. Lightweight routines, vibing in my house no matter the room. I started to care more about this in my late 20s, once I experienced more stability and wanted to invest in furniture and hobbies further.

GTW: Anything exciting coming up you'd like to share or promote?

MF: Oh gosh, I try to always bring things that are exciting. Most of the jewelry I make is 1:1 and off vibes, ha. I’m always making new things and equally excited to share every single piece. No two are the same! I just started dabbling into making cuffs though, that’s been really cool. So stay tuned for that.

GTW: What's your ideal day off look like?

MF: Coffee and a book on a sunny morning but a nice breeze. Do something creative - sketch new pieces, make something out of wax for a couple hours. I bring my tools outside when I can because the sun makes me happy! Then probably go for a run or walk. Then I become an absolute potato and rot my brain with reality tv.

This week’s goodies: Heirloom-quality pieces from Mellis Fine—solid gold, ethically sourced gems, and the kind of symbolism you want to keep close to the heart.

ISSUE 18: Suzanne Stein Has Good Taste

There was a time—not that long ago—when hats were a requirement. You wore one to church, to work, to walk down the street. Hats weren’t a fashion statement; they were etiquette. A gesture of formality, of propriety. Then, something shifted. Somewhere around the cultural shakeup of the 1960s, the rules changed. Hats fell out of daily use. What remained was something rarer, more personal: not a social mandate, but an expression of individuality.

Which is what makes Suzanne Stein’s work at Suz Berlin so compelling.

Her handmade hats and accessories walk that shimmering line between form and function, wit and wearability. They're not afraid to play. To delight. To wink. Each piece feels like a standalone character: a little eccentric, a little chic, always unexpected. If you’ve ever put something on your head and suddenly felt like a better version of yourself, you’ll understand Suz’s magic.

There's an intentional looseness to her design language. You get the sense she’s more interested in the feeling a piece evokes than whether it aligns with trends or expectations. A beret, reimagined with a surrealist twist. A hood that feels like a hug. Sculptural headpieces that sit somewhere between fairy tale and editorial fashion shoot.

This is the kind of maximalism that makes sense—because it doesn’t take itself too seriously. In an age where fashion can feel like performance, Suz’s work invites you to dress like no one’s watching. Or if they are? To let them look.

GTW: What does good taste mean to you?

SS: To me, good taste begins with authenticity, the sense that something is true to itself. It is the freedom to bring together elements that, at first glance, seem to clash, yet through personality and intention, form a natural harmony. Good taste is also a quiet resistance to following trends for their own sake; it is the courage to see differently and to trust that vision. Above all, it is the ability to recognize quality, in the weight of a fabric, the honesty of craftsmanship, or the spark of an idea that gives an object or style its soul.

GTW: Who in your life do you think has the best taste?

SS: My two friends, Nina Werner, always effortlessly chic and Sandra Keil, owner of Garments Vintage in Berlin.

GTW: Is there a specific object in your home or studio that brings you daily joy?

SS: In my studio, it’s my countless wooden hat blocks. Each one tells a story, bearing its own patina. They are beautiful objects, even if one were never to make hats with them.

GTW: What’s the last thing you truly fell in love with—an artwork, an outfit, a space, a moment, a person?

SS: The song 'Alone' from the latest Cure album. In today's speedy world, writing a song that runs nearly seven minutes, with a three-and-a-half-minute intro, is a fantastic statement.

GTW: What’s one piece of advice you’d give to someone developing their own taste or creative identity?

SS: Move through the world with open eyes. Take in everything. Art, architecture, the people around you. Pause and ask yourself what moves you, and why it does.

GTW: What’s a reference point you always return to—an image, a place, a material, a song?

SS: Since I now only make hats from straw, it is probably the straw itself. I am constantly fascinated and challenged by this raw, pure material - wheat straw. And the task of translating it into something modern.

GTW: Has your idea of beauty or style changed over time?

SS: Yes, absolutely. It’s like with everything, you never really stand still. I don’t know if it has to do with getting older, but what I now find beautiful is quiet and calm, both in form and in material. It used to be different; the wilder, the better.

GTW: What’s something that shouldn’t work but you love anyway?

SS: The color combination of orange and pink.

GTW: Anything exciting coming up you'd like to share or promote?

SS: I’m very excited for the launch of my online shop at the end of September. Every hat will continue to be made to order, ensuring that each customer receives a unique piece, crafted specifically for them.

GTW: What's your ideal day off look like?

SS: I’m in my garden, stroking the cat, pulling weeds, and arranging flower bouquets. In the evening, there’s a meal outdoors with a good glass of wine. Perfect!

This week’s goodies: A joyride through the surreal, nostalgic, and whimsically wearable universe of Suz Berlin. Hats and accessories with attitude that channel equal parts 1930s cabaret and futuristic rave.

ISSUE 17: Oya Tekbulut Has Good Taste

Oya’s designs for her brand By Way Of don’t whisper, but they don’t shout either. They hum. Softly irregular, polished but never prissy, her jewelry and objects feel like they belong to some other timeline—ancient, extraterrestrial, or both.

There’s a refusal of symmetry here, but also a deep sense of order. A kind of design telepathy. Each curve and crater feels intentional, even when the forms verge on collapse. You get the sense that she’s not imposing shape onto material, but listening for the shape it wants to be.

Her work exists somewhere between sculpture and adornment—decorative in theory, but loaded with weight and quiet gravity. It’s the kind of object you find yourself returning to in your mind hours after you’ve seen it. Jewelry that feels like relics; vessels that look unearthed. Brutalist but organic. Personal but mysterious.

And somehow, it still feels fresh. With so much design today flattened by trend cycles and glossy sameness, Oya’s pieces feel defiantly alive. They don’t behave. They carry texture, history, and contradiction in equal measure.

I wouldn’t quite call her work “statement jewelry”…but it’s not minimalist either. It’s something slower, stranger, and better.

GTW: What does good taste mean to you?

OT: I believe authenticity is very important. Yes, there are trends and zeitgeist, but people have started to look a little too similar for my liking. I also think a sense of effortlessness and ease is very tasteful.

GTW: Who in your life do you think has the best taste?

OT: Like half the universe, Zoë Kravitz is my ultimate taste crush. I know I’m repeating myself, but she makes everything look effortlessly cool and somehow makes effort look cool too. I also find that many of my customers, some of whom have since become friends, have amazing taste. I silently pull so many references from them during the Pop Ups.

GTW: Is there a specific object in your home or studio that brings you daily joy?

OT: I can’t really narrow down to one object, but I have a cabinet of curiosities. I collect objects that I find interesting all the time, some antiques, some contemporary pieces. To name a few: I have a pewter flask from the Uk, Castiglioni Alessi Sleek Jar spoon, Takenobu Igarashi cutlery set, Antique Lighter case that I bought from Grand bazaar in Istanbul, a Tin Shadow box (Nicho) from Mexico. Rodney Kinsman Chrome Tractor stool.

The Sleek Spoon was one of those objects that made me fall in love with design, showing me how design can both solve a problem and elevate something as everyday and mundane as spooning jam from a jar into an enchanting experience.

GTW: What’s the last thing you truly fell in love with—an artwork, an outfit, a space, a moment, a person?

OT: Not the very last, but I often think about Adrian Piper’s ongoing work What Will Become of Me. It consists of jars filled with her hair strands and nail clippings collected over the years, with a final jar to one day hold her cremated remains therefore  “completing” the work. Encountering it was a very eye opening moment for me, showing how art and creativity is a way of life, deeply embedded in one’s existence.

Hard switch, but I’m also obsessed with the new JW Anderson Loafer Bag. So sleek, witty, and irresistibly charming, it hits all my weak spots at once.

GTW: What’s one piece of advice you’d give to someone developing their own taste or creative identity?

OT: It’s okay to figure out your identity as you go. I believe in making sense by way of doing: taking a step back and identifying patterns. Once you have a body of work or a set of reference points, it becomes easier to see what you’ve been gravitating toward, because it starts to feel obvious. So I would say: start exploring, try things, then analyze. Those recurring themes become your tools to claim as your creative identity.

GTW: What’s a reference point you always return to—an image, a place, a material, a song?

OT: I return to a feeling, if I’m stuck. I go back to a feeling of playfulness and lightheartedness.

GTW: Has your idea of beauty or style changed over time?

OT: I think it’s an ever changing dialogue. The best part of beauty and style is that our perception of them doesn’t develop in a vacuum. They shape and shift through friction with the outside world. For me, beauty is a constant negotiation and discovery with others. So yes, it has changed, and it will continue to change. But I think I've always been inherently drawn to beauty, but my education at Pratt taught me to be more conscious and to question the stylistic decisions I make.

GTW: What’s something that shouldn’t work but you love anyway?

OT: I find so much pleasure in objects often dubbed “kitsch.” There’s a sense of authenticity and courage that’s unparalleled.

GTW: Anything exciting coming up you'd like to share or promote?

OT: We’re working on a new drop celebrating all things hoops: not just as a jewelry piece, but also as a geometric form: all things circular. Every piece in the collection is hoop shaped.

GTW: What's your ideal day off look like?

OT: Probably playing tourist in the city:  going to a museum, meeting a friend, stopping for a bottle of wine and some nibbles. Just wandering and wondering freely :)

This week’s goodies: Molten metals, wearable relics, and future heirlooms from By Way Of—objects that feel like they were pulled from deep time, then polished for your daily life.

Happy shopping! Use code goodtaste for 15% off everything (hurry; valid for a week starting today!)

Next week: We visit the world of Suz Berlin, where color, humor, and surreal form come together like a dream you can wear.

ISSUE 16: Naomi Tarazi Has Good Taste

There’s something slippery about Naomi Tarazi’s work—in the best possible way. You look at one of her sculptural accessories and can’t quite tell: is it a petal? a muscle? a ripple in time? Her pieces hover in a liminal space between flora and futurism, body and artifact. They don’t sit still, at least not visually. They bend, stretch scale, shift in meaning depending on who wears them and how.

What I love most about Naomi’s designs is how they resist categorization. They feel floral, but not fragile. Genderless, but not sterile. Alien, but strangely intimate—like something that sprouted from your own skin in a dream. They have an almost baroque sense of ornamentation, but never feel weighed down or overdone. They’re liquid, but structured. Soft, but assertive. They sit at the intersection of sculpture and adornment, and ask us to consider: what does it mean for a form to feel truly alive?

There’s a kind of tactility to her work that reminds me of things found in tide pools or under magnifying glasses. She seems less interested in trend or fashion than in curiosity—how far a material can stretch, how closely beauty can mimic nature without imitating it.

Naomi’s pieces don’t just sit on the body, they speak to and with it. And if you listen closely, they might say something you didn’t know you needed to hear.

GTW: What does good taste mean to you?

NT: I would say whatever it is, if you can tell there is a thought behind it. If its an outfit or an apartment of food, that someone thought about how the pieces/ taste compliment each other.

GTW: Who in your life do you think has the best taste?

NT: Lana del rey in her music videos, my grandma when she was alive and my friend (and stylist) Maram.

GTW: Is there a specific object in your home or studio that brings you daily joy?

NT: My sewing machine and my bed, the clothes in my studio :)

GTW: What’s the last thing you truly fell in love with—an artwork, an outfit, a space, a moment, a person?

NT: I recently visited Copenhagen and went to Louisiana, the art museum by the sea, which includes a huge park with more artworks. It was such a beautiful peaceful yet inspiring place.

GTW: What’s a reference point you always return to—an image, a place, a material, a song?

NT: I have a playlist of the same songs that I always listen to when I need to get in the zone, calm down or concentrate. It works every time.

Lana del Rey, the soundtrack of the show stranger things, Hans Zimmermann. I have been listing to the same songs for years and then still have the same effect.

GTW: Has your idea of beauty or style changed over time?

NT: I think beauty not so much, style definitely -  I think maybe it used to be more about performance now it is more about who you are?

GTW: What’s something that shouldn’t work but you love anyway?

NT: I am a fan of clashing color combos but for my eyes they always do work.

GTW: Anything exciting coming up you'd like to share or promote?

NT: We have the new collection launching in the webshop very soon, editorial pieces as well as ready to wear, so look out for that early September. Also a fun collaboration is in the making with something for the fashion girlies.

GTW: What's your ideal day off look like?

Going somewhere out of the city to the forest or a lake. Some nature walks. Or having some cocktails in the sun.

This week’s goodies: A curated collection of Naomi’s otherworldly, sculptural pieces that challenge the line between organic form and functional design.

Next week: We meet Oya, the visionary behind By Way Of, whose jewelry and objects feel like relics from a more enchanted future—tactile, poetic, and charged with meaning.

ISSUE 15: Soft Power

On cotton’s contradictions.

There’s something suspiciously perfect about cotton. Too reliable, too ubiquitous, too familiar to be interesting. And yet—there’s a reason it shows up everywhere, from luxury shirting to gas station tees to sterile gauze wrapping a broken wrist. It’s one of those materials that disappears in plain sight. Cotton is everywhere, and because of that, we forget to notice it.

But if you really pay attention, cotton is kind of magic. It’s crisp and breezy, like a pressed white button-down on a summer morning. It’s soft and worn-in, like a baby blanket or a thrifted T-shirt that’s been through a hundred wash cycles. It’s also tough and utilitarian—durable enough for workwear, duct tape, military uniforms. It doesn’t scream. It serves.

Part of what makes cotton so interesting is this tension between luxury and utility. Between softness and structure. Between effortlessness and precision. Louise Bourgeois once said, “Clothing is...an exercise of memory,” and cotton holds memory better than almost any material I know. It creases where you fold it. It thins out where it’s loved. It fades unevenly in the sun. It keeps a record.

In art and fashion history, cotton has always been the people’s fabric. The painter Agnes Martin wore the same cotton dress nearly every day—soft, pale, no adornment—because she didn’t want her clothes to distract her from the act of seeing. For her, cotton was neutrality. In contrast, look at Rei Kawakubo’s early work for Comme des Garçons: deconstructed cotton garments cut into surreal, misshapen forms, proving that even the humblest textile can be radical.

And then there’s denim, which gets its own universe (and its own issue). But even outside of denim, cotton performs an impressive range. It drapes. It stiffens. It breathes. It accepts dye beautifully but also looks beautiful left alone.

There’s something deeply human about cotton. It’s imperfect. Organic. It responds to use, to time, to care. Unlike polyester or synthetics, it doesn’t try to be invincible. It lets you wear it down. It’s honest.

And even when it’s cheap, even when it’s everywhere, it has the potential to feel sublime. A crisp cotton napkin. A hand-sewn quilt. A pair of perfectly pressed trousers. These things don’t need to be fancy to be beautiful—they just need to be right.

In an age where everything is engineered to perform, cotton stays quiet. It listens. It absorbs. It shapes itself to your body and your life. It’s not trying to be impressive. It’s just trying to be good.

This week’s goodies: pressed cottons, utilitarian tailoring, summer shirting, and pieces that strike the elusive balance between crisp and soft. Nothing showy—just things that feel right.

Next week: we kick off a new series of conversations with people who have that elusive quality: good taste. First up, a Berlin-based designer making her own rules.

ISSUE 14: Woven With Care

On the quiet sophistication of straw, raffia, and other summer textures.

There’s a moment every year—usually sometime in May—when suddenly, nothing feels right except straw. Or raffia, or jute, or some kind of tightly wound plant fiber that’s been twisted, looped, and coaxed into form by hand. All the sleek leather and heavy denim of colder months start to feel like too much. Too loud. Too close. And instead, the eye craves texture. Air. Breathability. An open weave.

The shift isn’t just about weather. It’s a shift in rhythm. Straw has its own pace. Raffia refuses to rush.

These materials have ancient roots. Raffia is derived from the fronds of the raffia palm, native to tropical regions of Africa and Madagascar. For centuries, it’s been used in everything from ceremonial garments to basketry and architectural thatching. Straw, similarly, has a history in both utility and adornment—woven into hats to keep sun off the face, but also into intricate objets and delicate embroidery.

These fibers carry a long memory. They speak of craftsmanship, of repetition, of making something beautiful from the humblest of sources. They're not loud materials. They’re not high-shine or high-drama. But they’re loaded with time, and time, in the context of taste, is always a flex.

What I love about straw and raffia is their duality: they’re unpretentious and undeniably luxurious. Not in the gilded, high-gloss way, but in the way that signals ease. Freedom. Leisure. The kind of luxury that comes from knowing you have nowhere to be except exactly where you are.

Rattan and straw furniture—like the Marcel Breuer–designed Cesca chair—have long been symbols of this subtle elegance. In fashion, we see it in the cult of the woven summer bag, where even the most minimalist brands release their version every year. Gabriela Hearst said, “I believe the future of luxury is going to be about materials,” and I think that’s especially true when the materials are drawn directly from the earth. There’s something deliciously radical about making beauty from a leaf.

It’s worth noting that these materials are not passive. They require work. Raffia must be stripped, dried, softened, dyed, then worked—over hours, sometimes days—into its final shape. Each stitch, each weave, is deliberate. It’s a kind of visible patience, a record of care.

Straw also has a sense of transformation that I find poetic. It begins as agricultural waste—disregarded, trampled—and becomes something delicate and architectural. Something that holds shape and shelters. Louise Bourgeois once said, “Art is a guarantee of sanity.” I think straw is a guarantee of grounding. It reminds us to slow down, to pare back, to appreciate texture for texture’s sake.

This is the beauty of straw, raffia, and their many cousins: they hold space without trying to impress. They suggest you’re in on something quieter, subtler. That you understand summer is not about spectacle, but about air. Movement. Lightness.

In a culture that prizes sheen and speed, these materials whisper a different value: stillness. Process. The richness of things that take time.

This week’s goodies: sun-washed textures and perfectly imperfect pieces made from raffia and straw. Things that rustle when you touch them. Things that breathe. Things that remind you not to rush.

Next week: we turn to cotton—its softness, strength, and how this humble staple threads through both fashion and history.

ISSUE 13: Liquid Assets

On the melty, languid seduction of silver.

There’s something about chrome in the heat. A surface so cold and hard, but one that drinks up sunlight and spits it back at you, warped and gleaming. It’s not gentle like gold, or soft like silk—it’s sharp. Clinical. But also, in the right hands, wildly seductive.

Silver and chrome are materials of contradiction. They shimmer like moonlight but signal speed, futurism, surveillance. Think of the rearview mirror glinting in traffic, the cool swipe of silver eyeliner on hot summer skin, or the clunky elegance of an old stainless steel fridge. They're utilitarian and opulent at once. They look like the future, and sometimes like the past’s idea of the future—which is even better.

But more than that: silver is liquid*.* Even when solid. It’s a metal that seems like it’s in the middle of becoming something else. It pools, it drips, it stretches across surfaces like it might run away at any second. It’s frozen motion. Mercury-light. Malleable, but with a backbone. Maybe that’s why it feels more alive than gold—it’s not trying to stay perfect.

In the 1960s, chrome became shorthand for space age sophistication—streamlined, aerodynamic, infinitely reproducible. But long before that, silver had already carved out a role in ritual and magic. Ancient alchemists considered it a sacred element, tied to the moon, intuition, and the feminine. In many cultures, silver was thought to protect against evil or illness—not just decorate. That shimmer wasn’t just style—it was power.

In art, it’s often used to unsettle. Anish Kapoor’s concave mirrored sculptures swallow their surroundings. Jeppe Hein’s chrome labyrinths fracture the viewer into a thousand versions of themselves. Artist Alicja Kwade has said, “Reflection is not just a visual trick. It’s about what is real, and what is perceived.” Silver doesn’t just reflect—it distorts. Which is sometimes the point.

In fashion, silver is rarely subtle. It’s armor, flash, attraction. Paco Rabanne’s chainmail dresses. Grace Jones in a silver bodysuit. Joan Jonas using mirrors as a costume and a prop in her performances. More recently, Coperni’s infamous sprayed-on dress—technically not silver, but with all the visual immediacy and spectacle. To wear silver is to court attention. To say, I see you seeing me.

And yet, silver has a domestic softness too…a sterling brush on a vanity, a baby spoon with a monogram, a worn heirloom locket that won’t quite polish clean. These are the quieter forms—things made to last, to be passed down, to hold a little of someone’s life.

Korean artist Haegue Yang uses Venetian blinds and chrome-plated bells to explore the idea of reflection as communication. “I don’t just want to make something look nice,” she once said. “I want to make it vibrate.” And silver does vibrate. Visually, emotionally. It carries sound. It carries light.

Maybe that’s what makes it timeless: its refusal to sit still. It mirrors, it moves, it adapts. It’s armor and adornment. Memory and surface. A metal with a pulse.

Next time you see something chrome—really see it. Not just as shine, but as suggestion. A portal, maybe, or a trick. Silver invites you to look closer. Even when it doesn’t give anything back.

This week’s goodies: A gleaming collection of objects that shimmer, flicker, and flirt—liquid surfaces, reflective shapes, and pieces that catch the light (and maybe your breath).

Next week: We go from chrome to craft with an ode to straw, raffia, and the delicate art of woven things—sun-soaked, hand-touched, and full of texture.

ISSUE 12: Worn In, Not Out

On wear, work, and the beauty of what holds up over time.

I reach for denim the way some people reach for rosary beads: out of habit, for comfort, for a sense of grounding. A good pair of jeans doesn’t just fit—they remember you. They soften at the knees where you crouch, fade where your phone presses against your thigh, crease in the shape of your life. There are materials that demand reverence, and then there’s denim—low-maintenance, long-wearing, always ready.

Its roots are famously utilitarian: workwear for miners and railroad laborers, first dyed deep indigo to mask dirt and reinforced with copper rivets to survive the grind. Levi Strauss and Jacob Davis patented the riveted design in 1873, and denim's fate as a fabric of the people was sealed. But utility has never excluded beauty—and denim’s story is proof.

Denim was never just about durability. It became the uniform of cultural rebellion: James Dean slouched into frame in Rebel Without a Cause in 1955, and jeans were officially cool. Artists wore them in the studio. Musicians wore them on tour. Teens wore them in protest. They were banned from schools, barred from upscale restaurants, dismissed by traditionalists—and yet they never went away. They adapted. And in adapting, they became iconic.

“Denim is a canvas,” said Japanese designer Yohji Yamamoto, whose experimental takes on jeans are legend. “It holds memory and form and soul. It gets better as it lives.” Yamamoto’s reverence isn’t unique. From Rei Kawakubo’s shredded patchworks to Martin Margiela’s reconstructed Levi’s, designers have long treated denim as a medium for expression. It’s not just durable—it’s capable.

There’s a reason so many artists have reached for it—not just to wear, but to work with. Painter Sterling Ruby has made entire collections from bleached and collaged denim, saying, “It carries weight, not just physically but culturally.” And it’s true. A pair of jeans can say working class or fashion insider, rugged or delicate, depending on how they’re worn. It contains multitudes.

There’s also a kind of honesty to it. A well-worn jean doesn’t lie. It shows every scuff, every stress point, every moment of friction and use. And there’s something deeply beautiful in that—the visual record of experience. You can’t fast-track the look of truly lived-in denim. You have to earn it.

Of course, denim has its contradictions. It’s a democratic fabric, but often sold at absurdly undemocratic prices. It’s natural (cotton) but often finished with synthetic dyes and environmentally taxing processes. Still, innovation is happening. Brands like B Sides, E.L.V. Denim, and Atelier & Repairs are recutting vintage pairs into new silhouettes, keeping fabric in circulation and honoring its past life.

In a world full of fast, flimsy things, denim offers an antidote. It lasts. It adapts. It holds you. And if you're lucky, it becomes yours in a way nothing else can—molded to your shape, your movement, your story.

I own three pairs of the same Paige jeans, all in the same wash, because they come in a 34" inseam and that is nothing short of a miracle (#tallgirlproblems). But it’s not just the length—it’s the confidence of knowing how they’ll fall, how they’ll feel, how they’ll behave. That kind of consistency is rare, and deeply comforting.

We talk about fashion as fantasy, as transformation, and that’s true. But sometimes it’s also about recognition. Putting on something that knows you. Denim does that. It wears in, not out.

This week’s goodies: frayed hems, topstitching, tonal blues, and hard-wearing details that remind us why denim is always the answer.

Next week: we slip into silver, and explore the reflective, futuristic, and slightly extraterrestrial appeal of chrome.

ISSUE 11: The Luster Lingers

What begins as a bother becomes the glow of a well-handled nuisance.

There’s something about pearls in the summer. Maybe it’s their shimmer—cool and moonlit, like the last glint on a wave before the sun disappears. Or maybe it’s their temperature: not warm like gold, not icy like diamonds, but something in between. Pearls feel alive; not just rare, but sentient.

They’re strange, when you think about them. A pearl is hardened oyster snot, a defense mechanism born of irritation. Nature’s version of “if you can’t get rid of it, make it beautiful.” They form over time, slowly layering themselves into something smooth and luminous, and this process—this slow, silent resistance—has made them synonymous with elegance.

Pearls have been treasured for millennia, prized by royalty and rebels alike. Cleopatra is said to have crushed a pearl into a goblet of wine to prove her wealth. Elizabeth I wore them like armor. Coco Chanel stacked them with abandon, redefining the modern woman. In Japan, artist Takashi Murakami has painted entire dreamscapes around their glossiness. The world keeps circling back to pearls. Because they carry contradiction. They’re soft but strong. Classic but punk. Effortless, but impossibly specific.

In the world of design, pearls have found their way into everything from Elsa Peretti’s sculptural droplet jewelry to Ann Demeulemeester’s clothing hangers strung with pearl-like beads. Maison Margiela embedded them into masks. Simone Rocha made them the backbone of an entire aesthetic. There's something about their presence that's never quite neutral—it either whispers or sings, but it never disappears.

Pearls also play with light in a way no other material does. They don’t sparkle—they glow. They reflect, refract, and soften light all at once. They’re imperfect by nature, and that’s the appeal. In an age of hyper-polish and AI-slick imagery, their subtle irregularity feels... human.

And yes, don’t get me wrong, they’re still coded. In some circles, they’re seen as conservative, ladylike, preppy. But when worn right, they can feel subversive. Think of the singularity of a man in a pearl earring. Or the thrill of clashing pearls with leather or denim. There’s always tension in good taste, and pearls hold that tension perfectly.

As artist Sophie Calle once said, “I always choose the thing that contains the most mystery.” Pearls are mysterious. No two are exactly alike, and no one knows how they'll turn out until they’re pulled from the shell. You don’t cut or carve them—they arrive finished. Their irregularity is what makes them valuable. They’re an argument for restraint. A case for letting time do the work.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of pearls not as jewelry, but as punctuation. The period at the end of an outfit. A quiet, weighted mark that changes everything before it.

This week’s goodies: Glossy, glowy, opalescent things with elegance, edge, and a little mystery.

Next week: We talk denim; worn, reworked, rebellious, and never out of fashion.

ISSUE 10: The Value of the Story

Why things mean more when they come with a tale.

There’s a small, delicate Longines watch that belonged to my great-grandmother. It doesn’t quite keep perfect time, and it’s not flashy or expensive by modern standards. But it’s what I reach for on special occasions—not because of what it says about my style, but because of what it says about where I came from. It connects me to something deeper than trends or luxury. It reminds me that taste isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about memory, meaning, and the lives wrapped up inside the things we wear, keep, and pass on.

Objects are never just objects. Or rather, the best ones aren’t. A painting, a chair, a dress—they can be technically perfect, exquisitely made, expensive, famous—and still leave you cold. What makes something matter is often not the thing itself, but the story that trails behind it. Who made it. Where you found it. What you were wearing when you first saw it. What it reminds you of. The best things don’t just look good. They mean something.

We talk a lot about provenance in the art world—where something came from, how it was handled, who’s touched it, loved it, passed it on. But provenance doesn’t only belong to the blue-chip or the antique. A T-shirt from your dad’s high school swim team has provenance. A bar of handmade soap you bought at a market in Oaxaca has provenance. The word itself means “origin,” but really it means “story.”

In The Shape of a Pocket, John Berger writes: “Art is a guarantee of sanity.” But he also says this: “What makes a good drawing is that you can tell it was made by a human hand. It contains traces of the moment it was made.” A human hand. A trace of a moment. That’s the difference between something that was made and something that was manufactured. One carries a soul; the other, just a barcode.

It’s not that mass-produced things are inherently bad (I own a few IKEA pieces I’d gladly throw myself in front of a bus for). But there’s a flatness to things that arrive in perfect packaging with no origin story, no evidence of touch. A one-of-a-kind ceramic bowl with a fingerprint frozen in the glaze? That’s presence. That’s a time capsule. That’s someone else’s breath embedded in the material.

There’s a reason we’re drawn to heirlooms. Not because they’re perfect, but because they carry the weight of having mattered to someone else. A good object is a little haunted. And a good maker understands that what they’re really creating isn’t just a thing—it’s a vessel for meaning.

I’ve noticed that the objects I love most tend to come with a backstory. “This was made by a designer in Tbilisi who only works with deadstock denim.” “I found it in a tiny antique shop off the side of a road in the south of France.” “The artist built these using the same tools their grandfather passed down.” None of that information changes the object’s form, but it does change its impact.

And no offense to the algorithm, but that’s not something you can filter for.

These stories don’t have to be profound. They just have to be real. The small details matter. That this ring was hand-hammered. That these candlesticks were poured by someone working out of their apartment in Berlin. That this textile pattern was passed down through three generations of women.

We are narrative creatures. We need context. And when the context is rich, the thing becomes more than the thing. It becomes a portal—into a place, a history, a person, a feeling.

Design and art are often talked about as forms of expression. But they’re also forms of communication. Someone made this. Someone thought it mattered. Someone sent it into the world hoping it would resonate with someone else. When it does, it’s a kind of quiet magic.

So much of this project is about paying attention to the details—and one of the most powerful details is why something exists in the first place. What’s the story stitched into its seams? What hands did it pass through? And what does it carry with it now?

It’s not about glorifying the handmade in some twee or moralistic way. It’s about noticing when something carries intention. When it was made with care. When it holds meaning beyond itself. At the end of the day, the story is the thing. And the things we love most are usually the ones that can talk back.

This week’s goodies: Objects with stories baked in—hand-touched, heart-held, and full of quiet meaning. A celebration of pieces that feel like they’ve lived a life before finding you.

Next week: We begin a new series on materiality—uncovering the histories, symbolism, and tactile power of the materials that shape our world.

ISSUE 09: Everyone’s Doing It (And That’s Okay)

A brief case for the fleeting, the viral, the of-the-moment.

I won’t deny it; there’s something comforting about pretending to be above it all—scrolling past the latest micro-trend with a little sneer, imagining yourself as someone with true taste. A lighthouse in the storm. A steady, timeless beacon of discernment.

But here’s the truth: I like trends.

Not all of them, of course. Some are terrible. Some are objectively confusing (are we still eating off those Brutalist mushroom plates?), and yes—some are deeply wasteful. But there’s something undeniably human about the whole thing. To pay attention to trends is to eavesdrop on culture, to study desire in real time. What we’re wearing, posting, buying, copying—these aren’t just superficial tics. They’re little seismic blips on the map of what we want right now, what we fear, what we hope for. Sometimes, they’re more revealing than we give them credit for.

I know, I know. The backlash has already started before most trends are even over. The rise and fall of aesthetics has gotten so fast—thanks to TikTok, Instagram, Pinterest—that “core fatigue” has become a thing in itself. (Were we ever really meant to live through balletcore, mob wife, indie sleaze, and tomato girl summer in the same year?) And yet, even with the burnout, I can’t bring myself to entirely hate the rollercoaster ride.

Because when a trend catches fire, it means something hit a nerve.

Sometimes it’s visual comfort—think of the soft curves and beige-on-beige of the early 2020s, a reaction to the anxiety of the pandemic. Sometimes it’s nostalgia, like the explosion of Y2K glitter and low-rise denim. Sometimes it’s protest, like the return of visible makeup and ultra-femininity in a political moment that feels threatening to both.

And sometimes, it’s just a moment of collective craving. A weirdly shaped chair. A tiny, unnecessary handbag. A color that feels like the future. I find that kind of instinctive mass desire fascinating—not empty.

There’s also something lovely about what trends can do. They create a kind of shorthand. A shared visual language. Even if the words are borrowed or brief, you can recognize someone who gets it. It can feel, in a very chaotic world, like finding your people. As artist and designer Nathalie Du Pasquier once said, “It’s not always about inventing something new. Sometimes it’s about reusing, remixing, speaking in a voice others already know.”

Of course, there’s a line. A good trend—the kind that sticks for a season or a year or more—usually has some weight behind it. A root system. A history it’s referencing or twisting or poking fun at. The ones that don’t, the ones that exist purely to manufacture need (fast fashion, fast furniture, etc.), tend to vanish just as quickly as they appear. But that doesn’t mean every fleeting thing is inherently bad.

Sometimes, I love something because I know it won’t last. There’s an intimacy to that kind of style—knowing you’re participating in something ephemeral, passing through a moment, fully aware it’ll be out of fashion by next year (or next month).

Like artist Wolfgang Tillmans said: “If one thing matters, everything matters.”

Trends might not matter to everyone, but that doesn’t mean they don’t matter at all. They’re breadcrumbs. Cultural timestamps. They tell us what we wanted once, what we thought we needed, what we thought looked cool, even if it didn’t age well. And maybe that’s what makes them beautiful—trends remind us that we’re always evolving. That style is not a static thing, but a living one.

So no, I’m not anti-trend. I’m just picky about which ones I let in. And sometimes, letting something in for a season is enough. Taste, after all, doesn’t have to be eternal. It just has to feel right right now.

This week’s goodies: Trendy little charmers, culty crowd-pleasers, and popular picks that still feel personal—proof that taste doesn’t always have to be rare to be real.

Next week: we dig into the stories objects carry—and how meaning can shape beauty just as much as form.

ISSUE 08: The Point of Pointless Things

On the exquisite joy of the unnecessary.

There’s a pair of salt and pepper shakers on my table that I use every day. They’re shaped like tiny mushrooms, and they sparkle a little when the light hits just right. They don’t grind. They don’t pour particularly well. They are, objectively, kind of useless. But they delight me.

That’s the thing about beautiful, “pointless” objects—they make absolutely no sense, and yet they are the things I reach for first. They’re often dismissed as frivolous, but I think they’re doing something important. They’re lightening the load. They’re saying: not everything has to be functional to matter.

Somewhere along the way, design and aesthetics started being measured primarily by utility. Clean lines. Neutral palettes. Minimalism masquerading as virtue. We were taught that seriousness was synonymous with taste, and excess was embarrassing. But I don’t think that’s quite right. Or true. Or fun.

Historically, ornament wasn’t something to shy away from. It was a language of power and pleasure. Think of the Mughal Empire’s elaborate pietra dura inlays, or the rococo interiors of 18th century France. Consider the jewels sewn into court garments, or the architectural flourishes of Baroque cathedrals—scrolls, spirals, cherubs upon cherubs. To decorate was to elevate. If you had more than you needed, it meant something: status, taste, desire, abundance. A visual flex, sure—but also a way of celebrating life itself.

And while I’m not lobbying for a return to Versailles-level opulence (although honestly, wouldn’t that be fun?), I do think we’ve overcorrected. Somewhere between modernist purging and IKEA flat-packing, we forgot that beauty is reason enough.

In her book On Longing, cultural critic Susan Stewart writes, “We place value on the miniature, the useless, the precious, because they resist the rational economy.” I keep coming back to that. To the idea that the small, the lovely, the “extra” things—while inefficient—have a kind of emotional potency. They’re inefficient on purpose. And in a culture obsessed with productivity, what could be more radical than choosing joy?

The artist and jeweler Joyce Scott, whose beadwork is as political as it is ornamental, once said: “Adornment has become so shunned in the art world, but I want to show how decoration can carry deep meaning. It’s not just pretty; it’s power.”

I think about that when I see someone in a rhinestone choker at 9am. Or when I visit someone’s apartment and they’ve hung crystals in the windows just to catch the afternoon light. I think about it when I see someone buy an impractical, wonderful chair just because it made them feel, well, wonderful.

It’s no surprise that fashion and design labeled “feminine” are often the ones most derided for being too extra. Too pink, too frilly, too shiny, too much. Historically, that dismissal has always been tied to power: to feminized labor, to domestic space, to the notion that emotional or sensory richness is somehow unserious.

But a silk bow can be a rebellion. A sparkly eye can be strategy. A scented drawer liner can be an act of resistance. The artist Mickalene Thomas, whose work is full of rhinestones and layered visual references to beauty culture, once said: “I’m not trying to create a fantasy world. I’m trying to show a world where beauty is a kind of language.”

We’re trained to think of utility as the ultimate value. But when I think about what’s moved me most—what I’ve kept through apartment moves, what I’ve posted on my walls, what I’ve tucked away into jewelry boxes and keepsake drawers—it’s never the practical stuff. It’s the sparkly pen that barely writes. The embroidered napkin I’ll never use. The perfume bottle that sits there like a sculpture, radiating nothing but memory.

Beauty doesn’t need a reason. The pointless things are often the point.

This week’s goodies: Unserious, tiny rebellions and glittering delights that exist purely to please the senses.

Next week: we make peace with trends and why following the crowd might be less tragic than we’ve been taught.

ISSUE 07: The Things I Bought Twice

An ode to loyalty, impulse, and the bliss of knowing what works

There’s a certain kind of shopper who treats every purchase like a vow: one perfect sweater, one ideal pan, one forever bag. I’m not that person. I re-buy things. Not because I’m disorganized or forgetful, or because I dislike the idea of ephemera… but because I know what I like—and when I find it, I tend to hold on for dear life.

Sometimes it’s practical. Take the Paige jeans I keep rebuying like they’re going out of style (which, in fairness, they might be). They come in a 34” inseam—basically a miracle for anyone over 5'9" who wants a full-length pant that doesn’t look like a capri or a deeply unfortunate MJ impersonation. I’ve bought and hoarded multiple backups, because you never know when a brand will “update” the cut and ruin everything.

And let’s be honest, some items are just so good they become their own little personality trait. The shoe I finally replaced after I’d gotten the originals re-heeled for the 5th time and my cobbler started looking at me sideways. The lipstick I keep on hand in triplicate. The dress that made me feel like myself in a year when nothing else did. It’s not a lack of imagination—it’s loyalty. A personal pantheon of objects that don’t just fit, they hit.

Buying something again is rarely about logic. It’s about recognition. A gut-level knowing. This thing—whatever it is—works. It fits. It gets you. It becomes part of your life so seamlessly that going without it feels wrong. And when it wears out, or disappears, or sells out, you feel a specific kind of heartbreak: the heartbreak of a perfect thing lost.

Designer Martine Rose once said in an interview that the things people hold onto the longest are never the things that were hyped—they’re the pieces that feel like "home." There’s this deeper layer of taste that reveals itself over time, not in the initial dazzle, but in what you keep reaching for.

I’ve often wondered why some things spark cult followings—why one sandal or candle or sculptural lamp develops a fervent underground fandom while others disappear like they never existed. There’s a mystery to it, but maybe it comes down to resonance. Aesthetic, yes, but also emotional. It’s why people will write blog posts mourning the discontinuation of a lipstick shade or bid triple the retail price for a now-impossible-to-find 2018 COS coat. The item becomes personal—part of your visual language. When it vanishes, it feels like losing vocabulary.

Artist Kahlil Joseph has described repetition as a kind of echo—an artistic rhythm that makes something stick in the subconscious. There’s a reason why we rewatch films, reread books, reframe the same painting three apartments in a row. Not because we’re unimaginative, but because repetition can be a ritual of memory. Repetition gives shape to identity.

Sometimes a thing becomes a stand-in for a time in your life: the perfume from a summer abroad. The exact mug you sipped from during an especially gray and bleak winter. The red sweater you wore the week everything started to fall into place. Buying it again isn’t about consumerism; it’s about continuity, about holding a thread (literally and/or figuratively).

I once heard someone say that the real sign of adulthood isn’t being able to cook or file your taxes—it's knowing your go-to order. Your default wine. Your perfect t-shirt. I think there’s some truth in that. There’s a groundedness to returning to the same beloved item again and again. It’s not lazy; it’s intimate. It’s a relationship. One built on time, wear, and memory.

Of course, this isn’t about owning only five things. I still believe in experimentation, in weird objects and impractical purchases and letting yourself evolve. But not everything has to be an evolution. Some things are just... right. And when you find them, it’s okay—beautiful, even—to say: I’ll take another.

This week’s goodies: Repeat offenders. Gems that are so good, I’d buy them all over again—and probably will.

Next Week: a love letter to the impractical, the excessive, the joyfully unnecessary.

ISSUE 06: In Defense of My Tacky Nails

Small rebellions, maximalist tradition, and why a little too much is sometimes just enough.

There are a lot of things you learn to internalize about “good taste.” Wear neutrals. Buy the classic version. Keep it simple. Edit, edit, edit.

Then, enter stage left, my nails: long, coffin shaped, and (depending on the day) dipped in gold foil, tiny rhinestones, chrome gradients, or some aggressively unserious shade of bubblegum pink.

Tasteful? Maybe not in the traditional sense. Perfect? Absolutely. I’ve joked before about having “tacky” nails, with an accompanying wriggle of my fingers and pursing of my lips. But lately, I've been thinking about what that word actually hides. Because if we're being real, calling ornate nails “tacky” isn’t just about design—it’s about race, class, and gender. It’s about who historically got labeled as doing too much.

Long, elaborate nails—the kind stacked with glitter, stones, decals, 3D appliqués—have deep roots, especially in Black culture. Decades before it was showing up at fashion week or on Pinterest boards labeled “Y2K glam,” Black women were setting the standard: maximalist, unapologetic, and utterly inventive. Gold rings stacked to the knuckles. Names in diamonds. Tiny acrylic sculptures worn like crowns.

It wasn’t "extra." It was language. A way of announcing yourself in a world that constantly tried to minimize you.

So when we say ornate nails are “low-class” or “tacky,” we should also hear what’s underneath that idea: an old set of rules about whose self-expression gets called beautiful—and whose gets called “too much.”

The history of art is basically one long argument about where the line is between tasteful and tacky. In 1910, the Austrian architect Adolf Loos published his famous essay Ornament and Crime, arguing that ornamentation was wasteful, primitive, even immoral. A century later, for example, artist and designer Yinka Ilori builds entire spaces covered in color, pattern, and symbols—and calls it joy. Taste swings back and forth, but the point remains: sometimes decoration isn’t extra—it’s essential. It’s a declaration of life.

Here’s the thing: there’s something delicious about letting yourself be a little bad at a small scale. Taste—real taste—isn't about making everything smooth and neutral. It’s about knowing where to make a little bit of joyful chaos. One of my favorite quotes belongs to artist and poet Toi Derricotte: “Joy is an act of resistance.” It’s true in art, it’s true in politics, and it’s definitely true at the nail salon when you ask for the chrome flames and the tiny dangling charms even though you know it’s "too much."

There’s power in letting yourself love something outrageous, ornamental, extra. Joy isn’t a mistake. It’s the point. Having wild nails is like leaving one window cracked open during a thunderstorm, just because you like the smell. It’s sneaking out of your parents' house under the guise of studying for finals but really drinking Smirnoff Ice in a cornfield and making out with someone who you certainly will not be inviting to your family’s Thanksgiving dinner.

It’s the tiniest middle finger to the idea that everything has to be refined.

There’s a version of this energy in good design too. A pristine modernist apartment with one totally unhinged armchair that looks like it belongs in a cartoon. A sleek Scandinavian house with one bedroom painted highlighter yellow for no reason except that it feels right. A Chanel outfit with a giant clashing scrunchie shoved unapologetically in the hair.

Good taste isn’t about stripping everything down to some anemic vision of what it means (or what you think it means) to be high class. It’s about knowing where to break the rules—and doing it with a grin.

It’s funny how often the thing you worry is "too much" ends up being the thing that makes everything else feel alive.

Tacky nails, loud earrings, an absurdly ornate ceramic lamp—these aren’t aesthetic mistakes; they’re pressure valves. They let a little air in. They remind you that beauty isn't always solemn. That sometimes, a little chaos is the most elegant thing you can do.

And maybe that’s the real secret to good taste: Not taking yourself so seriously that you forget you have a body, and hands, and a life, and the right to wear tiny strawberries on your fingers just because it makes you happy.

This week’s goodies: unapologetic, slightly unhinged maximalist treasures.

Next week: double takes, double purchases, zero regrets.

ISSUE 05: The Taste of Texture

How Beauty, Brutalism, and Burnt Yogurt Are Basically the Same Thing

When I started paying closer attention, with intention, to objects, I realized something: a lot of the things I loved—the chairs, the buildings, the dresses, the bowls—felt...edible.

I don’t mean that I wanted to actually eat them (most of the time), but that they had some kind of mouthfeel. A tactility that wasn’t just visual. I wanted to run a hand over them. I wanted to chew on them with my eyes.

Texture is where taste, literally and figuratively, starts to collapse in on itself. It’s not just about how something looks. It’s about how it feels—and sometimes, about how it imagines feeling.

There’s a study from the University of Oxford that shows how our perception of taste isn't purely in the mouth—it’s processed by the brain in a way that's almost identical to how we experience art and beauty. Savoring a spoonful of food lights up the same brain regions as standing in front of a Monet or listening to music that makes you cry in public.

Which makes sense when you think about it: Taste (yes, with a capital T), whether it’s on your plate or in your living room, is a feeling first.

There’s a funny paradox here in that we tend to love both extremes when it comes to taste and texture; both jarring complexity and earnest simplicity spark a similar response. On the board in favor of absolute simplicity—a fresh peach in August, a brutalist building standing stubbornly against a blue sky. Nothing to explain. Nothing to interpret. It just is, and it’s perfect.

In complexity’s corner—a dish with six competing textures and seventeen ingredients you can’t pronounce but some way somehow, it all makes sense the second it hits your tongue. Like how a piece of Shiro Kuramata furniture can look like it’s from both the past and the future at the same time. Or a Dries Van Noten jacket that’s a little brocade, a little punk, and a little upholstery sample.

Texture is how your brain knows that something’s alive. That it’s layered. That it’s doing something more than just sitting there, looking pretty.

The other night, I had dinner at a spot where the chef sent out a dish described (very earnestly) as “celeriac three ways with burnt yogurt and smoked eel.”

This sounds, admittedly, kind of insane. But it arrived—angular, layered, a little confrontational. I took a bite, and immediately thought: Oh, it’s brutalism.

The roughness of the roasted root. The slickness of the eel. The bitter-sour slip of the yogurt. Hard lines. Soft middles. Sharp corners. Nothing blended—but somehow it balanced. It was the same feeling you get standing inside a brutalist church: a little overwhelmed, a little reverent, completely awake.

Not everything needs to be cozy or smooth to feel good. Sometimes it's better when it pushes back a little.

There’s something called oral haptics—basically, the way your mouth experiences texture as much as it experiences taste. The crispness of a potato chip, the silkiness of sashimi, the satisfying density of a good sourdough crust: they don't just flavor your food; they flavor your memory of it.

It’s the same reason you reach for the worn linen napkin instead of the pristine polyester one. Or why you want to run your hand over a concrete wall that still has the imprint of its wood forms, rough and splintered under the polish. Or why you feel vaguely disappointed when a beautiful ceramic mug turns out to be suspiciously lightweight—too perfect, too fake.

Your body knows what’s real. Texture tells the truth faster than beauty ever could.

Good taste isn't about making everything smooth. It's about knowing when smoothness matters—and when it really, really doesn't.

Sometimes the best thing you can experience is something slightly abrasive, a little weird, a little complicated. Something that makes you feel its presence—on your tongue, under your palm, somewhere in your chest.

Texture reminds us we’re not just eyes walking around on sticks. We’re bodies. And good taste, like good food, like good design, should never forget that.

This week’s goodies: rough, rippled, and punchy textures you’ll want to touch—and maybe chew on.

Next week: something polished... or maybe not.

ISSUE 04: On Hating Crocs and Loving Cy Twombly

Not everything that’s popular is redeemable. And not everything that’s scribbled is meaningless.

Let’s start here: I know that Crocs are comfortable. I know they’ve been reclaimed, restyled, and meme-ified into oblivion. I know that people “ironically” wear them and then slowly, tragically, stop being ironic about it. I know there are collaborations with Miu Miu, and I know that—God help us—there are high-heeled Crocs.

But I don’t care. I hate them. I cannot bring myself to like them, not even a little bit.

It’s not just about looks. I simply can’t get behind the idea of bulbous plastic as a design statement. There’s this idea floating around that if something is ugly enough, it becomes interesting (see also: pugs, linoleum tile, a toaster lamp). But I’m sorry…Crocs are not interesting. They’re just hideous.

Taste is subjective, sure. But that doesn’t mean it’s meaningless.

Walk into a contemporary art museum, stop in front of a Cy Twombly painting, and listen for the inevitable: “My kid could do that.”

It’s the most common insult hurled at abstract or gestural art. And on the surface, I get it. Twombly’s paintings do look wild and scribbly and unhinged. He draws like he’s possessed. He writes in chalk like a haunted professor.

But here’s the thing: Twombly could paint photorealism.

He had classical training. He chose to work this way. And that choice—that rejection of polish, precision, and perfection—is exactly what makes the work emotional.

There’s something deeply moving to me about someone who can do the expected, but doesn’t. Who uses their skill to undo skill.

A controlled unraveling.

A practiced chaos.

A gesture that says, I know the rules. I just don’t care to follow them.

I don’t believe good taste is about liking the “right” things. But I do believe it’s about being able to articulate what moves you—and what doesn’t.

I’m not judging people who love Crocs (okay, maybe a little), I just genuinely can’t understand it. They feel like the footwear version of giving up. They’re anti-silhouette and anti-story.

Twombly, to me, is the opposite. His paintings don’t try to be likable. They’re full of restraint and chaos and longing and scribbled myth. They don’t ask for approval. In Twombly’s own words: “I paint in order to see.”

There’s something there that feels honest. And that’s what taste often comes down to: honesty. Not what’s trendy, not what everyone else is pinning, but what actually resonates, even when no one else gets it.

One of the laziest critiques of abstract work is that it doesn’t show “talent.” That unless something is detailed, realistic, or time-consuming, it’s not “real” art. But that mindset completely misses the point of vision.

Photorealism shows skill. Twombly, for example, shows feeling— and sometimes, feeling is harder to get to with a visual medium.

There’s something brave about making work that you know will be misunderstood. That will make people uncomfortable. That will be ridiculed or dismissed…and doing it anyway. Twombly’s paintings don’t try to win anyone over. They just exist—with their scratches, their storms, their scrawled fragments of poetry—and if you’re open to it, they pull something out of you.

Let’s return to the crime scene: high-heeled Crocs. I don’t know who these are for. I can’t imagine the outfit that would make them make sense. They feel like the physical manifestation of sarcasm, like design lost a drunken bet.

And listen—ugly can be good. Ugly can be transcendent, even! I love a weird lamp. I adore “misshapen” objects. I could be convinced to wear a jacket that makes me look like a stylish sea creature. But this isn’t that, this is lazy ugly. Manufactured eccentricity.

And maybe that’s the line for me: Twombly’s work feels unfiltered. Crocs feel unearned. One is a raw decision. The other is a mass-produced shrug.

This isn’t really about Crocs or Cy Twombly. (Okay, maybe a little.)

It’s about being honest about what you like—and what you just can’t get behind. It’s about resisting the pressure to pretend you love something because everyone else does. It’s about taste as something that’s personal, not performative. Loving Twombly doesn’t make me deep. Hating Crocs doesn’t make me snobby. It just makes me someone with an opinion—and a lens.

Good taste isn’t about everyone liking the same things, it’s about choosing, noticing, caring; even if what you care about looks like a scribble.

This week’s goodies: weird, wonderful, stubbornly soulful pieces that refuse to behave.

Next week: where food, design, and beauty all blur together.

ISSUE 03: Wabi-Sabi and the Poetry of Imperfection

New York, chipped mugs, and learning to love what’s beautifully broken.

I’ve lived in some beautiful cities. Paris, where the windows are always taller than the people. Buenos Aires, where the buildings crumble with drama. Miami, which feels like a fever dream with good coffee. But I always come back to New York.

It’s not exactly “nice.”

It’s noisy, it smells like warm trash in the summer, and it constantly demands more than it gives. And yet, I love it the way you love something that’s earned your love.

Living here is like dating someone who’s kind of a mess but somehow still compelling—because beneath the chaos is something real, and specific, and full of stories.

This, I think, is the emotional architecture of Wabi-Sabi: the Japanese aesthetic philosophy that embraces imperfection, impermanence, and quiet charm. And though it’s often misinterpreted as minimalism with a side of beige ceramics, its spirit is far more interesting—and far less relegated to a Pinterest board.

There’s a reason your most beloved T-shirt is probably the softest, most worn-out one in the drawer. It’s stretched in the right places, the print is cracked, and the neckline doesn’t judge your hungover posture. It’s been through things with you.

“Wabi-Sabi is underplayed and modest, the kind of quiet, undeclared beauty that waits patiently to be discovered.” — Leonard Koren

Wabi-Sabi is about finding beauty not in perfection, but in patina. In the plate that got chipped during a dinner party with your girls, the hem that frayed when your cuffs unfolded as you walked through a new city for the first time, the apartment with uneven floorboards whose creaks you adore because they’re the first ones you paid for on your own. It’s about character, and character is what makes something matter.

We’ve somehow been tricked into thinking “tasteful” means slick. A perfect color match. A flawless finish. A — god forbid — palette of millennial gray because it’s “inoffensive” (which I patently disagree with, by the way).

But you know what has taste? The espresso machine with water stains from years of use. The mismatched ceramic bowl your friend made in a class. The 70s lamp that turns the room amber.

“Things wabi-sabi have no need for the reassurance of symmetry or perfection.” — Beth Kempton

Charm is what makes you want to stay in a space; perfection makes you afraid to sit down. New York is a Wabi-Sabi city. So is Naples. So is Oaxaca. These places are alive with cracks and graffiti and awkward sidewalks. They’re not sterile. They breathe.

When I visited Copenhagen for the first time, I remember being stunned by the beauty and cleanliness (of both the place AND the people). But…I was also weirdly bored by how perfect it all was. New York makes you earn it. And in that effort, you develop affection, like a dinner party where the lights flicker and the food’s a little cold, but no one wants to leave.

Beauty in imperfection isn’t just aesthetic—it’s emotional. It tells a story.

When you walk into someone’s apartment and see a beat-up table, or a threadbare throw that clearly gets used every day—that’s intimacy. You’re seeing evidence of life. That’s good taste, too. I should tell you: I’m a Scorpio, but with Virgo rising everywhere. My birth chart looks like an alphabet soup of fix-it energy. I’ve always had this deep, near-clinical need to organize, correct, streamline, and optimize, with color coded excel sheets to match. I live for plans. I crave control.

And yet—objects have taught me something astrology and therapists never could: it’s okay if something is wonky. In fact, wonky might be the point!

The table with uneven legs, the ceramic bowl that lists slightly to one side, the scarf with one thread pulling like it had a thought of its own—these are the pieces I remember. The ones I love. They're little rebellions against my compulsive need to fix, polish, and perfect.

“A crack is how the light gets in,” as Leonard Cohen said.

Loving something imperfect is its own kind of surrender. A letting go; a quiet rebellion against your own instincts. And in that surrender—there’s softness, there’s humor, there’s grace. I’m still learning this, but beauty, in its most sincere form, keeps teaching me.

In Japanese, Wabi originally meant “the loneliness of living in nature,” while Sabi meant “the patina of age.” Together, they became a worldview—a quiet appreciation for the imperfect, the impermanent, and the incomplete.

It’s not about mess. It’s about meaning. About noticing what’s there, not what’s missing.

This, to me, is the most emotionally intelligent kind of taste. Not what shines the brightest—but what resonates the deepest. I used to think one element of good taste was about precision (and maybe some part of it is), but I also think there’s a big chunk of it that’s about permission. The permission to love something with a crack in it, to keep something even though it doesn’t match, to stop apologizing for the chipped plate or the coat that’s a little worn but makes you feel like you.

Taste and appreciation for the imperfect is more than just aesthetic. It’s relational. You love a city or a space or an object because of its flaws. Not in spite of them.

This week’s goodies: Wonky, lopsided beauties that wear their “flaws” like jewelry.

Next week: a rant about Crocs and a painter who scribbled better than anyone.

ISSUE 02: A Color That Sticks With You

An emotional encounter with blue. Color as memory, as presence, as language.

There are moments when beauty doesn’t whisper. In 2020, I rounded a corner at a show and saw a piece by the artist Jae Ko, shown by Heather Gaudio Fine Art.

It was blue. But not just blue. A blue I swear I’d never seen before.

It hit me like an emotional 18 wheeler—sudden, total. I stopped short; my hand reached out without thinking, needing to touch it (I didn’t, of course, but the impulse was visceral). The surface swirled in sculptural folds, somewhere between silk and hurricane. The saturation was so intense, the room felt humid. My eyes adjusted to it the way they adjust to shadow or sunlight.

I’ve seen thousands of works in galleries and museums, but this was something different. This was a color that seemed to carry its own temperature. I never forgot it, and then I started to see it everywhere. Flash forward a year or two: I’m in Mexico City. I’m walking through one of those truly fabulous wide boulevards in Roma Norte, and the light hits a wall that’s been painted that exact same blue. And when I say exact, I mean synaptically identical. Like a mental flashbang. I stopped mid-step and just stood there, staring at the wall like it owed me something.

This is how color lives in us—it imprints. And when it returns, it doesn’t knock. It just shows up, loud and sudden.

Maybe it wasn’t exactly the same blue—maybe it was the architectural context, or the way the sun filtered through dusty glass, or the fact that I was slightly hungover and emotionally vulnerable from an overpriced mezcal tasting and being in love—but something in my brain connected. That blue from Ko’s piece and the wall in Mexico City now live in the same part of my mind, like cousins who didn’t know they were related until they met at a wedding.There is a weird intimacy to color memory. You never know when it will come for you.

Color has long been relegated to the “decorative” in the Western canon. Interestingly (and depressingly?), a recent study found that art has literally gotten less colorful over the last 200 years. Researchers analyzed over 14,000 artworks and found a steady decline in color variety and vibrancy. So if you feel like the world has become a little more gray—you’re not wrong. Maybe that's why that Jae Ko blue hit me so hard. It didn’t just stop me—it revived something. Like color as an act of resistance.

To me, color to me is often the first thing we feel before form or content registers. It works directly on the nervous system.

“Color is a power which directly influences the soul.” — Wassily Kandinsky

We’ve all had this experience: a saffron wall that makes you feel inexplicably cheery, a murky green that unsettles, a flash of neon that turns a corner into a scene. But the blue—that blue—was something else. It was interior, like an emotion I hadn’t realized was mine.

This encounter made me think about how rare it is to see a color that feels new. And how color is not just a visual experience—but a psychological one. And, in certain moments, a mildly disorienting one.

This particular blue lives in a strange aesthetic family. It’s close to Yves Klein Blue, an ultra-saturated synthetic pigment famously patented by the French artist in 1960 as International Klein Blue (IKB). Klein believed this blue could act as a portal—suspending viewers in a state of pure perception, unanchored by content.

“Blue has no dimensions, it is beyond dimensions.” — Yves Klein

Jae Ko’s piece felt like it came from that same lineage, but with its own language. Klein’s work was cool; conceptual in its remove. Ko’s was hot—textural, tactile, like blue had grown a nervous system.

It made Klein’s blue feel like the theory, whereas Ko’s felt like the emotion. That shock we feel with certain colors? It’s not just poetic. It’s physiological. According to color theorists and neuroscientists, saturated hues stimulate the retina more intensely, triggering stronger emotional reactions.

It’s why a high-impact color like cobalt or vermillion can feel like a mood, not a shade. Artists like Mark Rothko played with this tension—layering pigment to create a visual gravity. You’re not just looking—you’re being pulled in.

Jae Ko’s blue felt like that. A gravitational force.

Color is language, and like any language, it’s full of nuance, mispronunciation, regional dialects. In Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space, blue represents introspection and the subconscious—a color you drift into rather than observe. Derek Jarman’s film Blue (1993) features nothing but a saturated blue screen as the backdrop to narration about illness, memory, and mortality. The color becomes a place. A life. A loss. And in the global lexicon: blue means protection in Turkey, mourning in Korea, heaven in ancient Egypt, and basically “sad but make it artful” on Tumblr.

“Blue is the only color which maintains its own character in all its tones.” — Raoul Dufy

Color, then, is not passive. It’s a participant. It lives in context, and it lives in you.

Seeing Jae Ko’s piece didn’t just show me a color. It showed me that color — and taste — can hit like déjà vu. That a pigment can be remembered before it’s fully seen.

It reminded me that aesthetic experiences don’t need to be rationalized. They’re allowed to be irrational, excessive, even dramatic (which, let’s be honest, makes them more fun!).

Taste, as I’m learning, can often be less about “refinement” and more about reaction. And color—especially that color—was my gateway back into feeling something deeply, visually, without apology.

This week’s goodies: sticky, saturated, unforgettable blues that hit like a memory.

Next week: why imperfections are actually what make things worth loving.

ISSUE 01: Musings on Beautiful Things

In a world that’s very, very messy, let’s dare together to talk about beauty.

GoodTaste.World isn’t about telling people what to like. It’s about tracing the feeling that arises when you encounter something—an object, a space, a garment, a moment—and know, without being told, that it’s right. That it’s in good taste. Per the wonderful minimalist painter Agnes Martin: “The value of art is in the observer. When you find out what you like, you’re really finding out who you are.”

Let’s begin by dismantling a myth: that good taste is exclusive. That there’s a secret code, a price for entry, an inside world, an elite club of people who “get it.”

No; taste is a gut feeling. It lives in the body—the breath that catches when your hand runs across worn wood, the double-take when a vivid color practically sucker-punches you. It has nothing to do with money, or brands, or pedigree. It’s simply sensitivity—being awake to what resonates.

I’m not claiming genius, but I am claiming something real: I have good taste. It’s a strange thing to say out loud, but it’s true. In a vintage shop or flea market, sifting through clutter, I’ll pull out the one object that turns out to be wildly expensive and impossibly beautiful. I have something like an internal tuning fork—tuned to quality, intention, feeling. When you pick up something beautiful, its value is unmistakable. Not in its cost, but in its weight, its silence, its aura.

Taste is not a brand. It’s not a look. It’s not a particular chair or a certain color palette or a famous name. It’s the feeling that something has restraint, proportion, deliberateness. That it speaks, not shouts. That it carries the echo of the person who made it.

There’s a word I always return to: sublime. It’s not just “pretty” or “cool.” It’s something deeper. The sublime moves you. It unsettles, enchants, disorients, clarifies. In Camera Lucida, Barthes describes the punctum as the element of a photograph that pierces or wounds the viewer—something deeply personal and emotional. For me, this punctum, this sublimity, can be a worn staircase in a Mexican casita; a Dior pump, simple and unadorned, shaped like an idea; a Kara Walker silhouette that steals your breath and leaves you haunted. That’s the level of impact I’m chasing, and that’s what GoodTaste.World will explore.

For better, worse, or otherwise, my medium is my eye. I can’t sew, sculpt, or sketch. I can’t carve or weld. But I can see, and maybe that’s enough.

This newsletter is my creative output; a weekly exercise in observation and interpretation. My job isn’t to make the beautiful things, it’s to notice them. To celebrate them. To tell you why they matter. I take somewhat selfish solace in Susan Sontag’s idea: “An artist is someone who pays attention.” I’m paying attention and I’d love for you to pay attention with me.

Taste crosses disciplines. I like clothes. I like interiors. I like sculpture, food, photography, jewelry, furniture, books, typography, garden design. All of it sits in the same brainspace. Our culture tends to silo these things—treats them like separate worlds.

There’s no one I know of who helps you curate your entire aesthetic life. Why not? Why shouldn’t someone help you figure out who you are and express that through how you live, how you dress, what you eat, what your home smells like? Why have we relegated taste to interiors or fashion or art, one at a time, when in reality it touches everything?

Maybe it’s because we’ve been trained to see all of this as superficial. But what if beauty isn’t superficial? There’s a tendency—especially in intellectual or political circles—to dismiss aesthetic concerns as shallow. And of course, there are more urgent problems in the world. No one’s arguing otherwise.

But to dismiss beauty entirely is to misunderstand its role. Taste is a tool of self-definition. It’s an identity in motion. The dress you wear, the lamp beside your bed, the spoon you reach for every morning—these choices accumulate and shape your experience. They say something about who you are, whether you mean them to or not. There’s no such thing as a “small” detail. Charles Eames: “The details are not the details. They make the design.” He is talking of course about a specific design practice, but I believe this statement applies to all of life.

That’s the thing about good taste—it’s not performative. It’s intimate. It’s how you show yourself to yourself, and by extension, to the world.

So what is GoodTaste.World?

It’s not a shopping guide, though we’ll talk about objects.

It’s not an art or design blog, though we’ll talk about both.

It’s not a fashion column, though we’ll absolutely talk about clothes.

It’s a space to take beauty seriously—not as a status symbol, but as a language. A way of living. A philosophy. Each week, I’ll write about something that moves me: a color, a home, a gesture, an object. We’ll explore the idea of taste across disciplines, through a blend of personal reflection, curation, and quiet obsession.

Beauty is not frivolous. It’s not decoration. It’s how we interpret the world—and how we shape it.

Welcome to GoodTaste.World. You’re already in it.

Next week: a color that knocked the breath out of me.