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For Lona

In the den at Mama Helen’s house, facing the couch, framed right above the television hangs a big photograph of the Gabbay family posed together at Camelia’s Bat Mitzvah. After years of visiting Mama Helen, that family portrait has become ingrained in my mind. And what I remember most vividly from that photo – besides Camelia’s powder blue dress – are Auntie Lona’s bright red lips, kissing me through the glass. 

I will never forget the lip stain Auntie Lona left on my cheek that night. It was bold and bright and vivacious and so full of love, just like her. A mark so vivid I thought its stain would remain forever. In a way, it did. 

On the night of my Bar Mitzvah, Auntie Lona wore a beautiful, long, flowy dress – one that didn’t just move; it danced. The theme of the night was color, and she didn’t pick just one shade of the rainbow to honor, she dawned them all. It’s almost as if the garment was a reflection of her essence – vibrant, abundant and full of life. Towards the end of the night, we moved the party from the backyard to the living room, and I celebrated with the intimate group of guests that remained. Moonlight turned to candlelight, and there we were – Auntie Lona and I jumping in the middle of the room with everyone else surrounding us. I remember watching her move her hands and fingers through space as if the rhythm ran through her veins. No shoes or inhibitions, just the two of us having a full conversation without speaking any words. For those few moments, dance was our language and love our vocabulary. 

One Thanksgiving at Walden, I remember roaming the kitchen with some of the other kids as Auntie Lona was preparing our feast. Next thing I knew, she handed me a few dishes and asked me to set all of the appetizers on the table in the backyard however I liked. I looked at her in wonder. “Really Auntie?” I asked, blushing. She nodded and told me that she trusted my creativity and my artistic eye. I’ll never forget that exchange. That was the thing about Auntie Lona – you’d go to her house with an appetite for turkey and you’d leave with the confidence of an artist. She’d feed our stomachs, nourish our souls and point to the crumbs of confidence and beauty within us, inspiring us to embrace the most stunning scraps of our identities.  

Years later, when the time came to apply to college, I was scared. The little voice in my head called Doubt began to get progressively louder until that one night at Alta. As Shabbat with the Gabbays began to wind down, I found myself in the Love Garden sitting with Nina, my mom, Tania and Auntie Lona. I shared my hesitations about applying to NYU, starting a new life and making it in the big city. In those couple of hours, surrounded by a sea of flowers and greenery that put Eden to shame, Auntie Lona spun my worries into wonder. She urged me to think, but what if it happens? What if it all turns out how I want it to? What if it’s amazing? In that moment, she taught me that we must meet our fears and doubts with confidence, passion, love, joy, hope, and the promise of the possible. She would urge me to think big and manifest my wildest dreams, but to remember and honor my past always. As the night continued, Auntie Lona shared stories from her childhood spent with my mom ever since they were teenagers. The trips they would take together to Vegas and Canada with my grandparents, the slumber parties they’d have, the adventures they’d fall into, and the love that cultivated between them, first as best friends and later, as family. It wasn’t long until we were laughing and smiling at the stories she and my mom were telling us about their roots – and how those roots grew, and soon I forgot what I was ever scared of to begin with. 

On the day of Tania’s wedding, everyone in her bridal party met early to help our beautiful bride get ready and to take photos together before the big night. I remember walking into the space where all the action was happening. A symphony of laughter and camera clicks bounced against our eardrums, the air smelled like hairspray and celebration, and the love around us was palpable. I made my way through Camelia and Ariel and Sasha and Julie and every other soul that was there to help send off Tania Nahai into the next chapter of her life. And finally, there was Auntie Lona. With an up-do like a queen and her piercing eyes perfectly painted, she embraced me before continuing to make her way through the rest of the bridal party, complimenting each and every one of us on our gowns and suits. We were all wearing brilliant tones of blue, green, indigo, cobalt and emerald – and yet, she made every individual in that room feel as though the shade of fabric on their back was the most special thing she had ever seen in her life. And she meant it.

One night this past summer, Alex invited me over to his house. We were drinking red wine and dancing around the island in his kitchen when he asked me to play my music, so I connected my phone to the speakers in his kitchen and played a song we both love. After that song ended, Spotify took the lead from there and randomly chose a song of a similar genre to play next – a pop-folk anthem that I had never heard before. Next thing we knew, swooning orchestral strings started glaring through the speakers until the voice of a woman started singing, using the power of music to share lessons she’s learned about love, finding light within the dark, survival, time and just how fleeting life’s most precious moments are. Alex and I paused and asked each other what song this was, saying that we both felt as if we had heard it before. We hadn’t. I was in awe as soon as the song started playing, but once we got to the chorus, I was hypnotized.

The lyrics went: 

“If I could have one last time with you,

I imagine all the things we would do.

Love is in the words unspoken,

All these moments are golden,

Forever is mine with you.”

Those word were followed by an explosion of guitar strums, a thumping beat, and what sounded like a group of people chanting the lyrics “la la la la la” to a melody that sounded as nostalgic as it did new – reminiscent of old Jewish prayers along with words that didn’t mean anything, but meant so much all at once. After a few minutes, the beat faded and all that was left was the woman’s voice. She sang the song’s final words:

You know it only feels like darkness

‘Til somebody turns on the light

I’d live it all once again

With an alternate end

And I’d pay the highest price

To hold you one last time.”

Alex looked at me and asked if I could play the song again. So I did. And again and again. I knew we were both processing what we just heard and experienced together there. We agreed – the song felt holy. For the next hour or so, we were dancing. And so was she. I felt Auntie Lona’s presence so strongly that night – in the melody of the song, in the words being chanted, in the wine – both bitter and sweet, in the heat fuming from the stove and in the chilled summer breeze that trickled its way in from outside, grazing against our skin. She did always have a way of making an entrance. 

I share these memories I had with Auntie Lona because I know we have all experienced bits and pieces of them in our own ways with her. Moments with her that have made us all think and feel, learn and grow. 

She taught us all so much:

To be brave in pursuit of achieving our dreams.

To see each other for our souls and to embrace human beings for their spirits that transcend the boundaries of religion, culture, status and surface. 

To find comfort in nature. 

To dance to the rhythm of life, no matter how the melody might go. 

To discover ourselves daily and to continue to grow as individuals and as a race. 

To be artists, and to paint on the canvas that is life with wonder and curiosity. 

To believe in magic.

To be kind. 

To be strong. 

To be soft. 

To hold onto our joy and tap into our passions. 

And of course, to follow our hearts – the ones we find printed at the bottoms of our coffee cups, the ones painted in the clouds in the sky, the ones found in the shapes of leaves and in the branches of trees, and of course, the ones beating in our chests that give us the strength and endurance to honor her for eternity. 

Auntie, from the boy at Camelia’s Bat Mitzvah to the man standing here now – I celebrate you, I thank you, I love you, I miss you, I cherish you. Our cheeks may be clean today, but you’ve stained our hearts forever. Until we dance together again. Amen. 

Lifestyle

Moonlight – A Birthday Reflection

“Fly me to the moon

Let me play among the stars

Let me see what spring is like 

On Jupiter and Mars.”

I’ve always admired Frank Sinatra’s ode to affection…and the moon – a mid-tempo memento of a love larger than life. Recently, however, the classic anthem that has echoed in our minds for years took on new life – with its title serving as the WiFi password in the house that my friends and I stayed in this past weekend. And while we weren’t exactly on Jupiter or Mars, we were the closest I’ve ever felt to space: Joshua Tree, California. 

Drive far enough through a dry sea of mountains and mystique, and you’ll reach a Spanish-inspired desert oasis. Two rustic black gates gently creaked open, cutting through a warm mist that swayed against our skin. We were led down a sandy driveway that was paved amongst endless cacti, and the quiet promise of the adventure that was to come. Once we reached the entrance to the house, pushed open two towering caramel doors and stepped inside, we were greeted by the moon-man himself. There he was – Frank Sinatra, painted in stunning hues of indigo, cobalt, orange and gold, staring back at us. I wondered why our host decided to devote such precious real-estate in the house to Frank, taking up one of its largest walls to commemorate the crooner. After speaking to our host to let him know we had successfully arrived, we went ahead and asked why the house was speckled with Sinatra. As it turns out, he used to own it, and lived in it years ago. (No wonder the WiFi password was named, quite literally, “FlyMeToTheMoon”).

It all made sense now. What wasn’t as clear to me, though, was how I became so blessed to have a group of friends who turned a spontaneous trip away into an intimate birthday celebration for me. 

As much as I adore twirling around a big, bright dance floor with friends overflowing beyond its borders, scaling down the celebration felt refreshing – even humbling. This year, as I completed another journey around the sun, I was surprised with the gift of quaint simplicity – ringing in twenty-seven sitting around a glowing fire-pit in the middle of the desert, with some of the most beautiful souls I’ve ever encountered, right beside me. Together, we channeled our most authentic, unfiltered selves. Picture fifteen silhouettes caught in a canvas of never-ending starlight – dancing in cowboy hats, spilling orange punch out of paper cups, picking out rainbow confetti from each others’ hair, revealing our most prized confessions to one another between songs, exploring the grounds like children, and laughing until tears slid off our lashes and dropped onto the golden sand beneath our boots. 

On this birthday, after a challenging period when everything was uncertain and left up in the air, I finally felt grounded again. I was re-introduced to a mentality rooted in joy, a way of life entrenched in the values of hope and exuberance that I almost forgot how to practice. Over the past year, I was confronted with hurdles grander than Joshua Tree’s tallest monuments: incredible losses that took pieces of my heart along with them, moments of discovery that thrusted me into daunting, uncharted territories – out in the world and within me, contemplations of the colorful identity I strive to uphold in a world that felt very bleak at times, and an air of loneliness that we all grappled with, in one way or another. 

Even in the midst of a weekend fueled by happiness, I urged myself to take the time to reflect on this past year. And as I did so, I almost felt guilty for celebrating myself. But as we continued to sit before the fire on our last night at the house, a realization came to light: if we remain complacent in our pain, we will never overcome it. When life gives us hell, we must dare to dance in the heat until the flames of our sorrows burn to ashes. Yes – there are some heartbreaks we can’t fully extinguish, ones that flicker faintly for life. But maybe our ability to persist, even with our pain, can shed light on our strength and our capacity for triumph. After all, it’s the darkness of the sky that allows us to see its stars – or the moon, for that matter. 

Reflecting on this past weekend, I would have never expected to celebrate my twenty-seventh trip around the sun in the home of a man who just wanted to fly to the moon, in the name of love. The irony is almost magical. While the journey was anything but linear, as we danced in the desert together somewhere between Jupiter and Mars, I never felt more of a sense of belonging than I did then and there – right here on Earth.

To the promise of many more moments in moonlight for us all. May we continue to dance. 

Love, 

Current Events

Heart Strings & Humanity: A Pandemic

I like to describe myself as a hopeless romantic. Not solely when it comes to people, but to life itself. Some think that’s a bad thing, but I pride myself for it. No matter how mundane or ordinary something might be, I try to extract some hints of romance in whatever I see and experience around me. I think life is more exciting that way. If we think openly and look deeply enough, there are traces of beauty in almost everything.

With a global pandemic at its peak, however, we might encounter a shortage of inventory in the romance department. We’re living in a time that leaves us with no choice but to stay at home away from friends and family, isolated in our own little nooks of the world. There isn’t much beauty when it comes to such a force that pulls us away from the things we love – and as such, we’re forced to find things at home to excite us – or to pass the time, at the very least.

This week, I ventured down to my parents’ house, my childhood home, and took a self-isolated stroll down Memory Lane. I found myself rummaging through old, brown cardboard boxes that had been shelved and stored for years in the corners of the attic – collecting dust and the promise of an unexpected epiphany.

With my hands dirty, fingers faint, I had a lot to sift through – with the end goal to organize the clutter I brought home with me after my move from New York. Most things went into the “throw away / donate” box, but some pieces got moved to the sacred “keep” bin, full of belongings I didn’t have the heart to let go of: my NYU bobcat doll I bought at the book store on Broadway, negatives of film from my photography class my sophomore year, a crumpled up list of goals I scribbled down (one of which included “start a blog” – go figure), and a tiny family portrait that kept me company in the big city.

Finally, I came across loose sheets of paper from my past classes – one of which had the heading “String Theory” written in daunting bold at the top. I seldom enjoyed learning about physics, but this particular theory we studied caught my attention: “In physics, String Theory is a theoretical framework in which the particles around us and between us are seen as strings. It describes how these strings propagate through space and interact with each other, creating and bonding all objects.” In other words, from what I gathered, we are essentially all connected by strings of energy. I’m no scientist, and I never excelled in physics, but I’m speaking to my interpretation of this topic. (Isn’t life itself a series of our interpretations of the events that happen to us, anyway?).

For some reason, this sheet of paper that explained this concept struck a chord with me, (quite literally). At a time like this, when the strength of our relationships and the security of our bonds are being tested, perhaps comprehending a scientific theory through an emotional lens can provide us with some unforeseen clarity and meaning – not so much about physics, but rather, humanity.

The universe works in mysterious ways. At a time when we’ve been required to isolate from one another, life has brought about so many events and occasions that have left me with the emptiness of the moments that could have been, with the people I love.

I wish we could have danced together on an overcrowded, neon-lit dance floor until our legs (and our heartaches) went numb. I wish we could have laughed together over wine under fading sunlight without the worry of our fingers grazing each other when we clink glasses. I wish we could have held one another while we cried through those moments of despair and loss. I wish we could have clasped hands in the name of love and the celebration of new beginnings. I wish we could have.

My lifelong best friend turned twenty-six a month ago. We celebrated over video chat with all of our friends, as we waved to each other through a symmetrical grid of video squares. She blew out the candles on the cake that her friend held up in the video square next to hers. None of us know what it tasted like, but we can imagine.

My two friends got married a few weeks ago. Instead of celebrating in a grand ballroom as we had originally planned, in trim tuxedos and towering gowns, everyone drove by their house and honked with joy, and later watched them celebrate through our screens at home. They tossed mounds of pearl-colored rose petals onto themselves and danced – the same petals we would have thrown down onto them had we been there in person.

Passover at our home wasn’t as crowded this year. Our whole family would have been together, occupying dozens of seats down a thin vertical table of herbs, wine, eggs, and matzah. But this time, it was just the five of us in my immediate family, and the cheer when my little brother found the hidden afikomen was a bit fainter than I’m used to.

My aunt passed away recently – our Queen of Hearts, as we called her. She was infatuated by anything and everything that represented love and life and peace and togetherness. She tirelessly fought her battle with cancer, but ultimately decided she could more effectively share her light with us from the other side. We were supposed to host her memorial service to honor the amazing woman that she was. Instead, her loved ones shared the memories, moments and stories we cherished with her through text message with one another.

We’re navigating the depths of a time when six feet apart is as intimate as we can be, video chatting is the new norm through which we spend time with one another, “I’m outside” is the new “I love you,” and the strength of our relationships is as fragile as a piece of string.

Most of the time, the strings that connect us seem indestructible. We take for granted the moments when we feel as though nothing can break us apart against our will. And while physics tells us we are eternally connected by strings comprised of particles of energy and force, it seems that the ones that hold us together, the strings that connect us through the holes in our hearts, might not be as durable.  

Or maybe there is more to this perspective, more to this “science,” than I thought – even now. Maybe the strings that bond us don’t break; maybe they just bend, curving and connecting us through different paths than we’re used to being linked. Lauren still celebrated another year around the sun, and the metallic confetti I bought months ago will be put to good use in due time. Nathan and Dani still got married and they still heard our cheers – even if they resonated through the speaker of their computer. Our Passover may have been less eventful than usual, but that didn’t stop my family and I from stumbling through the prayers with amusement. And finally, we’ll still hold an official memorial for my Auntie Lona eventually. Although we couldn’t honor her like we had planned with the hundreds of people who adored her, we still found a way during these circumstances to commemorate the vibrant, boundless spirit she was in a way that felt truthful and intimate and spontaneous and authentic – just how she would have liked it.

The repercussions of this challenging era have brought to light a captivating realization I never expected to unearth at this time – let alone at the bottom of a brown cardboard box. The delicacy of our connections shouldn’t discourage us and belittle our will to love; rather, the fragility of the strings that bond us should inspire us to honor the ephemeral nature of our relationships. They don’t last forever, and they might not always live on in the ways we’re used to them existing – so why not embrace them and cherish them as fully as we can while we have the chance?

Years ago, a professor handed me a piece of paper that tried to teach me that we are physically bound by strings composed of particles of physical energy. I never fully grasped the concept, but I was intrigued by the topic. Over the course of these past couple of months, life handed me a series of occasions that didn’t have the capacity to bloom into the events they were meant to become – a slew of moments that revealed a different side of this scientific theory to me, one that pertains to life more so than I could have ever imagined. And while physics is still not my strong-suit, one of its theories made me rediscover the resilience of our humanity and the subtle strength of our strings.

I guess there’s some romance in everything if we look hard enough. It’s science, after all.

Lifestyle

New Year’s Eve & A Disco Ball

Just like most twenty-something year olds out there, my friends and I love a good party. As a matter of fact, we live for them. No matter where life takes us during the week when responsibility occupies the forefronts of our minds, the weekend lends us the opportunity to follow our hearts. And more often than not, our hearts lead us straight to the dance floor.

It should come as no surprise that we couldn’t wait for the biggest bash of them all: New Year’s Eve. When we began planning this year’s festivities, we did our research – looking up every venue in LA to find the perfect party, from the wonders of West Hollywood to the depths of Downtown and all the dance floors in between. But for some reason, nothing truly resonated with us. As glamorous as themes like “Old Hollywood” and “The Roaring Twenties” sounded, we were all hoping for something more fun and less fancy. So, what do you do when you can’t find a party that sparks your interest? Throw your own, of course.

This year, we traded in debonair for disco. Twirling neon lights reflected off of long metallic streamers we hung from the ceilings that swayed to the vibrations of the synth anthems glaring from our speakers. Together, my friends and I transformed a two-bedroom apartment into a makeshift discotheque and crafted the evening of our dreams with as much scotch tape as we had spirit. Laughter and confetti filled the air as we celebrated the beginning of a new era with as much nostalgia in our hearts as we had hope for the future.

Champagne toasts and gold-rimmed Polaroids aside, however, the most vivid, poignant moment I experienced this New Year’s Eve took place the afternoon before it. Surrounded by islands of glitter and millions of balloons mingling above me, I stood in the center of the living room with a giant disco ball in my hands before I hung it up. As the last rays of the decade dimmed their shine and dusk made its grand entrance, I paused and soaked in a final moment to myself.

There in front of me, I saw myself in a new light. As I held the centerpiece of our night in my hands, my reflection stared back at me in so many different little shapes and colors – warped, distorted and broken up into a thousand pieces of tiny, mirrored glass.

Never did I think a disco ball could make me feel small and vulnerable. But for once in my life, feeling little was liberating – even humbling. Seeing traces of myself in a round sea of miniature silver squares, I realized what a small place I occupy in this life, and that the world I live in is much larger than I am. It’s so easy to place ourselves on a pedestal – to put ourselves first and to view ourselves as these mighty beings around which the world revolves. But in reality, we inhabit such a small speck of space in the universe – like a piece of glass in a disco ball. Acknowledging this truth might encourage us to place less pressure on ourselves to live up to a standard larger than we truly are. We’re all just tiny pieces of light trying to shine on the dance floor that is life – and when we’re modest enough to realize that, perhaps that’s when we can shine our most vibrantly.

As it seems, I was looking so forward to the party itself, and yet the time we took to set up is what shaped my intentions the most powerfully for the coming year:

I hope that we all embrace those shifts in perspective and vision that catch us off-guard, that open our eyes to the true essence of our being. Those moments when we find ourselves face-to-face with a disco ball rather than below one for a change, and see ourselves in a dimension that is colorful and glimmering, small and infinite.

I hope that when we don’t love the parties life offers us, we throw our own – and dance to the beat of our own playlists with pride and joy.

I hope we see that no matter how much time passes, some things never change. (There we were belting “Dancing Queen” in the year twenty-twenty, after all).

I hope we gain the clarity to understand we don’t need a dance floor to feel like we’re on one. Sometimes the song in our souls is just enough.

And lastly, I hope we are always surrounded by people we love, who will never let us dance on our own. Those who will keep us thriving on the dance floor, and bask in the light beneath the disco ball alongside us.

To the promise of this year and many more to follow…

Happy New Year!

Yours, Always,

Lifestyle

The Summer Of…

There’s still sand at the bottom of my backpack from the shells that I collected in Fire Island, a New York subway pass stuck at the bottom of my wallet that allowed me to explore the city through its veins, multiple “goodbye, miss you already” messages lingering at the bottoms of my text conversations with friends that live across the country, a burnt wick dwindled down to its core lying at the base of my coconut-lime candle that I bought at a flea market in Maui, a fading stamp to Mexico sitting on the last page of my passport, square polaroid photos of our days in Malibu and nights in Hollywood stacked in the bottom drawer of my nightstand, and the rhythm of this time of my life still thumping through the bass notes of my “Summer 2019” playlist that I’m listening to as I write this reflection. 

The remnants of this past summer might remain in these bottom compartments of my life, but their memories live-on top of mind – as if these past three months all took place just yesterday.

The summer of 2019 was the summer of many things…

It was the summer of dancing through my parents’ backyard to celebrate my sister’s and my birthdays, under a sea of red umbrellas that hung upside down above a white dance floor on the lawn. We swayed to Spanish guitars and chased one margarita with another until we fell into a total trance of tango and tequila.

It was the summer of spontaneity – of waking up on a Sunday morning and planning to set out on a classic LA hike with friends, and ending that same night by the beach, toasting to the sunset unfolding before our eyes.

It was the summer of sunblock – buying a bottle and not using it because we wanted to get tan, ending our beach days red like lobsters and ending those nights with prayers that our burns would soon turn into the perfect golden hue that would last forever. Sometimes they didn’t – but at least we had hope.

It was the summer of eastern sunrises – and staying up until dawn beachside just to watch its colors delicately explode in the sky before us.

It was the summer of eating raw cookie dough and drinking rosé from the bottle in makeshift beds brought to life by outdoor lounge-chair cushions dragged inside onto the floor – and waking up on them feeling as though we had slept on goose-down.

It was the summer of dance – underneath the sunlight in Central Park next to a picnic blanket to the sound of a tiny speaker, and beneath the glare of a giant disco ball beaming above us on the dance floor, where we left our hearts and some confessions along the way – ones that made us smile and others that cut through us like knives. (Who knew that the dance floor is a place that can make us feel as vulnerable as it can make us feel empowered?)

It was the summer of realizing what we want, and standing up for that want, and making it happen.

It was the summer of growth and progress and perseverance and dedication, and hoping that all the hard work I put into building up the bricks of my own business will someday turn into an unshakable empire.

It was the summer of reconnecting with family members that visited from further, more cultured corners of the Earth – and picking up right where we left off a few years ago.

It was the summer of Mom’s homecooked Persian food served with as much flavor as there is love in every dish.

It was the summer of rain and thunderstorms – staying dry and hiding from them beneath a giant hut in Puerto Vallarta, and then embracing the damp as we danced through the storm once we had to leave our temporary straw-shelter behind.

It was the summer of temporary tattoos, and the heart-shaped tan lines they’d leave at the brims of our bathing suits.

It was the summer of writing post cards and messages with incorrect grammar for the sake of evoking emotion – and feeling so right doing so.

It was the summer of California palm trees – and gazing at them, rows at a time, as they’d fill my sight whenever I’d look up to the sky.

It was the summer of crisp white apartment walls and filling their faces with vibrant pieces of art – and making my version of a house feel like a home.

It was the summer of laughter.

It was the summer of unexpected discovery.

It was the summer of tears – both the happy and sad ones.

It was the summer of transformation.

It was the summer of nerves and risks and taking them.

And most of all, it was the summer of being twenty-five, moving from New York across the country to LA, and trying to grasp this thing called life without holding onto its reins too tightly. Allowing my heart and my mind to catch up to one another, and learning the difference between being a hopeless romantic and a smart one. Finding myself, creating myself, building myself, loving myself, loving others, and wiping away the fog in our sunglasses and dusting off the sand from our laps to see and stand up with pride and bravery, as we take our next steps into adulthood – all in these few shorts months we call “summer,” where the lines between mundane and magical intertwine and dance to the beat of an irresistible synth-pop anthem, creating a moment in time that’s as temporary as it is endless.

This summer made me realize that sometimes, all it takes is a rise in temperature for us to gain the courage, excitement, will, hope, fortitude, perspective, and passion to live to our fullest capacity and potential – no matter where in this world we find ourselves. It doesn’t matter if we’re at the top of a skyscraper in New York City or at the bottom of a bottle of Cabernet in California. Perhaps summer is more-so a state of mind than it is merely a season – and with that comes the opportunity to simply be, more colorfully and unabashedly than we ever thought was possible.  

As it turns out, the grains of golden sand at the bottoms of our backpacks will eventually fall out and the shells we collected at the beach will crack. The polaroids will gradually fade and our warm caramel tans will transition into chestnut-colored leaves that hang above us. The beats that once swept the dancefloor will become faint echoes, and our beachside sunrises will survive as glowing pixels in our phones.

So, with this cycle, perhaps the most poignant part of summer is its ending, serving as a reminder that life doesn’t stop for us; it goes on. And while its memories will live-on vividly, top of mind, we must live it fully, in real-time, while we can.

Summer 2019, if only you could have lasted forever. Thank you for the memories, the joy, the heartbreaks, the lessons, the celebrations, the adventure, the growth, and all the mindless moments in between that were, simply and effortlessly, beautiful.

Until we do our dance again…

Yours, Always,

Lifestyle

A Boy & The City – Goodbye, New York

Sometimes in life, we’re faced with experiences that make us feel things so deeply, that we just can’t find the words to describe how we feel at the time.

I lived in New York City for almost seven years and just moved back to Los Angeles in March. But it wasn’t until visiting the city this month and returning as a tourist on vacation that I was able to assign words to the millions of emotions I was feeling.

– – –

Seven years ago, I moved to New York and I met a boy. Right there in the middle of all that concrete charm, surrounded by ripe tulips, lush greenery, and the promise of the most unexpected adventure, I met a sweet, inexperienced, fresh-eyed, timid, curious, guarded boy in Washington Square Park. Standing there as a Freshman, at the steps of Hayden Hall and on the edge of adulthood, he had no idea that NYU, his end-goal, was merely the beginning. And so our story begins.

College is a very odd, perplexing place. A space where we’re told to grow into the people we’re destined to become in just four short years – all through courses and professors and exams that assign a number to our worth. It didn’t take long for me to realize that those scores and numbers didn’t mean as much to me as the number of nights my friends and I spent stumbling down MacDougal Street, singing and dancing our way through the dark, seeking the next stop in our Friday night escapade on a (sometimes too) warm summer’s night. The number of walks down Fifth Avenue between classes when I’d stop for a coffee and interpret the foam-art in my cup like an abstract masterpiece at the Met. The number of times I’d clink glasses of pink Cosmopolitan punch with my cousins over dinner as we’d toast to merely celebrate that we all found the time to reunite. The number of Polaroids I’d stick to the bulletin board above my bed, vibrant with construction paper and nostalgia. The short number of steps I’d tread down the hall to knock on Jordan’s door just to say hi. The number of phone calls Alex and I would have just to fill each other in on the most magical, mundane parts of our day. And most of all, the number of times I’d look out a window, gaze out to the skyline, and feel so delightfully small in such a big city. Sometimes feeling small is the most liberating feeling you can feel in such a vast world.

The exams and written statements may have gotten me my diploma, but the moments in between made me feel more human. And I think that’s the greatest accomplishment of all.

Soon enough, pink punch-cocktails turned into violet caps and gowns. In the wet blink of an eye, my friends that had turned into family and I were graduating at Yankee Stadium. The snapshot will always remain embedded in the crevices of my memory: There wasn’t a cloud in the sky that day – only tassels swaying above us to the music, painting a purple mosaic in the air that represented so much more than graduation, but confirmation that we accomplished a feat that felt unattainable at times. I guess that’s one of the most significant lessons I learned during my undergraduate career: that which might seem daunting and impossible is really just a party waiting to happen, if you hold on tight enough during the ride and learn to let go at the same time. Keep your faith so alive and allow the universe to take care of the rest. We can work tirelessly and strive so hard to achieve a self-imposed dream, but sometimes what’s to come is inked in the stars already.

And the stars – those mysterious little specks of hope in the dark mural that’s the night sky – are what gave me the courage to continue living in New York, even after I graduated. The city can be a tough place. I have never experienced a land filled with so many people that live so closely to one another, where everyone can still feel so lonely. I can’t count the number of times I’d walk up Madison Avenue each morning to the PR agency I worked at, to pass by hundreds of people who wouldn’t make eye contact with me or exchange a brief smile. But the optimist in me refused to believe that this morning behavior was right. (Come on, people – throw back your espresso and learn how to be warm and present and approachable.)

But now that I look back, I see that maybe my morning walks to work were amongst my most valuable rituals I experienced in the jungle. I learned first-hand that just because others might live their lives in isolation with their heads down, trapped within the mental confines of their nine-to-five’s – that doesn’t mean that we must do the same. We can be kind and just as bold and successful as all those who don’t choose to smile.

New York opened my eyes to the reality that there are so many people in this world. Before moving to the Big (more like huge) Apple, I would have never guessed that meeting quality individuals would require me to sift through what can feel like an endless gold mine – a landscape that might sound shiny and abundant. But it turns out that to find gold in a mine, we must dig through endless mounds of dust and coal to find those specks of stone that sparkle amongst the rest.

Fortunately enough, I gradually found myself in the company of people who beautifully contradict the spirit of those closed-off pedestrians I’d encounter on the daily. Men and women who shine amongst the coal, who have filled and fueled my heart with compassion and strength and excitement and joy, and the genuine belief that people do exist in that city and in this world who want you to succeed, and who will be there to celebrate your small, daily victories on your way to your life’s big dreams.

That’s another thing New York taught me: to dream – without fear or hesitation. The city itself was built upon the promise and fortitude of dreamers after all. A rhythmic island of individuals who gathered from all around the world to build a better life – and to live it. I once heard that when New York was being built upon its conception, contractors didn’t have much room to build wide; space was limited horizontally. So, they built upwards. It turns out that even the city’s architecture, its makeup, its blueprint, has inspired me to dream. Look at the Empire State Building, the Freedom Tower, the Chrysler Building… Even some of the tallest, most majestic and iconic buildings in the world have their heads in the clouds.

Seven years ago, I met a boy. (The same boy I mentioned earlier – shy, timid, free of experience). He would have never dared pop his head up into the clouds, see the view from above, leave the world below behind, and dream. Well, as it turns out, that boy is gone, and now a man stands in his presence. I never expected that a move to a new city would provide me with the scraps of wisdom, confidence, heartbreak, spontaneity, strength, brains, and soul, to say goodbye to that boy and to gracefully leave him in the past.

I came to New York with a shell. Over time, that shell turned into an armor – and for a while, it didn’t quite sparkle as brightly as I would have liked it to. But as time went on, as I lived more and learned from those experiences, I continued to discover the man behind the armor, and I allowed him to reveal himself authentically with pride.

I started writing this reflection about my experience over these past seven years. But as I continued to let my fingers dance across this keyboard, I realized that this afterthought is less about me and more so about New York City – and all that it taught me:

  • Living alone in a new city, (no matter how glamorous and sparkly it may seem from afar), can be as painful and difficult at times as it is rewarding and wonderful. Sometimes life in a place like this makes you question why you ever moved there in the first place. But staying there answers all of those questions.
  • The subway is a warm, sticky, horrible place. If hell manifested itself into a place on Earth, that would be it.
  • Heartbreak comes with being human – (and a New Yorker, more specifically). Being vulnerable and open and bearing your soul is beautiful and brave. Just because someone doesn’t like you back doesn’t mean you are unlovable. It means they might just be incapable of loving.
  • Most of the time, dollar pizza is better and more satisfying than any gourmet Italian meal you’ll find in the city. (The quality spots are also open all day and night.)
  • Sometimes we have to endure the physical burn that a walk-up will induce. Carrying your groceries up five flights of stairs is as tough as it sounds. But dinner will taste better once you make it to the top and you will have the best hamstrings of your life after a few climbs.
  • Distance does in fact make the heart grow fonder. Call your parents often. They appreciate it more than you know and serve as a constant reminder that there is a place for you out there whenever you don’t feel at home.
  • In a city where you don’t have much family, hold on to your friends for dear life. In a place like New York, friends become family, and that’s more meaningful than I could have ever imagined.
  • Glitter-confetti is extremely difficult to completely wash out of your hair and rub off your skin. The celebration is also worth the scrub that follows.
  • There is no place like the top of The Plaza Hotel to hide away from Hurricane Sandy and watch the snowflakes do their dance.
  • New York doesn’t have much nature, (in the classic sense of the term), and that’s fine. The city makes up for that lack with parks and rose gardens that are carved into little squares of concrete, and leaves in the autumn that gather in the trees and collectively look like auburn chandeliers, and rooftops that can evoke more height and magic than California’s tallest mountaintops.
  • And lastly, New York will always be there.

The beauty of traveling as a tourist to a place that once was home is that you see it in a different light every time you return. The surprise, however, lies in the reality that each visit feels completely unique.

Each time I visited New York since I left, each trip has felt different. And each time, I’d ask myself why. It turns out that the city hasn’t changed at all – but I have. People, places, and sights that I used to feel accustomed to suddenly feel new. But no matter where in the world we live or travel, we change – we grow – we flourish – (like a beautiful tulip in Washington Square Park at the end of a summer season and at the beginning of a freshman year at NYU). And that’s what New York has made me realize. I will continue to evolve – as will we all. But she will always be there waiting for me, to remind me of where my journey began, and where I spent the most wonderful, memorable, crazy, difficult, painful, rewarding, joyous, eye-opening, meaningful years of my life. The place where I will continue to retreat, to remind myself of the progress that I’ve made – and to celebrate that growth.

Sometimes in life, we’re faced with experiences that make us feel things so deeply, that we just can’t find the words to describe how we feel at the time. And then the time finally comes when the words rush in and fill the gaps of emptiness we feel when we close one chapter and begin another.

New York, you crazy whirlwind of a place, you – you took my breath away. But now that I look back, I see you gave me wings instead. Thank you for it all.

Love Always,

 

Lifestyle

Locked Doors & Love

I don’t know much about love. Most of what I know stems from what I dream up from books and movies, and what I see around me – couples that mindlessly wander down Waverly Place, simultaneously lost in lust and yet profoundly aware of each other’s presence.

I wasn’t planning on writing about Valentine’s Day at all. What does a single guy in the city have to say about love? But it seems that my eyes – (and perhaps my heart, too) – were both a bit more open than usual. The occasion inspired me to think about the boldest four-lettered word of the bunch.

LOVE.

What a tricky thing to grasp. You would think Valentine’s Day, an occasion about extravagant displays of affection, would shed some light to help us understand more clearly what love is all about. Or perhaps the holiday just complicates our understanding even more.

Locked Doors & Love

In the endless sea of kisses and locked arms I witnessed around me on that day, I saw just as many, (if not more), single people. To us, we parties of one that went about our day solo, a bouquet of flowers wasn’t a gift to give or receive but just a pretty sight. Champagne and chocolates were just sweet indulgences rather than a dessert that follows a candlelit dinner. And February 14th was just another brisk Wednesday in the Village.

As I’ve had a few days to reflect on this truth, I find myself in a state of foolish bewilderment. You’d think that in such a big city, in such a vast world, everyone would have an easier time finding love and we’d all live happily (hopefully) ever after.

I’d like to imagine we’re all single until we aren’t – until you meet the person who turns on the lights in the glass butterfly conservatory of your soul and opens its doors. That special someone who commands the stars to align above you for the perfect sky, who makes you feel as though a stroll is a dance and a bouquet is a forest.

So, I must ask, why so many single people? Where are all of our plus one’s hiding?

Perhaps real life isn’t as simple as the storybooks and love isn’t a pop song. Maybe we’re picky in our pursuits of companionship, or our skin is thicker than Cupid’s arrow is sharp. Whatever the reason, we’re always assured that “the one” is out there waiting for us somewhere. We’re told that whenever one door closes, another door opens, and whatever is meant to be will happen on its own – in love and in life. So we’re told.

Whichever way we decide to interpret this narrative, I wonder, however, whether the line between hopeless and passive romantic has become blurred. I’m starting to think I disagree with what we’ve been told.

As a single man, I’ve always been more conscious of the presence of couples around me. Yet, this Valentine’s Day, for some reason my attention was drawn to the other team in the game.

For we singles, love may very well be waiting for us somewhere in the world. I’d like to think everyone’s knights in shining armor are on their way. There’s something refreshing about being a hopeless romantic and believing in love wholeheartedly. But maybe we can be brave, active romantics too – agents of our own exploration for romance. What’s the point of waiting around for love when we can set out to find it instead?

I’m not suggesting we divert from the paths of our daily lives or aimlessly travel around the world to find romance à la Eat, Pray, Love. Perhaps we could simply be more aware of our surroundings, ourselves, and each other. As I passed by bars and looked around me on the street, what I saw around me on Valentine’s Day made me wonder – maybe if we took our eyes off our screens constantly and our lips off our wine glasses, we’d feel more inclined to look around and speak to one another.

I wish I could make a profound statement about love or share a revelation I experienced on Valentine’s Day. But for now, I’ll leave you with a question:

What’s an open door good for if we don’t walk through it? How do we even know a closed door is locked unless we try to turn its knob? Perhaps a closed door is just as powerful as an open one if we take the initiative to go up to it and give it a push or simply knock. Who knows who might be standing on the other side.

Whether single or taken, Valentine’s Day can inspire us to put ourselves out there, to be more present and open hearted, every day of the year. Maybe the holiday itself isn’t just about celebrating love, but also about getting up and setting out to find it. It has to be out there.

XOXO,

Daniel

Travel

Sunsets, and 2018

December 31, 2017

Beach

There’s something liberating about stopping to watch a sunset. Something refreshing about planting your feet in the wet sand, and forgetting about the rest of the world that exists beyond the horizon line. Embracing feeling little and surrendering yourself to that grand painting of light in the sky, and watching it unravel the way it chooses to before your eyes. One might even call that brave.

I would.

As I witnessed one of the final sunsets of the year last week in Maui, I stood there in awe – my eyes wide and my heart full – curious to see how the sun would decide to make its exit that day. I was stunned by the beauty in front of me, but even more so, by how poignantly something as simple as a sunset bears the perfect opportunity for reflection, if you let it. Pink clouds turned to orange flames and what was once a canvas of blue became covered in gold brush strokes. I stared at the sun, and so many hints and traces of 2017 stared back at me.

The past year was full of rewarding triumphs and joyous celebrations, fresh faces and unexpected romance, growth, progress, failed attempts at long bred aspirations and new dreams discovered, endless laughter, and losses that took pieces of my heart along with them. As I looked up, I looked back – and somehow, I saw it all again in front of me.

Maybe I’m crazy for seeking clarity about life by gazing at the sky. Maybe I was just picturing things. Maybe I was just imagining New York’s skyline floating in the blue – my sweet escape for the past five years. Maybe the bottle of champagne my friends and I popped on the first night in my new apartment didn’t truly take shape in a Hawaiian cloud. Maybe I was mistaken when I saw my future soul mate’s eyes in the sun. Maybe my great grandmother’s face that I said goodbye to this past year didn’t actually emerge above the sea, and my mind – and my heart – played tricks on me.

Or, maybe life is more like a sunset than we might expect. Maybe we are too.

Sunset

The more I think about it, the more I realize how 2017 shattered me a bit. But if it weren’t for the breaks in the clouds during a sunset, the sun wouldn’t beam through on its way down. In the same way, perhaps the parts of our hearts that chip and break away over time don’t necessarily leave holes or gaps, but rather spaces, for new light and life to pass through. I’d like to hope they do.

I think the only thing more beautiful than what you see in a sunset, is what you don’t see – the parts of the sunset that are not yet visible in the sky, that we can only imagine. It seems there’s even a sense of mystery that comes about when watching a sunset – a pleasant, freeing feeling of not knowing what colors, textures, tones, and shapes are going to appear next. Perhaps life itself can be as beautiful as a sunset if we let it be, if we don’t control it and just watch with awe as it unfolds.

As the sun sets on 2017 one last time, my wish is that we enter the new year feeling as open, reflective, inspired, little, humble, mindful, mindless, and even brave as we do when we watch a sunset reveal itself. And as we step into 2018 and leave the last remnants of 2017 in the dusk, I hope each day is filled with as much wonder and excitement as the first time we stepped onto the beach, squeezed the sand between our toes, and felt the water brush over our feet – and with as much presence, value and appreciation that we’d feel as if today is our last walk along the shore.

Because life is full of sunsets – but no matter how the sun decides to leave us each night, no matter what emerges in the sky before us, and no matter how life proceeds, by the end of it, we’ll all be basking in moonlight.

Happy New Year,

Love,

Daniel

Maui

 

Lifestyle

The Circus: Halloween 2017

There’s something delightfully odd about Halloween; no one goes as themselves, and yet everyone seems to feel right at home in their own skin. It’s almost as if the personas we adopt have lived within us all along, and we just bring them to surface for the night.

Whether we dress up or dress down, snag a treat or play some tricks, Halloween gives us a reason to distance ourselves from our ordinary identities, and to celebrate that gap in between. And in that gap, in the space between our regular selves and the façades we take on, we become artists, craftsmen, and visionaries. Our skin becomes our canvas, and we have the ability to create whoever or whatever it is we imagine ourselves to be.

Clown

This past weekend, my friends and I did just that. We traded in our regular personalities for some more intricate masks. Fangs in, claws out, blood painted and whips in hand – the moon was our spotlight and we went to the circus. Well, Brooklyn, that is.

Just for a night, ten twenty-something-year-olds who call each other friends became ringleaders, mimes, clowns, tigers, acrobats, and harlequins. We ventured from the West Village over the bridge to Williamsburg and stepped into a world where freaky was the fashion and normal was a sin.

House music flooded the air, cages of fire breathers swung above us, strobe lights pierced through the dark, and we creatures of the night claimed the dance floor as our own. I walked through House of Yes and explored each of its rooms. Observing the rest of the people at the club, I was amazed at the transformations I saw around me. But it wasn’t until I looked into the distorted funhouse mirror there that I almost didn’t recognize myself. There I was: a clown in a black vest under a round top hat. A red teardrop streamed down my cheek and grey contact lenses pierced through my eyes. The tip of my nose adorned burgundy, and the rest of my face painted every other shade of white I didn’t know existed.

Strangely enough, not recognizing myself instantly in the mirror was as jarring as it was exciting. I felt as if I had come face to face with someone I had never met before, but who looked oddly familiar. My costume even disguised me from myself for a moment, and that mystery was liberating. Perhaps that’s what came over everyone so infectiously on the dance floor – not just the music, but the invisible cloak of anonymity that hung over us all. No one looked like themselves, and perhaps that’s what made us all feel so free. The House became a sanctuary, dance our religion, and disguise our equalizer.

It was refreshing existing in a space where we were all covered in paint and feathers and glitter – and skin color, ethnicity, and race all faded away, even for just a few hours.

Finally, the clock struck four, the magic of our masks began to wear off, and our feet got tired of dancing. We made our way back into the city and bid farewell to the circus.

When I got back to my apartment and looked in the mirror, I could see much more clearly in the light this time – finally acquainted with the clown gazing back at me. I washed off my makeup, pulled out my contact lenses, took off my hat – and there I was, my regular self. As much as I enjoyed the alternate reality we discovered at House of Yes, I found comfort in being myself again as the sun began to rise.

Now that I look back, I think what made our night so magical was the fact that it was temporary, and that we knew we’d make it back into our own skin once the show ended and the curtains closed. Perhaps we escaped so freely into the circus because we knew we only had a few hours to be in it. After all, we couldn’t be lions, clowns, and ringleaders forever. But maybe that’s the true beauty of Halloween – that it forces us to find enough escape and liberation from the real world in just one night, to make us feel secure and comfortable enough in our skin again thereafter – until next year anyway, when the circus comes to town once again.

The Circus

Fashion & Style

Catwalks & Cages: NY Fashion Week

I take photos of everything: my day-to-day’s and special occasions, the mundane and the extraordinary, moments when I’m grounded and happy, and times when I want to fly away. All of it. Photography has always been a channel through which I’ve been able to escape the constraints of reality, to access a creative realm in which I can feel a bit freer.

This week in particular has made me feel trapped within my tasks and weighed down by my responsibilities. I’ve wanted nothing more than to break free from the invisible chain that ties me to my desk, dive back in time into summer, and swim away. So, in the spirit of escape and nostalgia, (and a manic case of the Mondays), I dug back into the archives to see what imagery I had locked away in my laptop to plunge into.

Monse

Photographed by Daniel Gabbay

Sifting through my albums, I made my way through hundreds of photos: from snapshots of my morning latte art, to glimpses of my lunchtime strolls in Midtown, selfies with friends on a night out, to portraits of my feet planted by beds of roses in the West Village. And of course, my gallery from New York Fashion Week – a spectacle unlike anything I had experienced before. A mere few days that made me fall in love with New York City, spring, summer, and, well, clothing, all over again. (Who knew sequins and stilettos could characterize the seasons more perfectly than the cycle of nature itself?)

Monse, J. Mendell, Marchesa, Alice and Olivia, Oscar De La Renta, and my favorite, Philipp Plein. You could say I attended a diverse mix of shows – ranging from ultra-feminine pastel gowns to embroidered whips and chains transformed into high fashion manifestos. I guess the world of fashion has no bounds.

As I looked through my library, reliving my peeks backstage and my moments of awe beside the runway, I discovered a theme that I didn’t notice in person. The ideals of discord, cacophony, and inconsistency, a lack of fluidity, and the motif of “hard versus soft” seamlessly merged to tell an unexpected narrative – a beautiful love story that pieced together before my eyes, from a new perspective in the screen in front of me.

Monse

Photographed by Daniel Gabbay

Monse

Photographed by Daniel Gabbay

Monse staged its runway on a basketball court, sent out jersey-inspired dresses made out of sparkling sequins and crystals, and paired athletic gear with couture. The opposing forces of high-fashion and sportswear bounced off of one another and created a thread of innovative creations.

Marchesa

Photographed by Daniel Gabbay

Marchesa

Photographed by Daniel Gabbay

Marchesa brought a fairytale to life in the most un-fairytale-like setting. Opulent gowns, rich pastels, dancing chiffon, and lush florals bloomed beautifully in an entirely black, industrial warehouse that was converted into a runway. (Talk about opposites attracting, and so stunningly.)

Oscar De La Renta constructed paint splatter out of embroidered beads on blazers that kissed the ground. All the colors of the rainbow and all its shades between wove together into easy cocktail silhouettes, short shorts, fitted t-shirts, baggy button-downs, and dramatic gowns that could shimmer from a world away.

Oscar De La Renta

Photographed by Daniel Gabbay

Bella Hadid

Photographed by Daniel Gabbay

De La Renta’s palette was as chaotic as it was cohesive – but oddly enough, that lack of cohesion brought a fluidity to the collection. Most of its pieces had nothing to do with one another, and that’s what strung them all together. Their striking differences were a harmonizing force, translating such dissonance into a realm of towering high fashion. Lastly, before Bella Hadid and her army of mannequins came to life with the catwalk, they descended down a shining metallic escalator that led to the runway.

Who knew such a sterile, modern construct could serve as the perfect backdrop for such an organic, raw, vibrant, warm collection of clothes?

Oscar De La Renta

And of course, our master of ceremonies: Philipp Plein dreamed up a world where chains, whips, chokers, skulls, rips, bare skin, distressed denim, and quilted leather are graceful and romantic – a collection as electrifying and shocking as it was passionate and full of life. But the most powerful moment of all were his cages. In classic Plein fashion, our dare devil mastermind sent a handful of models down the runway with rigid black cages fitted around their bodies – all placed over soft flowing gowns from their necks to their knees. By audaciously placing such a harsh object over smooth, liquid-like dresses, Plein married two opposing elements, and with such harmony. He wrote a love story that his models brought to life as they infused romantic fluidity into a symbol of unwavering rigidity. They made those cages move and I was in awe.

Philipp Plein

Image courtesy of Vogue.com

Ironically enough, these images spoke to the reason I decided to explore my photos in the first place – to escape those moments that make me feel like I am being caged – whether that cage is a challenging Monday, day-to-day tasks at work, or responsibilities that come with being an adult that can make us all feel confined and limited. But more importantly, they made me see my limitations through a refreshed lens and approach the discord in my day from a different headspace.

Just as Adriana Lima assertively and unapologetically strutted down that Plein runway in a flowing gown, moving the cage strapped around her body, we too can find some flexibility in the cages of our daily lives and seek strength and beauty through their holes. I always thought we must overcome life’s limitations, but as it seems, maybe the smarter move is to reshape them.

Philipp Plein

Image courtesy of Vogue.com

Of course, this discussion is figurative, but it stems from a place of authentic truth; if we apply Plein’s show to the contexts of our lives, we discover that the struggles we face don’t have to restrain or define us. Life doesn’t have to be so linear. Our daily cages – the moments of dreary responsibility and discomfort we experience – can serve as opportunities for innovation, inspiration, liberation, and self-discovery. Perhaps we can even reinterpret those things that make us feel restricted and allow them to empower us – to be even more passionate and confident in our actions and our perspectives.

As it seems, therefore, New York Fashion Week was more than just a parade of elegant clothing, glamorous shows, mile-long runways, and supermodels. In retrospect, the week was a call to action to embrace the dissonance in the palettes of our lives, to seek cohesiveness within the chaos, to unveil the harmony that lies within contrast, to make bold choices, and to tap into that fiery, confident place within us to bend the cages around us.

Whether we’re walking in a fashion show, watching one by the runway, or reliving one behind our desks at work, we all can find some flexibility in life’s restrictions. Perhaps when we embrace those limitations and seek a potential for growth and beauty within them, that is when we see the most clearly, thrive the most triumphantly, and allow the bent traces of our cages to become our greatest accessory.

Oscar De La Renta

Photographed by Daniel Gabbay