I’ll confess: navigating the block of 34th Street between 6th & 7th Avenues is not one of my favorite weekend activities (nor, for that matter, something I typically enjoy any other time of the week). Through Sunday, however, I recommend not only doing it, but doing it multiple times. The vicinity surrounding Herald Square is of course home to Macy’s New York flagship–retail behemoth, tourist mecca and registered landmark. An estimated 7,000 people pass by the store in a given hour, many of them window shoppers. And this is your last chance to take in those windows, part of Macy’s seasonal satellite exhibition series, Art Under Glass.

This fall, the retailer partnered with the French Institute/Alliance Française (FIAF) as part of their Crossing the Line festival, marrying burgeoning design talent (art) with unrivaled market exposure (commerce). While bigger may not always be better, in this instance the pairing is ideal. Given the task at hand, i.e. essentially creating an installation that both celebrates and questions the idea of Americana, it works, both spatially and conceptually.

The windows themselves offer the artists mini, albeit hyper-visible individual galleries using actual Macy’s merchandise; the dichotomy between personal and shared space is both rare and entirely welcome. Co-curator Julie Boukobza likens the windows to “seductively hybrid spaces, between white cubes and the streets of New York City,” which “tend to reflect the concerns of our times.” Macy’s thus becomes, in Boukobza’s words, “a landmark of the American dream and its own interrogation.”

Participating artists include Marie Losier, in collaboration with Aya Kakeda and François Leloup-Collet; Olivier Babin; Sarah Ortmeyer; and Marie Maillard and Amélie Chabannes. AIDS 3-D, a partnership between Nik Kosmas and Daniel Keller, is featured, as are artists collectives Visual System (VS) and The Bruce High Quality Foundation.

The series also features Rita Ackermann and Agathe Snow, who created a multi-media, disco homage to the late Michael Jackson, entitled Mama Si Mama Sa Mama Co Sa…Liquid Man. Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir, aka Shoplifter, a native of Iceland and the woman behind Bjork’s Medúlla album cover, got a little equine this go round. Like much of her work, Arnardóttir’s installation, Then they arrived at glacial speed, makes quirky, elegant use of hair, including that belonging to one very large, white horse.

Americans Nick Van Woert and Michael L. Yinger worked with found objects and recycled materials, respectively creating ten small shadow boxes featuring an array of handbags, sunglasses and shoes in Knock Off, and an oversize “map” of the United States, entitled Seen it all, I’m already there.

Yinger’s work is largely autobiographical, and in this instance included album covers and prescription pill bottles. A couple materials didn’t make the cut. This being Macy’s, the artists were subject to at least a little scrutiny. At the press preview I asked Yinger what had been omitted. “Bullets and cigarette butts,” he replied, smiling.

+Sarah

Macy’s, 151 W. 34th St., New York, NY 10001

All images courtesy of Mark Rifkin.

In conjunction with the launch of both their SS/2010 collection and new e commerce site, à la disposition designers Daniel and Lynda Kinne essentially wanted to “create a space that enabled the participant to step inside the mood of the season.” To wit, brightly-hued, rope-like flowers, and subtle, slightly sweet incense compliment their vibrant wares–which you can of course also touch.

Asymmetrical, shaped and draped shirts of Italian silk chiffon and Swiss cotton batiste feature alternately full and fitted sleeves–pouf capped and cuffed to better accommodate two amazing styles of jacket: the silk-and-cotton shoulder “sling” and the double-breasted, sleeveless/gathered sleeve.

20+ mannequins within the bi-level space don à la’s designs (a combination of both ready-to-wear and bespoke showpieces). José Ricardo García’s video presentation adds another layer of sensory engagement

The two models-cum-actresses serve as foils: while one traffics in the demure, doe-eyed and pensive, her counterpart is feral, creepy, and, we’d imagine, a little crazy. Both are seductive. Aurally, the purposely grainy short features crashing ocean waves, what sounds like a leaky faucet, glass being broken and lots o’ white noise.

Given à la’s penchant for sharp tailoring and meticulous attention to detail–Daniel himself described many of the looks as “severe”–thematically speaking, the film’s very non-precision works beautifully. Check it out.

Collective Memory, thru 15 September, 69 Mercer St., between Spring & Broome, NYC. www.aladisposition.com

Currently the subject of two bi-coastal exhibitions–an eponymously-titled show spanning nearly six decades at MoMA San Francisco, and the much-hyped retrospective at New York’s International Center of Photography–Richard Avedon has recently received some (well-deserved) summer love. And now we can officially add another, markedly smaller offering to the mix: MoMA’s acquisition of 39 of the late photog’s most iconic images, dated from 1953-2002.

While a few familiar faces pop up (Veruschka, Marilyn, et al.) the selection skews male-centric, featuring the likes of Bob Dylan, Malcolm X, Marcel Duhamp and a young Lew Alcindor, aka Kareeem Abdul-Jabbar. Infamy also gets its due: Avedon took a break from playing shutterbug to models and celebs to shoot The Chicago Seven, circa 1969.

At MoMA’s Edward Steichen Galleries thru 22 March 2010.

All images courtesy of The Richard Avedon Foundation.

+Sarah

Introducing a greatest hits collection a mere five years after your label’s debut takes some chutzpah. But model, DJ and designer Telfar Clemens has done just that (and damn well I might add!) with UN.DER T, a unisex diffusion line featuring smocked tank tops, drop crotch pants and kimono cardigans.

Like his eponymous menswear label, TELFAR, Clemens’ latest collection adheres to a seemingly contradictory, albeit wholly-appropriate aesthetic: ‘Simplex,’ the fusion of both simple and complex design conceits.

Simultaneously fluid and sleek, many of the pieces toe the line between sporty and sexy.  Cotton tops are smocked, hooded and cropped; slim-fitting pants are balanced by voluminous, ‘Simplex’ sweatshirts or ‘triple’ tees. Think a little Y-3, a little old school Helmut Lang–both, admittedly, personal faves.

Still, UN.DER T retains a distinctly unique flavor, due in large part to the designer’s knack for continuously staying one step ahead of the zeitgeist. Bear in mind: Clemens was showing similar looks when the very idea idea of ‘drop crotch’ or ’skinny’ menswear was anathema to all but the most daring dressers. Appealing to both sexes with a single collection is hardly an easy sartorial feat, but Clemens has done a stellar job.

UN.DER T will be available beginning this week exclusively at EVA, 355 Bowery between 3rd and 4th Streets, NYC.

+Sarah

For more info regarding TELFAR or UN.DER T, contact Kelly Mills at info@faag.us

à la disposition’s Daniel and Lynda Kinne don’t do sequined minidresses, distressed denim, shiny leggings, or graphic tees. True, their design aesthetic conjures period power dressing, but we’re talking 1880s, not 1980s: Think corsets, cummerbunds, balloon sleeves and the occasional bustle, coupled with meticulous, bespoke-style tailoring. The result–pinned, tucked, draped and crafted by hand–combines couture-like detail with an avant-garde commercial appeal.

Having recently seen the duo’s designs in person, I can fully attest to their sublime elegance, rendered all the more covetable by Lynda and Daniel’s innate understanding of fit, form and contour. Bottom line: Victoriana-inspired, architectural rigor and an intrinsic, quiet sensuality easily make à la disposition a stand-out amongst a sea of nostalgia-choked labels bent on rehashing the all-too-recent past.

Following presentations during Paris Couture earlier this month, Lynda and Daniel will be showing their S/S 2010 ready-to-wear collection, Collective Memory, at Amsterdam’s Modefabriek/Cutting Edge by appointment this Sunday and Monday. à la disposition’s presence is testament to the fashion world’s faith in the label’s viability: only ten up-and-coming designers are given this platform each year.

If a trip to the Netherlands isn’t part of your itinerary this weekend, stay tuned for a little stateside action come September. Lynda and Daniel are set to launch an exhibit in conjunction with New York fashion week, featuring both prêt-à-porter designs and signature pieces created exclusively for the show. Details TK. I’ll be there, observing and reporting.

+Sarah

For more information regarding à la disposition, contact Kelly Mills at info@faag.us or go to aladisposition.com.

All images courtesy of à la disposition.

Last January the always lovely Miss Sara Rosen sent me a copy of powerHouse’s Spring/Summer 2009 catalogue. While I typically find their roster pretty stellar, one book in particular intrigued me: Pillage, the début novel from Brantly Martin. I figured if Sara was behind it, it had to be good, and lo and behold, I wasn’t disappointed.

Pillage revolves around a crew of young, downtown-dwelling Manhattanites occasioned to excess. Cracula, the protagonist, is canny, disillusioned, depraved and ultimately, very human. We see things from his perspective, and that vantage point vacilates, easily, between reality and fantasy.

I spoke with Martin via email. Here’s what he had to say:

At one point you were pretty firmly enmeshed in the New York nightlife scene, a host at and patron of some of the city’s most popular clubs. Fast forward. Now you’re a happily married, published writer living in Rome. What happened in the interim?

I’m not sure if interims exist.  The wheels were always in motion, sometimes spinning.  I think it’s safe to say I was a fixture (sometimes an illustrious ca’ rezzonico providing the dim light, sometimes a dilapidated cuckoo clock from the black forest) in the 10:00 PM to 4:00 AM circuit for almost a decade.  It was great until it wasn’t.  Even then it was something.  I’m annoyed when friends (quasi or otherwise) that used to work in, hang out at, or frequent New York illusions of the night in any capacity feel the need to distance and bash, past tense it though they are vampires and it’s The Middle Ages they speak of.  As jobs go, it was much better than selling roasted corn in a flea market off Eldridge in northwest Houston during 110 degree summers (or sitting in an over air-conditioned office feigning interest in energy trading software).  I’m from as middle-class America as it gets.  I saw a great deal of the U.S. growing up (unlike most born and bred New Yorkers) but there were no European vacations on our schedule, know what I mean?  Over the past nine years I’ve covered a great deal of the Earth, made some of those rare life long friends.  I’ve also had the pleasure of hanging with the most seedy, disreputable, scheming, conniving, hustling (yet charming) snakes in the world. And yeah.  Now I’m married to a lovely woman and living in Rome.

From what I’ve gathered, the Cracula character was based loosely (or not so) upon you. How much of what transpires in the book was true to life?

I can tell you that it’s not me.  The closest parts to reality are the out and out fantasy bits (slicing tongues off, visiting alien planets, flying over Manhattan).  Some of the dinner conversations are pretty accurate, not even I can make up the depths we plunge to find common ground and get what we want from our neighbors.

For a book in which the characters are primarily consumed or preoccupied by sex, drugs and alienation, there’s a fair amount of talk revolving around religion and spirituality, some of it genuine. Does it function as a foil of sorts?

Perhaps they all take turns playing foil to one another? There was no intent (for that I would have written an essay and not a novel) to juxtapose layers of themes on top of one another.  People are complicated, most folks are hypocrites (sometimes in the best way).  The only one of these things I wanted to address in PILLAGE is (nouveau) spirituality.  That word (movement, brand, philosophy) has been commodified and sold more than sex, drugs, alienation, and religion over the past 10 years or so.  At heart and in its origin spirituality is a simple and honest concept.  It’s now sold as the answer to or salvation from all American ills.  I think it’s on its way to becoming the biggest American ill.  The word has been hijacked. It should be retired for a generation, then reintroduced.

Manhattan (referred to in the book as ‘The Island’) comes across as a pretty maddening, empty place. Has time away from the city and the club scene changed your perception?

New York will always be a home of sorts.  There are many types of vortexes that exist only there: some are maddening, some empty, some fun, many lead people to believe that life does not exist outside of New York.  My perception of the city and the club scene are different than Cracula’s.  Both New York and the club scene seem to be in better places than they were a year ago.  I know a lot of people would disagree and mention the all powerful crisis…but after spending a week there for the book launch I felt that some of the clutter has been washed away.  I found a lot of my friends living in bigger apartments for half what they were paying two years ago and I found the nightlife chugging along, as always.

Pillage is a work of fiction, but guessing who’s who must be irresistible to some.  Have you been confronted by anyone over their alleged portrayal?

To me it’s complete fiction.  Even if someone were to attempt to recreate exact scenes from 5, 10 years ago they would be unable to do so (and often are).  Ultimately, the writing is good or it isn’t.  Period.  The story is the least interesting thing to me.  A few people had some comments on how they were depicted and none of these folks were even a slight inspiration for characters (or have read a novel in the past 10 years).

Because the book centers so much around one city, as well as a very small subset of its population, do you think readers outside of New York will enjoy it as much as those privy to the scene?

Good question.  Could go either way.  If you enjoy writing for writing (and you enjoy the style of PILLAGE) then perhaps you’ll dig it more.  If you need reference points to guide you through and spot your imagination, maybe not.  Again, I find the story/plot the least interesting part of novels (though I suspect I’m not in the majority on this).  More than the city or scene, I’m finding that people are having a problem with the dialect and colloquialisms.  I’m also finding that some people are enjoying that aspect.  So I suppose my answer is: I have no idea.  If you’re someone who enjoys fiction these things are never a problem.  If you can only process glorified press releases then you might be frustrated.

Reading ‘Pillage I was reminded of Bret Easton Ellis, particularly his ability to prompt simultaneous feelings of envy and revulsion in the reader. Have people expressed similar reactions to you?

Some have, though I don’t see that at all (the Ellis thing).  (Note: Re: Ellis–I was thinking Glamorama or Lunar Park as opposed to say, Less Than Zero or American Psycho). There are some bits where people are eating at downtown New York restaurants, perhaps on their way to downtown New York clubs…other than that, I don’t see any similarities.  Though I haven’t read so much of him.  From what I recall his presentation of words is more justified, classic.  Hopefully the style of PILLAGE is its own.  I think that’s the point.  I have gotten some intense reactions, they seem to be ambiguous though, perhaps fermenting later into envy, revulsion, or whatever else…those expressed to me have been more scattered and confused.  Living in Rome I’m a bit insulated to those gut reactions I’d get by walking down Spring Street.

Have you got anything else in the works right now?

I’m working on a book of short stories and on a Science Fiction novel set in the not so distant future.  The shorts seemed to have won out for now, putting the Aliens on ice for a bit. But that could change, or merge.

+Sarah

Cover photo courtesy of powerHouse Books; Author photo courtesy of Brantly Martin.

While attending Tuesday’s press preview for Isabel Toledo: Fashion From The Inside Out, I watched the Cuban-born designer gamely answer questions from Fox 5 regarding The Dress. Technically, it’s a citron-colored, winter lace sheath and matching coat, i.e. an “ensemble,” but that sounds both awkward and vaguely pretentious. As the reporter nervously conceded pre -interview, he didn’t really know who Toledo was, let alone anything about her work (or, I’d imagine, the glamorous, mysterious, decidedly non-Fox-ian world of Fashion).  I grinned and nodded knowingly. Their exchange proceeded smoothly, illuminating absolutely nothing new or interesting about the designer, her repertoire, or Michelle Obama.

While Toledo’s admittedly grateful to the First Lady for having heightened her profile (particularly outside of New York) I could tell that she had tired of the subject, reciting factoids initially verbalized months ago: Michelle shops at Ikram in Chicago; Michelle has championed a number of lesser-known, American designers; We didn’t know she’d be wearing the outfit until we saw it on TV, etc. Yet all the attention, particularly via the internet, has largely been welcome. “As a small business you don’t get that much coverage,” Toledo explained (to me, not the Fox guy). “Being online and having that voice has actually given me a whole other audience that I didn’t know about it. They’re very much aware of who I am.”

Toledo’s work is best described as ‘demi-couture,’ incorporating many of the meticulous, labor-intensive creative practices specific to haute couture with a more consumer-friendly, RTW accessibility.

Toledo considers herself a “seamstress” as opposed to a “designer,” often conceptualizing an idea or feeling with the help of husband/collaborator Ruben, who then gets to sketching. Garments are thought out and subsequently evolve three dimensionally by manipulating materials or trimming patterns. “I think of it as fashion from the inside out,” Toledo says.

The show’s dresses, coats and skirts (a pant-less exhibition) are categorized thematically, based upon the myriad styles, influences and techniques that encompass Toledo’s vast oeuvre: “Liquid Architecture,” for one, was a term coined to describe the way pliable textiles, like rayon jersey and jersey crepe, fall and fold when contouring the body. Other categories include “Shadow,” featuring see-thru wares fashioned of lace and mousseline or organdy and chiffon, and ‘Suspension,’ comprised of jersey and taffeta dresses hanging easily from thin fabric cords or cables.

This isn’t Toledo’s first retrospective, nor will it be her last. Widespread commercial acclaim has thus far eluded her, but she remains critically stalwart, a “designer’s designer” widely respected by industry insiders. Though I’m loath to use the word, annoyed by its ubiquity of late, here it is: her looks aren’t just elegant, they’re timeless.

Each and every piece in the exhibit could be worn today as easily as when it was first created in the 1980s, 90s or 00s. To wit, Toledo has resurrected looks from her archive (tinkered with only slightly) to be sold at Barneys, Nordstrom and yes, Ikram, in the fall through the end of the year. Barneys will feature select pieces in a trunk show next week.

Toledo told me that initially her love of sewing was just that–a fun hobby. “I didn’t think it was going to be a career. I never imagined doing this for a living,” she said. “The thought, ten years ago, when I got my first retrospective was ‘wow, I’ve got fingerprints, I’ve made an imprint that’s recognizable.’ As a designer, that’s inspiring. I’m not thinking about a fashion moment but about a body of work, a language.” Here’s to la lengua Toledo gaining currency.

+Sarah

Isabel Toledo: Fashion From The Inside Out at The Museum at FIT, thru 26 September 2009

When I was 12 I asked one of my parents to drive me to Borders so that I could buy a copy of Michael Gross’ sure-to-be-salacious work of investigative journalism, Model: The Ugly Business of Beautiful Women. I don’t recall how I initially learned of the tome’s existence (nor, later, what it contained) but this being 1995, there was a good chance that I read about in one of the six or so fashion rags to which my family subscribed. Often my mother never got around to actually reading the magazines, since I took them as soon as they landed in the mailbox.

From sixth through tenth grade my bedroom walls were obscured by models, some in adverts, provided a company logo was relatively small, but mainly in editorial spreads. I typically preferred the extra-large matte shots from W or the grainy, haunted Paolo Reversi pics from The New York Times Magazine. A few covers made it into my ridiculous collage-cum-wallpaper too, including an all-time favorite: Nadja Auermann, photographed by Patrick Demarchelier for September 1994’s Bazaar. Beyond Nadja, I also of course liked Kate, and Stella and Kristen and Guinevere and Amy and Amber and Erin. Shalom only sporadically. I absolutely adored the idea of ‘heroin chic,’ which I found myself defending (to whom, I now wonder) given its obvious inherent glamour.

I recently glimpsed the Nadja Auermann cover again, while shuffling, cattle-like, through The Model As Muse: Embodying Fashion at the Met’s Costume Institute. ‘Marc Jacobs is a designer,’ I heard one out-of-towner tell her understandably bored husband. ‘Mmm hmm,’ he replied. I actually noticed quite a few equally unenthused types (glazed eyes, wrinkled noses, slumped shoulders). The whole thing was very…Disneyland (thanks Daniel). Hot, tired tourists glanced briefly, disinterestedly, at something colorful, or shiny, or right in front of them before re-focusing their attention, aligning their steps with the couple directly ahead in order so that everyone could move already.

So much for Sunday ambiance. But had I been there solo the experience would have been just as empty. Each room is, more or less, given to a specific decade and sensibility. And therein lay the problem. While content-wise I thought a decent enough job was given to contextual overview, i.e. the most prominent models and photographers, popular designers and quintessential ‘looks,’ the setting was unbearably cheesy. You got the impression that around 20 different people technically had ‘creative input,’ and, exasperated and lacking a cohesive plan, cowed to the loudest and least-imaginative team member.

The ‘Softbox Lights’ suspended from the entryway ceiling looked at though they were constructed of aluminum foil and black masking tape. Lava-lamp lighting danced loopily on one wall, while another was given to a sad, ersatz-Sprouse-ian ode to the stars of the last 60+ years. Seeing the black and silver graffiti-ed names ‘Carol Alt’ and Tyra Banks’ side by side precipitated my exit. The decade-specific music–The Who’s ‘My Generation,’ Alicia Bridges’ ‘I Love The Nightlife’ and George Michael’s ‘Freedom 90,’ replete with model-rific video, were laughably clichéd. I’ll admit to kind of liking the Studio 54-era mise-en-scène, featuring a bunch of Halston gowns amidst a louche living room: Mirrored coffee table, cigarettes dangling from glass ashtrays, crystal tumblers filled with ice. The one glaring omission–artfully-arranged white lines–was expected, but would have provided some authenticity.

Though I found myself scurrying out of the exhibit, relieved to be done with all the tourist-laden tedium, I later wondered whether I was being too harsh. Yes and no. Clearly, I was unimpressed. But beyond my aesthetic objections, the timing was ripe for a retrospective, a Supermodel R.I.P. of sorts. Nobody, including the exhibit’s curators, expects a return to the good old days, when models actually still appeared on mainstream magazine covers. Much of the glamour surrounding the profession has dried up. Breakout stars are increasingly harder to come by, and complaints of robotic runway homogeneity are often warranted. Critics and average women alike are increasingly inclined to dismiss the profession as work for underage, emaciated Russians looking to escape bleak lives as fruit vendors.

Hollywood hasn’t helped matters, largely by making a once-rarefied profession both ubiquitous and seemingly attainable. The Beautiful Life, just-announced as part of the CW’s Fall lineup, features Mischa Barton as a has-been mannequin looking to make a comeback. Then there’s the slew of reality shows catering to the fashion industry and would-be catwalkers: ANTM knockoff Make Me A Supermodel or TVLand’s older-women-can-still-be-hot competition She’s Got The Look to name just two.

All of these programs propagate the notion that seemingly anyone, provided she’s beautiful and ambitious enough, can model. This, coupled with the moniker’s evolution: it now inexplicably encompasses everything from porn stars to women willing to lend their feet to some dude on Craigslist for an hour.

The brand has been diluted, and the landscape has shifted, permanently perhaps. No doubt Michael Gross would be hard-pressed to come up with similarly titillating tales today.

+Sarah

While in L.A. last week I visited one of my very favorite places in the city–a strange predilection given the fact that I a) dislike dodging honking, tourist-crammed trollies b) find ‘choreographed’ fountains laughably tacky and c) never patronize Chico’s, Tommy Bahama or American Girl Place. Nevertheless, I’ve been perversely fascinated by The Grove for as long as I can remember.

It’s difficult to articulate exactly why I would ever choose to go there, since all of their stores can be found elsewhere in the city, sans as many Ritalin-ready, screaming children or unattractive, PDA-loving couples. Maybe because it’s an ‘outdoor’ mall? Or because it’s great for my favorite pastime, people watching? My Grove ardor has nothing to do with the fact that it’s adjacent to The Farmer’s Market, something I (sacrilege!) could care less about. Seriously, a lot of that food sucks.

Professing my love of the lame typically elicits one of two reactions: the raised-eyebrow ‘Really?’ followed by a befuddled half-laugh, or a brief silence. In the latter instance, so as not to hurt my feelings, the other party conveys a gentle, pseudo(?) mutual understanding, as in, ‘Yeah, well, it’s not that bad, I guess.’ Others have just looked at me like I’m batty or completely ignored my painful confession altogether.

So…why the infatuation? I can’t say that The Grove makes me especially nostalgic for a happy childhood spent frequenting chain stores, safely ensconced in a Yankee Candle-and-french-fry-scented consumer Panopticon. That was never me to begin with. Third Street Promenade, also an outdoor ‘mall’ of sorts, doesn’t do it for me. The Beverly Center, though upscale, is also gross. Obviously I went back there, too.

Beyond The Grove, I actually rather loathe malls. Of course I’m still inexorably drawn to them. There’s the requisite sensory assault factor (olfactory, aural, visual) coupled with a sterile, why-am-I-lost-oh-because-everything-looks-the-same homogeneity—specific to extra large, enclosed commercial spaces frequented by bored/antsy/desperate suburbanites. No store conjures nefarious mall thoughts the way Abercrombie & Fitch does. Once the King of Retail, now just another string of struggling, d-bag emporiums. You’ve been dethroned, Abercrombie. By Hot Topic.

But you shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve dressed the same way since the mid 90s and you still expect to pull chicks and hold the longest keg stand and get over your lacrosse injury one day. Lately the beer bloat has rendered you unable to squeeze into those not-so-stylishly frayed cargo shorts. Your moose-logoed flip flops have fallen apart and the sweatshop fleece you wear with them out to bars has gotten a big hole in it. Life as you know it is going to Hell. The kids don’t like you anymore and last month your same-store sales declined by 34%. I never visited your Grove outpost, Abercrombie. The wafting odors of collegiate cologne and pulsating Euro/WeHo techno beats still frighten me away.

I’ve digressed (big surprise).  And I’m still having trouble explaining why, exactly, I so enjoy The Grove. Cool stores? Not particularly. Great dining and entertainment options? Nope. Chic clientele? Hell no. When I lived in L.A. I could have argued proximity and therefore, convenience, but as a New Yorker that argument no longer holds weight. I guess I go back because it’s safe and airy and wonderfully, effortlessly cheesy. You only smell incense (no Yankee candles!) if that hippie chick at the cart is burning it, and you totally won’t get shot if you try seeing 17 Again on a Saturday night.

You can propose by that lovely fountain and have a real live maid hand you your towel when you wipe your hands in the bathroom. Celebrities go there all the time. The Barnes & Noble has a balcony. They play “That’s Amore” while you’re dining al fresco. And there’s absolutely no stand dedicated exclusively to fake hair, lorded over by an overzealous brunette with a blonde ponytail. At the end of the day, there’s something to be said for that kind of shopping experience.

+Sarah

The Grove, 189 The Grove Drive, Los Angeles, CA 90036, 323.900.8080