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.