Those of you who read my Letter from the Editor last week know that I spent the Sunday prior in Gloucester, slaving away on a photo shoot. I didn’t tell you why or whatfor because, these days, I like to keep my secrets.
That said, the results are now ready! I have to admit the day ended up being far more fun than it was work (due largely to the crew I worked with, and largely to the phenomenal weather that day…).
So take it in, kids: one of the last vestiges of summer. As a California transplant, I’d say I did all right, non?
All clothes courtesy of Neiman Marcus & Stel’s; all shoes courtesy of Sperry. For purchasing info, leave a comment and we’ll give you the details…
The inimitable Nastasia and her lackey of a partner, moi, leaving Gloucester late last night. We spent the day along the shoreline, snapping some rather iconic New England scenes with photographer Conor Doherty, suffering sunshine in the name of fashion. [Photograph courtesy of Conor Doherty.]
I’ll admit it: I’m starting to really like living in New England.
August 18th will mark the 3rd anniversary of my move to Massachusetts. But I’m not big on anniversaries. Hell, hardly any of my friends even know my birthday because I find such celebrations contrived. Why ‘celebrate me’ on the day I was born? I didn’t have much to do with that event, really, and all things considered, would probably have done it a bit differently. But that’s neither here nor there. Back to that anniversary…
When I first moved to Boston I was a foreigner. The city felt new, fresh, alive and utterly alien–a city to be explored and discovered, on my own terms. To say I was excited would be a gross understatement of the situation. I was ecstatic. Then came the inevitable realization that I had uprooted myself in almost every possible way, and, not long after, a near-violent loathing for Boston and for its people. What seemed like the best capricious decision I had ever made took a rather nasty turn to the contrary. How I had not considered that what was attractive to me about Boston also meant I would have to start over completely?
My greatest hurdle was not professional, it was personal: I couldn’t make a friend to save my life. Experience has taught me that my personality is a polarizing one: you either love me or you hate me. But Bostonians didn’t react that way at all. Generally speaking, they were perfectly indifferent. Cold, even. I spoke to nearly ever stranger on the street, complimented more women for their hair or their handbag than bears repeating (this works wonders in California, LET ME TELL YOU), and made more futile attempts at friendship than I can suffer to share. A lot of side eye, a lot of “I’m sorry, who are you and what is that you are wearing?” And goddamn was it discouraging.
But I’m one stubborn SOB. I wasn’t about to pack up and head back to sunny Santa Barbara, no matter how many people told me to do just that. One man’s narcissism being another man’s determination, I decided I was staying. Whether you (or I) liked it or not.
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