By 9am we were in an even further-uptown gallery space, conducting installation on an art event we’d designed for that evening and were in the final throws of producing ~ directing furniture deliveries and art handlers, trying to make a vast concrete gallery space feel like the sun-bleached beaches of Montauk for 100 of the city’s top art investors. I was single-handedly assembling picnic benches and helping build teepees, arranging flowers, and spray-painting designs onto t-shirts, to be worn in a few hours by surfer girl cater waiters. Constant, kinetic, creative motion.
I found a seat in the window and slurped down half a glass of lemonade in one gulp. Ravenous and tired, I shoveled a single spoonful of quinoa, swallowing without chewing. I looked out the window, concealing or quelling indigestion. That’s when I saw her.
Like a lightning bolt, I was back out the door. Within minutes, I’d bought two of copies of her top from the H M on Broadway, and by the next day my sister had too. It’s the find of the summer! The unofficial uniform. As perfect over a bikini as it is under a suit, I’ve worn it nearly nonstop ever since. Unsurprisingly, everywhere I go, strange girls sidle up to me, shyly and sweetly asking where they can get one too. I can relate to their curiosity so I’m happy to share the secret. Now, back to that salad still buried at the bottom of my bag…
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