The domino-effect of becoming a contributor - Episode n.2

The hottest month of summer was a busy one chez nous that brought an avalanche of love. In an attempt to return at least a portion of that affection, I would like to jolt a few notes on how grateful I am for having met the two beautiful women behind www.DDmag.it , Isabella and Luisa.

The galeotto [as intermediary] of our meeting was Instagram - yes, that thing that glues my nose to the phone consistently. I would say I am dedicated to its growth,  not addicted nor obsessed, like to a plant that needs to be watered, nurtured, vitamin infused and talked to.

We had our first meeting in an elegant, unusual, stucco-ed and delicious cafe-bookstore-gallery in Piazza della Scala chatting along like old friends do. 

In reality, we became friends and we are not old, for the press. What happened after, was a first of a series of stories on how live in Miami Beach as an Italian - no matter if a one-time visitor or a local, the flair and spirit are the same. 

check it out at @luisarasia 

'You discover a door with a graffiti message you have never seen before and you can buy locally-grown produce [...] and that opens a whole new world' ...  continue reading here 

Just because they are splendid hostesses, the following week I got the whole contributor feature - the VIP treatment on the mag for which I had to be paparazzed. I mean I had to answer questions, my moment of fame, I had to dress up for press time like at the Festival del Cinema di Venezia.

It's time to graciously return the favor, host them in a third episode of the domino-effect series and dedicate them some space like in a salon littéraire.

 

The Zen of Fashion Blogging

Dear ‘street style’,

what a year it was!

How much we love that high lo of fashion is proportional to how much we want to be bloggers.

But what is it that we want from the life of a blogger? Dress like one, aspire to go to runways and stumble upon The Sartorialist on the way to?

What is it so desirable that drags us to follow, stalk and admire them as much as … Justin Timberlake?

If ‘Bloggers wear shit that everybody else admires them for’ is your answer, then let it be known, you float in the Olympus with the likes of Mira Duma, Anna Dello Russo and Rachel Zoe.

The Olympus of bloggers is populated by those who do it well as a 24-hour job. Even though it’s that secret that is not revealed, they are pampered and favorites. They become the elected by fashion houses for first row seats, VIP discounts and showers of gifts. Those who are ’famous for being famous’ (to say it with Suzy Menkes) and who love live for posing outside fashion shows to draw attention and cause a frenzy.

If your answer is ‘I want to dress like a blogger’ then you are in the Kingdom, situated underneath Mount Olympus. Those are the ones who are not front row regulars, they live not where things go down, they are invited to local affaires, have random commercial gigs. They are royalty to their readers for their way of dressing. They have thousands of followers.

If your answer is ‘Bloggers wear shit that everybody else admires them for AND I can’t wait to read the next post and would love to write for her’ then I know you very well, because I am also one of you. There you have a limited niche of … us. Remaining with the royal game, we are the courtiers. 

We are the ones that have an extended, profound, detailed, solid knowledge about fashion as our pain quotidien. History, garments, lace, haberdashery, buttons, millineries, embroideries, bespoke, WWD and Jane Austen.

We have had our dose of years behind the scenes, have worked and met the most talented artisans and designers.

We recognize and appreciate at a glance if what’s coming down the runway is a collection or a jumble of vestments.

We are the ones that get shivers when visiting an exhibition or a museum’s retrospective like standing in front of the David in Piazza Signoria.

The ones who are able to admire an embroidery by reaching it close and touching it. The same that can’t stand when someone cannot discern an embroidered tulle from Leavers lace. 

We wake up earlier on Saturday morning when fashion week is in Milan and we need to look at the pictures of Bottega Veneta before the review comes out.

Yes we are opinionated, we don’t shut our mouths, we feel entitled to say what we think, especially when we are disappointed. We dress and speak bold whether we are grocery shopping or attending an event.

We wear silver shoes without thinking we are over dressed.

We eat, pray love fashion. We strive for innovation and, at the same time, we can’t stand when some basic rule (like no brown for men after 6 pm) gets disregarded. God forbid a designer is disrespectful or forgetful of the heritage of the house he’s been nominated creative director of. (There is only one Karl in the world).

We take fashion by the rules and if there’s one thing that drives us insane are any type of knock-offs.

We are not millionaires and we know it. But there is nothing more vulgar than pretending to have something and not having it. When we spot it, it hurts like a nail scratch on a black board. 

We are the ones that want everything around us beautiful and that will be our life. The ones that swear by anything that Diana Vreeland loved and said. The ones who dream of a Wallis Simpson closet and jewelry safe and listen to jazz.

The ones who dream of vacationing on a Riva with Tiffany blue leather interiors and that Mrs. Robinson’s leopard coat.

And, what about you? Are you one of us?

The art of slicing prosciutto

Same mundane issue for me and my last 18 years living in Miami Beach: asking for prosciutto at the deli. 

After the disheartening experience of ordering a simple coffee for the first time and ending up with a black see-through liquid resembling a bad bouillon broth sold for espresso, you know what I mean, I learned my lesson. If something so mechanic as some hot water coming out of a machine with little manpower needed can be a fail, what could the art of slicing prosciutto become?

Then.

The surprise was, back then, when even finding the prosciutto that sweet, melting, rose and white veined cured meat, was a treasure hunt. Then I found Epicure. They even have both, San Daniele and Parma. I am in. They have a dedicated server, or slicer if it didn’t sound creepy, donning a black uniform and a long white apron. They even use old fashioned waxed paper to wrap it. This feels home. Only detail, instead of being a common lunch-fix-when-you-don’t-have-time-to-cook  it is a real commodity with its then ticket price of $36 per pound.

Now.

Even Publix, the Esselunga of Miami Beach, has prosciuttoparma. That’s how they call it, like ricottacheese, take it or leave it, go explain them there’s no need to say cheese. But then, I have to say, it’s the same as when we Italians call cream cheese, filadelfia. Touche’.

So you go to the commoners supermarket, like a Princess with your sapphire ring, and it’s un altro paio di maniche, another pair of sleeves. In fact, roll up your sleeves and be ready to act like a teacher explaining a equation, O.C.D. clear. Know that the server will hate you the moment you order il prosciutto di Parma. She knows you’ll have your eyes on her at all times.  Evidently, you are not the only customer requesting the delicacy and, mostly, all the others must be as Italian as you don’t even imagine you are.

You begin with requesting ‘thin’ and they give you a sample of what could be perfect for a vitel tonnee or a carpaccio. 

'Thank you but I need it thin' and after a back and forth of ‘the machine doesn’t do it thinner’ and ‘yes it does’ you grow frustrated and surrender to a mount of rippled rosy meat wrapped in a plastic bag to resemble the shapeless mess of your home cables.

So now you go home to a bunch of friends coming soon for a last minute aperitivo you have put together and it’s terror. You had the perfectly ripe orange melon that smells like garbage (a compliment as per my grandmother’s standards), i grissini Torino, heirloom tomatoes and a melting soft burrata, basil, a 24-month Parmigiano, cold prosecco and the piece de resistence is sitting on the counter. You look at it and not sure how to interpret it and if, for that matter, will you even present it.

A couple of apologizes, confessing it’s not really your fault and the rich aroma starts diffusing and reminiscing of so many al fresco dinners that the ugliness melts into perfection.

P.S. first time the pictures are not mine, but they looked so good and gorgeous on Pinterest that they even ‘taste’ better.