iStock photo.

By Valerie Monroe

If you’re interested in feeling happier about your appearance—especially as you age—you might like reading what she has to say about it. For more of her philosophical and practical advice, subscribe for free to How Not to F*ck Up Your Face at valeriemonroe.substack.com.

Can’t get enough Valerie Monroe? There’s more at https://valeriemonroe.substack.com.

I JUST SPENT a few minutes doing the mirror meditation. It didn’t go much of anywhere.

Among the distractions, a careful reader pointed out that in a recent post I misspelled both Olivia Colman’s and Maggie Gyllenhaal’s surnames, in spite of my confession that I looked up Gyllenhaal’s name several times to try to spell it right. These kinds of mistakes make me want to throw up. (How can you trust me? How can I trust myself?) But being the lemons-into-lemonade type, I decided to use my humiliation and focus this week’s post on mistakes. Naturally, they’re f*cking-up-your-face kinds of mistakes.

Are you familiar with the concept of pillow-face? (Different from what you see in the morning when you’ve slept on your side.) Pillow-face was recently reintroduced to me by this informative Instagram from plastic surgeon Christian Subbio. The term describes a face so plumped with filler that it looks puffy and moves unnaturally, as the filler interferes with the musculature. Superb reporter—and my former colleague—Jolene Edgar writes about it here.

I started thinking about pillow-face when the Sex and the City reboot began and an overfilled Kristin Davis (Charlotte) pranced gaily into the picture. I want to mention here precisely why I think it’s important to bring up Davis’s face, because Sarah Jessica Parker (Carrie) and others have remarked that the buzz around the actresses’ faces (and gray hair) in the reboot is misogynistic. I agree—if the criticism is that the women are less attractive (which they are not, IMHO) because they’re older and grayer. But to use that as a reason not to bring up Davis’s sadly distorted face is wrong. Why? Because ignoring it normalizes it, and it is not normal. Go ahead and call me mean. I have nothing against Davis and I don’t hold her accountable for her pillow-face; I hold accountable the physician who injected her.

Subbio’s response to Davis’s condition aligns with what my facial plastic surgeon friend Steven Dayan told me about overfilled lips. The problem isn’t with the filler, necessarily, but with the way the injector learns to inject it. Subbio maintains that the Davis problem is a result of injectors using filler to try to lift faces rather than to fill in areas that have become hollow with age. He points out that filling in conservatively can work well for a while, but after a certain point (different for each patient) filler begins to look weird. Why? Because though it’s possible to get a bit of a lift in some areas, lifting the planes of the face is, for the most part, impossible without surgery.

Yet drug companies insist it is possible, encouraging injectors, says Subbio, to use more of their products. Similarly, Dayan maintains that the trout-lips we continue to see are often a result of some injectors being poorly trained in ways that are likely to produce unnatural-looking results. One reason he offers: In order for a drug to pass FDA approval, the drug must be shown to yield a certain level of effectiveness on a static photo, which unfortunately requires more product than a face might need. That means when an injector chooses not to follow FDA-approved protocol, he or she may be going off-label. That’s obviously not a good thing. But—as we can see—neither is it a good thing to precisely follow protocol.

A number of doctors also told me that the drug companies producing fillers are gung-ho about selling their products to anyone willing to learn how to inject. So these companies offer many opportunities to learn rudimentary injection skills—but not the aesthetic judgment required to create a sophisticated result.

To give you some idea of what’s involved in making such aesthetic judgment: The dimensions of the lips look best in proportion to the dimensions of each particular face—so when you submit to lip filler, even in the hands of the most technically skilled physician, you’re vulnerable to his or her personal evaluation of what will look good on you.

Increased fullness is only one aspect of a successful lip augmentation. It’s critical to restore definition and structure to the lips, which means not only filling the body of the lips, but also redefining the vermillion border (the edge of your mouth). It’s also important to consider the depth and length of the philtrum (the vertical groove between the bottom of the nose and the upper lip), which tends to lengthen as we age. You don’t want to smooth the lips so much that all the little lines disappear. A completely smooth mouth looks as unnatural on a face that is not a baby’s as trout-lips do on a face that is not a trout’s. What you’re often seeing on a woman with trout-lips is filler injected into the body of the lips with poor consideration (or none at all) for resculpting.

It fascinates me why a woman might not be able to see such a mistake on her own face. Dayan told me, “Even if you think something looks strange at first, you can get used to anything.” Dermatologist Sabrina Fabi has called this “perception drift.”

Back to honoring the responsible party. Should patients know when to stop asking for treatments? Though I think people walking around with distorted faces due to overtreatment may want to reexamine their priorities, I don’t think it’s their responsibility to tell their doctors when to stop. Several dermatologists told me they will inject filler even when they believe it won’t work to a patient’s best advantage; if they don’t do it, they know the patient will simply go to another willing doctor. (This jaw-dropping confession aligns with the common complaint among some dermatologists that patients hopscotch between them, making retention in their practice difficult.)

But if doctors refused to treat patients obviously overdoing it, wouldn’t there be fewer people with faces not found in nature? Could injectors not unite to support this decision?

The beauty industry—that includes doctors and aestheticians of all kinds—tries to appeal to us by promising it exists to help us feel happier about ourselves. Maybe people with pillow-face and trout-lips do feel happier; maybe their perception drift is radical enough that they don’t remember their baseline and can no longer perceive distortion.

But the way I see those of us who have fallen prey to those who over-inject? We are the emperors with no clothes—for which we have paid dearly—and that is very sad.

By Nancy McKeon

NOT EVERYONE shares my enthusiasm for melamine dishes, even during outdoor-entertaining season. But I think most can be persuaded to opt for melamine when it comes to platters. After all, the burgers that have to be walked over from the grill don’t weigh nothing, and the caprese salad can be passed much more easily around the picnic table if the serving tray doesn’t require a personal trainer to heft it.

Here’s a selection of top-quality melamine platters of various sizes. A lot are splashy summer additions to the table, but there are a couple that would blend in with traditional table settings. Note: If there are any Royal Crown Derby or Herend patterns rendered in melamine, I didn’t find them. But some sweet Portmeirion botanicals, and even a William Morris pattern, have found their way onto the picnic table.

From French Bull , the “Sus” platter in cooling blues just begs to be poolside. It’s about 14 inches long by 10 inches, and $24.99 at Bed Bath and Beyond.

UK designer Sarah Campbell has a penchant for masses of florals that find their way into clothing, rugs, glassware and this sweet serving platter for Anthropologie, where she has an exclusive collaboration. It has a bamboo base coated with melamine resin. The center divider can separate the dogs from the burgers or the vegan from the not-so-much-so. At 14½ by 10 inches, it’s on sale for $19.95 at Anthropologie.

Portmeirion’s Pimpernel brand gives tradition a tweak with this “Blue Room Sunflower” Tray, derived from an 1812 Spode pattern. This substantial server is almost 19 inches long and 12 inches wide. It’s $20 at portmeirion.com. Pimpernel also has the beloved “Strawberry Thief” pattern by Morris & Co., descendant of 19th-century designer William Morris, in a handled tray. Same size as above, $30 at the Morgan Library & Museum.

The non-slip Northwind serving tray with handles from Marine Business is as classy as it is serious (think about bobbing boats and the non-slip aspect makes sense). It measures 15.75 by 12 inches and is $68.99 at Bed Bath and Beyond.

This lively guy will wake up the table. By TarHong, the innovative California-based tabletop design company, the Lemon Fresh Figural Platter is 17½ by 12 inches and is $29.97 at Nordstrom Rack. There are also coordinated lemon-pattern bowls and dishes, all in melamine.

Minimalists don’t have to miss out on melamine. The matte-black “Pebble” serving platter mimics the look of hand-thrown stoneware. It’s 15 by 17.75 inches and $7.95 at CB2, Crate & Barrel’s younger sibling.

From Williams-Sonoma comes a platter with a sunny vibe. “Sicily” is a hearty 20 by15 inches and is on sale for $23.96.

Another big statement from French Bull is the “Ring” platter. It’s 19 by 8 inches and $25.75 at Wayfair.

Portmeirion’s Pimpernel brand has also rendered its classic “Botanic Garden” into a handled melamine tray. It’s almost 19 inches long and 12 inches wide, and $20 at portmeirion.com.

From West Elm comes a pair of “Camp” platters, available in charcoal, shown, and a vivid blue, both with overall speckling. One platter is 14 by 9 inches, the other 11 by 7 inches. Coordinating bowls and plates are also available. The pair of platters is $35.

This oval platter sure looks happy-go-lucky. The “H for Happy” Lemon Stripe Melamine platter, is on sale for a very happy $5. It measures 14 by 10.4 inches and can be found at Bed Bath and Beyond.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

THE FIRST Rose of Sharon I met was 40-some years ago, behind a row house lovingly decorated in the worst possible taste. It was so ghastly it languished on the market for months as nearby homes with identical layouts were snapped up within days. 

My soon-to-be-ex-husband was looking for a house, and though we were kaput he still trusted my eye. (It was a most amicable divorce). It’s nothing that an exhausting amount of elbow grease can’t fix, I told him. So he bought it.  

Equally horrific was the garden. A gnomish rectangle surrounded by chain-link fence, with a 12-foot “arbor” made of metal pipe above the cracked concrete walkway to the back gate. Beside the back door was this tree, covered with flowers, in a funereal shade of purple. I shuddered. We chopped it down. It grew back. We chopped it down. It grew back.  Nothing kills this damn thing, I thought.

What a great trait, I think now. As it turned out, it was only the context that made the plant so distasteful. The Rose of Sharon, or Hibiscus syriacus, as it’s fancily known, is a cold hardy variety of tropical hibiscus: How could I not love it? 

It’s also at the top of my list of Best Plants for Idiots. 

Rose of Sharon can be grown as a small or tall tree, a hedge, or a potted plant. It comes in shades of purple, pink, white, and bicolor. Flowering profusely in full sun, it still puts on a cheery show in dappled shade. 

Like crape myrtle, it’s that rare flowering tree that’s in bloom from early summer until snap of frost, making it a great choice for constant color in the smaller garden. But unlike crape myrtle, which is excruciatingly slow to leaf out in spring—looking rather dead amongst the tulips and such—the Rose of Sharon leafs out early, popping with flowers in mid-June just as the crape myrtle begins to green. 

A red-and-white one with a particularly beachy air, a Mother’s Day gift from My Prince 30-odd years ago, is now nearly three stories tall. That was the only plant that we purchased, though we’re now surrounded by them. In the main garden, one of its sports, as offbeat offshoots are called, is a delicate lavender—the colors tend to mutate.  Other sports are planted along the alley fence, out front along the curb, and shared with friends for their gardens. 

It’s a very polite self-propagation; the plant’s offspring never make a nuisance of themselves. Look along the base of one and you’ll probably find a stick of a sprout. Yank it up by the roots, dig a hole somewhere, plant it, and it shall grow. 

Oh, not surprisingly, I was right about my ex’s house. It was charming once stripped of layers of wallpaper and filthy carpeting, and his replacement wife created a fantasy of roses above the arbor and bands of fairy-colored cosmos beneath the branches of the still-thriving Rose of Sharon.

iStock photo.

By Valerie Monroe

Can’t get enough Valerie Monroe? There’s more at https://valeriemonroe.substack.com.

I THINK OF my mother often, although she died three years ago. Reminders of her sometimes come as a surprise: I’ll be about to apply lip gloss and notice that the shape of my mouth—slightly downturned at the corners now as I’ve gotten older—is just the same as hers. That my feet seem to be getting more narrow-heeled, like hers. And then there are my hands. My mother’s hands were always manicured; mine are rarely. But if I stare at them long enough, they morph into my mother’s, the blue veins a bas-relief against the thin, almost translucent skin. In a way, I find this comforting; the resemblance reminds me that my mother persists despite her physical absence. But it’s sad, too, because it also reminds me that she’s gone, and that I’ve replaced her in the lottery of who’s next.

During my mother’s final bout of pneumonia, I spent as much time with her as I could in the hospital. One bleak winter day when I first entered her room and took her hand, she withdrew it quickly. My hands were cold. She tried to speak through her breathing mask. What is it, Mom? I said. She struggled. I thought she might be trying to tell me she was in pain. Or even that she didn’t want to go on. But she couldn’t talk through the mask. Take it off for a second, I told the nurse, just take it off. I put my ear right up to Mom’s mouth. Tell me, I said.

Why weren’t you wearing gloves? she said.

You won’t be surprised, I guess, when I tell you that I love old, veiny hands. There’s something beautiful, something very wabi-sabi (the Japanese term for the appreciation of transience) about them. Especially with a chunky, burnished pink-gold ring or some other imposing adornment, old hands look to me as if they’ve earned the right to carry heavy, important jewelry. (Important maybe only to you, but still . . . )

If you prefer the soft, plump, unmarked hands of youth you still have and you want to keep them, apply the same anti-aging products you use on your face on your hands. That should include a retinoid (vitamin A derivative) cream, a moisturizer, and—this is critical—sunscreen. If you haven’t been good about sunscreen, you can have hyperpigmentation spots lightened at the dermatologist’s office; veiny hands can be plumped up with filler or fat injections and the veins reduced. You can choose from an extensive menu of hand-related treatments from chemical peels to radiofrequency to laser.

Me, I’d rather spend that money on a cocktail ring (just browsing, thanks).

If you live in a climate that’s especially cold (for the moment) in winter, you may suffer as I do from dry, cracked skin on your hands—a situation worsened by our recent hand-washing protocols. There are two creams that have worked very well for me and are often recommended by dermatologists: Working Hands cream and Neutrogena Norwegian Formula hand cream. Both go on sticky but dry quickly enough that you can respond to an urgent email or take up your knitting without a problem.

I typically don’t like scented creams, because fragrance on your hands can be cloying, but I do love this one from C.O. Bigelow. Its description, which I couldn’t write any better if I tried: Floral/Woody Top notes of Anjou pear, juicy mandarin, sparkling bergamot and herbaceous lemony thyme with mid notes of the petals of violet, magnolia, rose and earthy geranium with a dry down of warm, creamy sophisticated notes including oakmoss, amber, vanilla, white cedar, musk and sandalwood. The fragrance isn’t as complicated as it sounds; it’s simply lovely.

Oh, and rubber gloves are put to very good use these days at the kitchen sink. The best I’ve found are the Casabella Waterblock gloves.

I doubt those were the gloves Mom was asking about that dreary morning in her hospital room. But taking care of my hands today feels just a bit like she’s still taking care of me, too.

“Ask Val” answers your urgent questions.

Yes, you in the third row, settled comfortably into a house seat?

Q: What’s one of the best ways to think about beauty, especially as you age?

A: Though I wrote this for O, The Oprah Magazine years ago, I think it’s worth repeating for you many new readers: Real beauty isn’t about symmetry, or weight, or makeup. Real beauty is about looking life right in the face and seeing all its magnificence reflected in your own.

By Nancy McKeon

THE DOG DAYS are here. Woof. We can’t change the weather (or the climate, apparently), but we can perk up whatever outdoors we have available to us—backyard patio, high-rise balcony, patch of sidewalk . . .

Here are a few tiny touches that may make the summer brighter.

The party’s on the moment you roll out this 80-quart Permasteel Rolling Patio Cooler. My brother gave my sister one for her recent porch party; next day, the ice cubes were still frozen solid. It comes in this cool (and kinda vintage) mint green, but also in lime, red, orange, blue, pink, black, and turquoise. It’s $188.99 at Wayfair and holds up to 110 cans. Speaking of vintage, it has a built-in bottle opener and bottle-cap catcher on the side!

While we’re in a vintage frame of mind, bounce into these green (or red or white or turquoise) metal Aubrey chairs. A pair of them is $549.99 at World Market. (They can’t just sit outside naked; cover them when it’s raining.)

How cool. How practical. The Nature Urbaine tablecloth, placemats, napkins and runner from Le Jacquard Français are made of cotton coated on top with a matt-finish acrylic, making it perfect for easy cleanup outdoors (or in, for that matter). Pricing starts at $50 for a pair of napkins ($54 for a pair of placemats), up to $255 for a tablecloth (larger sizes available as well) at R.H. Ballard, which is offering MyLittleBird readers a 20% discount on all coated tablecloths (any pattern) and all coated placemats. The discount code is JustForYou. The offer is good through July 24.

How cute are these die-cut Girasol “paper linen” napkins from Caspari!? The party-size  napkins are $8 for a package of 15. At 12½ inches when open, they’re larger than typical cocktail napkins and triple-ply, from artist Susie Ray.

This is faux looking great for real. The faux silver-dollar eucalyptus wreath is 18 inches across and will thrive even on the outside of the patio door. From the Pier Place collection, it’s on sale for $19.99 at World Market.

If you’re starting from scratch in a new outdoor space, the three-piece outdoor-wicker Dorman set from World Market may be just the thing. Comprising two chairs and an accent table, it’s $399.99. Note that the accent table is only 14½ inches across, so good for a couple of glasses of wine and a bowl of nuts, but not for dinner. Made of powder-coated iron and resin wicker in Vietnam. (Needs protection from rain.)

If it’s a bit of extra seating you need, consider the Magis Foldable Air Chair, made of injection-molded polypropylene. It also comes in white. A pair of chairs is on sale for $316 at Design Within Reach.

Even less space? Try a folding stool from Society6. Solid wood frame, many patterns available, regularly $65, now $55.25 at Society 6. Must be stored indoors.

If you’re looking to make an investment in outdoor living, the handsome Marseille Designer Umbrella will turn the dullest patio into an event. The Sunbrella weather- and fade-resistant woven-acrylic canopy, a commanding 9 feet in diameter, comes in seaglass  (shown) and indigo, both with contrasting appliqué. The frame, which tilts, can be had in teak or aluminum, each with a selection of finishes. Marseille is on sale at Frontgate.com, for $1,439.20 (aluminum), $1,519.20 (Endura-Teak, aluminum with  faux-wood finish) or $1,599.20 (teak).

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com. 

iStock

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

AH, DINING in the night garden. 

There are British shows, like Midsomer Murders, when dinner is always in bright sun, because the sun is still full out at 9pm, or later, in midsummer. There’s no romance in that, is there? 

On this side of the pond, by 8pm in late July, the dark is falling like a theater curtain,  and the stage is set . . . 

Dinners on the porch or terrace, or in the garden, are served by candlelight. It’s a time when red roses are dimmed to near black and white flowers come into their own. Colorful flowers are so wasted in the dark—which is a thought for anyone who spends days in an office. 

There’s a garden not far from me that is little other than white. There are roses and snowballs, hydrangeas and moonflower vines, jasmine and oranges tangled with white lights. The night is filled with ghosts of scent. Midnight in the garden of good and evil.* Beautiful, haunted, sweet. 

It’s a pleasure to wander by of an evening. 

Speaking of white gardens, and dining, Dîner en Blanc is back this year. Started in Paris in 1988, this is now an international event, held in 80 cities in 30 countries. 

This was the action at the Diner en Blanc in 2016 near the Lincoln Memorial in DC. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

On the day of the event, thousands of people wait for a last-minute call, telling them where the soiree will be held. Then, everything happens in a rush. Dressed all in white, schlepping picnic baskets, tables and chairs, tablecloths and candelabra—arriving on Metro—they’ll converge at the top-secret spot. Always somewhere iconic. Last year the dinner was on Pennsylvania Avenue, with 4,500 revelers smack dab in front of the Capitol, competing to over-the-top one another in dress, menu, and table.   

The DC date is yet to be announced but is promised sometime in late August (Paris will be September 15, New York was last week, Philadelphia mid-August but sold out; find other cities here). You can only get in by invitation from a member, by being sponsored by a member, or languishing on a lengthy waiting list. 

But you need not languish. Co-opt the idea for home use—so much more relaxing. Have guests wear white, mass white flowers and candles on the table, dust off the china and crystal, and set out a decadent, yet simple spread: cheeses and pâté, bunches of sweet green grapes, loaves of crusty bread. A giant antipasto. Boudin blanc would not be amiss (hot dogs would be). Sorbet and a crumble of meringues for dessert. Wash it all down with bubbly. Play Edith. Etta. Ella. Keep it simple, elegant.

Life and lightning bugs flickering in the moonlight. 

Sniff the flowers. Dine slowly. Laugh.

* Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, John Berendt’s true-crime ode to Savannah. For heat, mystery, and a splash of voodoo, there is no more seductive a summer read than this mossy thriller. 

A sobbing Paulina Porizkova, from her instagram posts.

By Valerie Monroe

If you’re interested in feeling happier about your appearance—especially as you age—you might like reading what she has to say about it. For more of her philosophical and practical advice, subscribe for free to How Not to F*ck Up Your Face at valeriemonroe.substack.com.

Can’t get enough Valerie Monroe? There’s more at https://valeriemonroe.substack.com.

ONCE AGAIN, dear readers, I am feeling bamboozled. Why? I recently noticed that one of my favorite makeup entrepreneurs, the feisty, plain-spoken Laura Geller, hired supermodel Paulina Porizkova for an ad campaign called #LetsGetOldTogether. And my spidey-sense came on strong.

Furthermore, after I watched the campaign’s launch video (you can see it here), I tumbled into the rabbit hole that is Paulina’s Instagram.

She’s captivating, stunningly beautiful, and aging, apparently, without invasive intervention. And her personal history is worthy of a Lifetime mini-series: Her parents, anti-Soviet dissidents, fled Czechoslovakia for Sweden, where they left a young Paulina with her grandmother for seven years; she married (and separated from) the lead singer of The Cars, who disinherited her before she found him dead in his home, after which followed a nasty lawsuit; she has written a children’s book and a novel; and in 1989 she was nominated for a Golden Raspberry award for Worst Actress.

Okay, a gorgeous celebrity with a patchwork past. Whatever. But Paulina is also known as “the crying lady” on Instagram, because she’s posted several videos of herself quietly weeping or bawling. I mention this because I find such public display both fascinating and creepy. Paulina says she purposefully does it so people know that everyone experiences sadness and grief, and to help contradict social media’s general “life is just a bowl of cherries” messaging. She admits it’s a way of working through her emotions (and she’s not alone; studies show that people use social media to manage their feelings by sharing them in various ways and testing the limits of social acceptance). She wants people to see her raw, I guess, which seems fine when it means showing herself makeup-less in bed. But the Sobzilla—I’ll keep scrolling, thanks

Anyway, I have a whole other issue with Paulina as a spokesperson for Geller’s ad campaign, which is clearly trying to draw in mature women—mature being the over-40 crowd—by emphasizing aging’s positive aspects. What does #LetsGetOldTogether imply? That there’s a community of us who might support one another as we clamber up the steep, rocky track to Nowhere (as the late Jan Morris so vividly put it); that we know, or at least intuit, that this journey isn’t easy; and that there is solace in the knowledge that we are not alone in it. That message is a seductive one and it would be lovely if the hashtag’s promise were fulfilled. But how could it be when the spokesperson, though she happens to be the ripe old age of 56, also happens to be the embodiment of beauty culture’s toxic and distorted ideal—tall, thin, exceptionally fit, and fair with wide blue eyes and long fine hair—representing, therefore, an unattainable goal for most of us?

The campaign’s online messaging . . .

Menopause has never been sexier. Ask Halle Berry and Salma Hayek

Mature (definition): Owning and embracing the changes in your body

 Aging (definition): Living your best life and loving every second of it . . .

. . . is that aging, for women, is a competition (especially with ourselves)—and if we want to succeed at it, we’d better do it well. At least as well as Halle and Salma, who are so privileged, financially and otherwise, that the idea of competing with them is almost sadistically unfair. The fact is, for most of us, going through menopause is the opposite of sexy. How was yours? Care to repeat it in a corset and stilettos? I no more desire to embrace my slightly brittle bones than you do. And the moment you try to love every second of your life, I guarantee you’ll find yourself in a cascade of seconds depreciating in pleasure. In other words, this #LetsGetOldTogether message is a warm invitation—to feel like a failure. As a brilliant young friend commented, the campaign doesn’t seem interested in redefining what it means to be aging; it seems to be interested in asserting that mature women can be hot—so what’s your excuse if you’re not?

If you watch the video, you might also notice Paulina is never in the company of another mature squab. Instead, she’s ogled by young women at the pool and at the gym, where she outlasts her younger, sweatier, and less attractive fitness aficionados. The older women (and many of the younger ones) I know long ago eschewed that kind of competition. Most of my 50+ friends would find both situations laughable: Tossing our hair as we stride around a pool in a string bikini? What? The last time I competed with a 40-year-old at the gym, I fucked up my hip so bad I was six weeks in physical therapy. And I was in fine shape. Lesson learned.

A confident woman of the non-Paulina Porizkova variety. / iStock photo.

I recognize Geller’s good intentions. (And I love her makeup.) I believe she would like all of us to be happier as we mature.

@lauragellerbeauty features many ordinary-looking older women and some of the messaging is more benign. But the problem is that you can’t appoint someone who appears to have largely avoided the aesthetic snags of aging as a role model for people who are seeing those snags in themselves and probably not loving them. It’s dishonest messaging. Paulina—and other aesthetically gifted women (by certain standards) like her—still evokes an unattainable beauty standard we’re all accustomed to, no matter what she tells us about how tough it is to feel invisible. As the shrewd entrepreneur Stewy said in one Succession episode, “If you jump out on someone on the road in the middle of the night, hit them on the head, and shout, ‘I’m not ambushing you,’ it’s still a fuckin’ ambush.”

Breaking up the green with pops of summer color. Those giant stalks to the left and right of the urn are elephant ears, which will become enormous. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

SATURDAY WAS a perfect day to putter in the garden. Cool and very wet, with brief patches of dry—perfect for a little mid-summer (already?) renovation.

At this point you know what’s working in the garden and what’s not. Whatever was supposed to come up is at least showing signs of materialization. The bare spots are probably permanently barren, and you can see where filler is needed. Or spots just need a jolt of color . . .

I do love green, but too much of it can be bloody dull; the eye just washes over with nothing to stop the gaze with a shock of interest. In one spot of garden, green was all I had: elephant ears, Boston ferns, asparagus ferns, ivy, and various other whatnots.

Trader Joe’s to the rescue, with some gorgeous caladium; large and leafy, perfect for the naked spots around the elephant ears (of which they are a colorful relative). However, at eight bucks each, I was given pause. In fact, I did pause, having seen them there a couple of days before and saying Nay, nay, you won’t get me . . .

Caladium, brilliant color that appreciates shade. This leaf sports a raindrop from the night before last. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

But they did get me. I’ve had difficulty coming up with tubers in my preferred colors, specifically a pinkish-greenish-whitish number that teases with pale prettiness, deep green borders fading to pink and striated with crimson veins. I think it’s called Southern Charm but wouldn’t swear to it. There was no name tag. The leaves will grow larger and larger—that’s their elephant-ear genes. At this point in the season, even if some tubers turned up, I won’t buy them. I don’t care to wait another couple of weeks for them to sprout. I want what I want and I want it now, which should surprise no one.

On the upside, when I unearthed the plants from their precious $8 pots, I noticed that the tubers were already split (I’m sure there’s a fancy name for this; if you know it, do tell, so I can drop it in a future column and look knowledgeable).  So, I had four plants for the price of two.

Such a bounty required a little rearranging,

I moved the thyme (which was placed temporarily a month ago) and a fuchsia so insignificant I’d forgotten I had one (it hasn’t yet bloomed).

Having stolen some Japanese euonymus from Baby’s mother-in-law’s Virginia garden (the pretext was pruning, which it did need), I stuck the stems in growth hormone and wielding my ever-handy chopstick poked holes in a bit of naked earth. If watered well, they should root in a month or so.

Purple wandering jew (tradescantia) took care of any remaining bare spots. Such a heroic plant: Poke more holes with that chopstick, stick in your twiglets, and they’ll quickly fill in the space.

Moving and planting in July? I used to think such was only possible—or viable—in the spring. But as long as you keep your new and moved plants watered really well, you can plant any time during the growing season—that is, if you can find something to plant, which is more of an issue as the summer heats up and garden centers try to move their pathetic stragglers.

This entire week has been perfect for rearranging. Moderate temperatures, a near daily deluge. My green spot is in the pink.

The best thing to do to preserve a youthful countenance: apply a broad spectrum SPF 30 sunscreen every day, rain or shine. / iStock photo.

By Valerie Monroe

If you’re interested in feeling happier about your appearance—especially as you age—you might like reading what she has to say about it. For more of her philosophical and practical advice, subscribe for free to How Not to F*ck Up Your Face at valeriemonroe.substack.com.

Can’t get enough Valerie Monroe? There’s more at https://valeriemonroe.substack.com.

YES, YOU with the adorable gender-neutral hairstyle and fancy Gucci fur-lined mules?

Q: I’m 32 and starting to see the first signs of aging. I’m not interested in Botox or fillers at this point—but I am wondering if there are specific treatments you’d recommend for a person in their early 30s?

A: Thank you for your excellent question! Come on up and sit on my wrinkled old knee. To begin at the beginning: You may think you’re starting to see the first signs of aging, but they’ve probably been there long before you noticed them. You began losing collagen (a crucial protein for supporting the skin’s structure) in your 20s; cell turnover, which contributes to a bright complexion, also slows before you hit the big 3-0. My guess is that you’re just now noticing a few fine lines and wrinkles you haven’t seen before.

I’m glad you’re not interested in neuromodulators like Botox or in fillers—though statistics show that doctors are seeing younger and younger folks ask for them, as there are some people (including doctors) who believe using them at an early age can prevent facial aging. My take: If for some reason you have the kind of wrinkles in your early 30s most people get in their 50s or 60s, you may want to do a deep dive into your skincare routine to discover what’s causing them. (And if you think you have such wrinkling but you don’t, well . . . that’s another problem.) Otherwise, there isn’t a definitive study on the effects of a lifetime of injectables, but one thing we know for sure: It’s expensive. I advise dropping those coins into a 401K for now.

Most important, the only “should” I can think of is wearing a broad spectrum sunscreen SPF 30 every day, rain or shine. That’s the best thing you can do to preserve a youthful countenance. Many skincare experts also recommend applying a prescription retinoid (vitamin A) cream at night, as that has been proven to help generate collagen and elastin, and increase cell turnover. I’ve used one for more than 20 years. Judging from the amount of dust in my apartment—composed of anywhere from 20% to 50% dead skin—my cell turnover is satisfyingly high.

I encourage you to appreciate your youthful face, rather than scan it for imperfections and indications that you are—lucky, lucky you—getting older. Learn how to look at yourself with loving awareness now and you’ll save yourself hours of unhappy scrutiny later.

Wait for It . . .

Speaking of unhappy scrutiny: You’ve probably seen the click-baity and idiotic headline about ☠️ advocating that men expose their testicles to infrared light to raise testosterone levels. (This story is the best I’ve read about it.) And it got me thinking, if you (not you, but someone) are supposed to get a testosterone boost from tanning your (not yours, but someone’s) testicles, how long will it be before a beauty company debuts fake tanner specifically for the scrotum? So you (not you, but someone) can look as if you’ve had your testosterone boosted—and benefit from the attendant . . . admiration—without having to submit to the infrared treatment. Bets, anyone?

And if you now need a palate cleanser . . .

Good, Clean Fun

When the weather turns fine, as it just has, I tend to miss the fine weather in places I used to visit. So I’ve pulled out a few of these soaps I bought the last time I was in Lisbon, Portugal. They smell divine—and if you’re careful about unwrapping them, you can admire the empty packaging on your bathroom shelf as you lather up in the tub or shower. What a lovely gift for some deserving relative or friend!

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com. 

Roses shouldn’t have to live alone. They shine best when they mingle in a tangled mess of other flowers that bloom and die in succession. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

WHAT IS a rose without scent? A thorny flower that’s somewhat pretty, or at least colorful. It might as well be fake. In fact, fakes can often be more attractive; copying well the blousy bourbons, the dazzling hybrid teas, the double-headed damasks.

When I was small my family had a house on Long Island, set on an acre or so of grass and trees that flowered and drooped and stood tall, surrounded by beds of flowering shrubs and bulbs.  

The only roses (as I recall) were red ramblers that scampered along the fence that fronted the property. They were not particularly distinguished-looking, just medium-size and red, but their powerfully sweet and spicy scent lingers in my mind so many decades later.

I don’t what they were called, as I wasn’t particularly interested back then, but my mom would go out early in the morning when the roses were dewy and cut a cluster for my teacher, the stems wrapped in water-soaked paper towel and then in foil so the thorns wouldn’t bite me and the flowers stayed fresh. 

I think the thought was maybe—as this was the tail end of the school year—if there was any question about shoving me forward a grade (I was an abysmal student) perhaps the roses would do the trick. The scent of a rose has powerful mojo. 

In those days, most roses appeared only in the spring and, depending on the climate where you lived, lasted a few weeks to a month or so. For most of the year they were prickly and unattractive and quite often blackened or insect-bitten, requiring doses of toxic sprays or a dousing with white powdery stuff that was more unattractive than the blight it was supposed to be curing. 

I’ve never understood why roses—of any variety—are treated as prized specimens, set into circlets of mulch and sitting prickly and, honestly, quite boring and ugly 11 months of the year. Which is why, in grand public gardens and estates, they’re usually to be found in areas devoted to their nurture. They are meant to be enjoyed during their brief bloom time and then abandoned until the next spring, attention moving on to primping hydrangeas and such, flowers that will look good throughout the summer. 

Then came the Knockout. Developed in 1989, a hybrid of several tea roses, they hit the public in 2000 and became the best-selling rose of all time. Other than arboretums and grand gardens, today one would be pressed to find anything else but Knockouts and their copycats, particularly in small gardens where one doesn’t have room to spare for the shy violets of the gardening world. You want a lot of Boom Boom Pow!  

Available originally in a shade of red so simple that if you think of the color red, that’s the shade these first flowers were. Then they added pink. More recently the color range has expanded to include white, salmon, lilac, cream – something like 10 different hues. But they all share the same uniform look, a neat and unremarkable flower, that starts as a tight bud, then opens with no particular drama, unfurling to about a two-inch-round, then they die. 

Utterly reliable and disease resistant, just keep them dead-headed and they add cheery color to the garden all summer long—and absolutely no scent, which is terribly sad.  An insult to the nose, in fact. A bad joke. I hate being fooled by them—passing a patch with my squirrely brain saying, Ooh! Rose!, and I stoop to sniff and, bah. Nothing. 

I’d be less offended if they were treated like accents. Not the main show. Roses of any variety are more appealing in a tumbled mass, like a fantastic bouquet, surrounded by dahlias and ferns, thistles and Queen Anne’s lace—all in a tangle, like a fabulously wild flower arrangement. Not a crown of thorns. 

The curbside garden that illustrates this piece is a breathtaking example. The various flowers mingle with the roses in a display that lasts months. Flowers coming into their turn, fading, being replaced by others. Fireworks along the sidewalk.

Boom Boom Pow.

The famous “Manneken Pis” statue in Brussels, Belgium. iStock photo.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

FRANKLIN STOOD UP from the dining table and announced that he was going outside to pee. 

This was not something I needed to know. 

Suzanne has several perfectly fine bathrooms in her country place, but Franklin said he never pees indoors.

I had just met him and already he was off my future guest list. Imagining him standing on the back porch watering the ferns and whatnot. No. 

Now I find that judgment may have been too hasty. The ferns might have benefited from a spray of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium, key components in the finest fertilizers and key components in human urine. 

Fancy that.

A couple of weeks ago, in the New York Times, there was a photo of what looked like a baby car seat. Not the plush kind you see today, but the kind I hauled my baby around in 30-odd years ago. Basically, a lightweight molded plastic bucket that would sit jammed behind the gear shift on our old Porsche, where I could fling an arm across her as further restraint, if necessary. It could also be lugged into restaurants to prop her up at the table. A handy, if entirely unsafe item.

But did we know any better? Nope. Amazing that she lived.

Right. So this baby car seat is geranium red, or maybe crimson, a very bright red, Santa Claus red. It’s attached to a pipe that runs into a box of some sort on the floor, and then the eau, shall we say, is channeled outside the house and into a holding tank. It’s called peecycling. 

Did I mention that this is a very large bucket, shaped for adult rumps, if one sits to go?

If the ground is really wet, one can just dilute the family drippings, so you don’t burn the begonias, and then directly douse the garden. Alternatively, and more commonly, not to mention safely, the pee pails are collected and taken somewhere by someone (this part is a little unclear) to be pasteurized. 

Says the Times: “ ‘Human waste is already being used to fertilize foods you find in the grocery store,’ said Kim Nace, a co-founder of the Rich Earth Institute, which collects the urine of some 200 volunteers in Vermont . . . and teamed with the University of Michigan on a process to make a sanitized pee concentrate.”

The results of various trials have been remarkable. Water use is dramatically reduced, the need for chemical fertilizer is nearly eliminated, and the crop growth is spectacular. In rural Niger, where an experiment has been underway, pearl millet, the staple crop, has increased by about 30 percent. 

Lest you think such a movement is confined to places like Vermont and West Africa, the Times continues, “In Paris, officials plan to install pee-diverting toilets in 600 new apartments, treat the urine and use it for the city’s tree nurseries and green spaces.”

So there. 

As My Prince is the one who pointed out this germ of an idea, I’m frankly surprised that one of these pots hasn’t turned up in our house since the story appeared. He has a habit of latching on to such appealing notions, like the slop bucket in the garden that he delivers to the farmers market each Saturday with a week’s worth of potato peelings, avocado pits and corn husks, which is transformed into compost for someone else’s plants. 

Interesting thought: We don’t need a powder room, we could just pass guests a bucket . . . 

Or, if it’s raining, just send them outside to pee off the porch. 

By Nancy McKeon

IT’S ALMOST the Fourth of July, time to retire that ratty, faded old beach towel. Your visits to the pool at the club, or your patch of sand by the ocean, deserve better. Here are a handful of pool/beach towels that caught our eye, ranging in price from the sublime to the ridiculous (okay, it’s Prada, but Balenciaga and Hermès aren’t far behind).

From Frances Valentine, an eye-popping Colorblock towel in cotton is $128. It measures 30×60 inches.

Johnny Was is boho central, and that extends to beach towels. The reversible Rainbow Phoenix is 70×40 inches, made of polyester, and $78. There’s also a matching beach blanket, 65×70 inches, for $88.

For the poolside modernist comes the Lake Shore organic cotton towel, 35×70 inches, $39.95 at CB2.

Baby shark, doo-doo-da-doo-doo-doo . . . you know the rest. For the oceanside “Jaws” crowd, the XL Shark towel, left, in cotton, from Sun Squad, 36×72 inches, for $15. There’s also a Sun Squad towel (not shown) with bigger, bolder, toothier sharks for $10. Then, for the little ones, there’s Sun Squad’s hooded shark towel, 24×24 inches, in cotton velour, $15. All at Target.

Moda at Home offers this cotton Tropical Leaves towel, 35×70 inches, $14.97 at Nordstrom. Moda at Home has other tropical-looking towels in other colorways as well.

Leave it to Hermès to make a $590 cotton towel. This very fishy Traffic Jam towel, 35×59 inches, comes in two other colorways, a yellow/chestmut combo and pink/navy. (If you’re really in a mood to spend, you can score a black-on-yellow Prada towel that rolls up with a nylon strap carrier, for $1,270, at Prada.com.)

Bold graphics distinguish the cotton pool towels from Jonathan Adler. Here are Tiger, Snake, Arcade and Muse, each $120. They’re 40×70 inches with a printed velour face and solid-color terry on the back.

A final burst of color comes compliments of, from left, West Elm, with Modern Art Botanical in coral, 40×70 inches, $34.50. It’s cotton and also comes in a lagoon-blue colorway; the Meridian cotton towel from Anthropologie, 40×70 inches, $46.40; and Balenciaga’s cotton logo towel, $495. In addition to pink, it also comes in navy and orange.

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com. 

iStock

By Valerie Monroe

Can’t get enough Valerie Monroe? There’s more at https://valeriemonroe.substack.com.

SOME MONTHS BACK, I was staring out the window at another bleak, dank winter morning, struggling to imagine what might be a sunny first post for the year 2022, when—surprise!—a trio of emails from excellent readers fluttered into my inbox.

Susan B. asked about a solution for dry feet and cracked heels, a problem from which I suffer year-round, so the idea immediately appealed. But the first post for a new year? It felt slightly . . . pedestrian. So, not today but soon.

Susan M. asked, “What do you eat?” This question fascinates me, but I doubt the answer fascinates anyone else. (Anyway, my three-word response: Lots of arugula.) I think there is a helpful post exploring the connection between what you graze on and the condition of your hide. So that, too, coming soon.

The question that brightened the day came from the excellent reader (and writer) Betsy C., author of this novel (among others) and this lovely memoir.

She wrote: Recently, I came upon a Nora Ephron essay, “My Aruba,” about the slightly bald spot [from a cowlick] lots of women have on the back of their heads. She names it Aruba after the windy island whose trees sometimes blow sideways (when the wind blows hair sideways, Aruba is revealed). Any thoughts about what to do if Aruba makes a landing on your head?

Yes! Aruba! Sunny! First, if you haven’t read the essay, you can find it in Ephron’s  collection I Remember Nothing, which I hope you will read if you haven’t already (and read again, if you already have). You can also read the essay here. It’s short. So was Ephron’s life, a situation I bet a lot of you are as mournful about as I am. Well, we’ll always have . . . Aruba, and Heartburn, and so much more.

As to the problematic spot you can’t see on the back of your head. In “My Aruba”Ephron says she believes her bald spot gives her age away: “ . . . what is true is that I am older than I look and my Aruba is a sign . . . ” She claims she didn’t have one when she was younger. I feel confident telling you—because she can no longer defend herself—that Ephron probably did have that cowlick when she was younger, but didn’t notice it because her hair was thicker, or longer, or she was focused on other, more forward-facing issues.

Cowlicks are actually fascinating. Some people spend their whole lives studying hair whorls, producing invaluable information about neurological conditions major and minor, from cowlicks’ relation to right or left handedness (90% of righties have a clockwise rotation; lefties are more likely to go counterclockwise) to gender identification to inflammatory dermatological diseases. From one study in the Journal of Pediatrics: Scalp hair patterning is determined at 10 to 16 weeks of fetal life and is secondary to the growth and shape of tissues which underlie the fetal skin, especially the brain. Thus aberrant scalp hair patterning may be utilized as a clinical indicator of aberrant growth and/or shape of the early fetal brain . . . 

And you thought all you had was an aesthetic hiccup! The way your hair grows in is similar to the way—just to get really random—a mollusk grows its shell; the patterning is set by certain cells in the organism’s neurological system. I mean, the miracle of it all!

If you’re wondering, as I was, why the whorls are called cowlicks, it’s because (according to various Wikipedia sources) they’re named for the swirling pattern that appears on a calf when its mother licks it. Almost every human has a cowlick—they’re not prone to appear on one gender more than another. They’re genetic, so if your parents had one or two, you’re likely to as well.

Now, what to do about the baldish spot your parents lovingly bequeathed you? I have one right where, if I were a puppet, there’d be a string on my crown pulling me up. When my hair stylist blows out my hair, he pulls it very tight in the opposite direction of how the hair grows (overdirecting, it’s called), which not only hides the cowlick, but also gives me volume where I like it most. Thing is, that solution doesn’t last for more than the time I’m hanging around the house. As soon as I venture out, the slightest breeze flips the hair back into the Aruba position (let’s call it “Ephron’s Complaint”).

To help mitigate this affair, use a pomade on the roots, lightly applied to damp hair before blowing it out (again, in the opposite direction the cowlick grows). (NB: I haven’t tried this product, because I don’t use any product in my hair—subject for another post—but beauty people seem to like the OUAI brand.) Obviously, if you’re lucky enough to spend considerable time on your back, your Aruba will be more noticeable when you arise and will require more fussing with. The best advice I can offer is to be aware of it; to groom the back of your head with the same attention you groom the front; and to never ever leave the house without running a comb through it (for some reason, I find a fancy comb makes me feel rich). Then, try to forget about it. Confession: I’m not successful at this. I’m constantly running my fingers over my cowlick to hide it. Such is the power of self-conscious conditioning.

A few other suggestions I personally don’t find helpful but you might: Pull your hair into a ponytail, making sure to first comb through the cowlick; grow your hair long, so the weight of your hair pulls the cowlick hair down; cut your hair very short into a style in which the hair sticks up all over your head (leaning waaay into the cowlick); or wear a great hat, like this simple, chic one.

Or better yet, in honor of Ephron, we could make a commitment to have each other’s backs, literally. She wrote: “ . . . now that I have come up with the term, I would appreciate your telling me whenever I have an Aruba. Because then I can fix it. Temporarily, anyway.”

In other words, Sisters, if you see something, say something.

Arrruba!

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com. 

The front porch, with room for a couple of chairs and a few plants–but not tomatoes. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

As I was just saying to My Prince, Can’t you do something about your tomato plants? They look like sh-t.

The pot of three sits on the front porch, a smallish space, as most of our spaces are. There’s enough room for a couple of chairs, a small table, and a collection of potted, mainly tropical, plants.  

The camellia beside the front door is out of bloom, but is healthy and green. The sago palm has new shoots. A wintered-over pink mandevilla is spilling out of the pot near the top step—I’m wishy-washy about sticking them in the ground, the flowers are so nice to see going in and out of the house. My plumeria is entering its third year and has tossed up a spray of leaves; maybe this year it will flower. Also in the wishful-thinking column is the white bird of paradise, which is finally recovering from parakeet nibble-damage and sending out new shoots, if not flowers. Yet. 

The window boxes have lots of color. I retained the valance of ivy roped up across the box fronts last winter and added sweet-potato vine to the front edge. I’m quite liking the vine over vine effect. 

This is all a little crowded maybe, but eye-catching. A pretty spot to sit with a gin and tonic of an evening and spy on passersby through gaps in the forsythia foliage.

They’ll do better down curbside, if The Prince can keep them going. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

Except. For the tomatoes. These started out small, as plants generally do. Well behaved too. And then they began to grow and straggle. I nixed the wire cage out of the gate;  that’s too hideous to abide. So My Prince has them throttled by their necks with metal plant hoops, those tall green metal stakes with loops at the top that theoretically hold plants erect. 

This does not quite work. They still have an unpleasant droop and frizzled brownish leaves around the edges, though the plants are perfectly healthy and bearing little fruities. Enough maybe for a salad sometime next month. They also have a, let us say, yucky smell.

Unfortunately, the porch is the only place we have with sufficient sun for tomatoes.  The front garden is shaded by a massive elm and the wide-spreading canopy of the red-leaf maple, which is setting up to be a future gardening mistake. Forget the backyard, which is heading into jungle mode. 

I feel bad that I can’t appreciate My Prince’s effort, he’s so pleased with himself. But not so bad that I’m not sorely tempted to grab that straggly mess, toss it in a dumpster somewhere far away, blame it on rabbits, and buy some damn tomatoes at the farmers market. 

A neighbor’s garden, where everything was planned and looks good all the time. Clearly the homeowners have more discipline than I, writes LittleBird Stephanie. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

THERE’S A pea patch of a garden a block from here, maybe eight feet square. In the upper right corner is a crape myrtle, tall enough to tickle the second-story window of the red brick row house. Stepping down are three large shrubs and a bushy tea rose encircled with boxwood. Creeping phlox drapes along the front wall. Three sweet-potato vines are beginning a satisfying tumble over the front corner. A river of seasonal flowers and foliage meanders between: a froth of native grass, blue lobelia, deep red coleus. In fall these will be replaced by pansies and cabbages that will be a lively sight through the winter.

It’s such a perfectly structured garden that even a fool of a gardener could keep it effortlessly lovely for decades. And it always—always—looks good.

Last week I wrote about a visit to Dumbarton Oaks, the superb garden in upper Georgetown that is magnificent even when pausing between acts, which it is now. Spring having past along with the glory of tulips and lilacs, roses, wisteria, and cherry trees. Summer not quite awake, the new season just emerging.

Said Bird managing editor Nancy McKeon, “I’m surprised you didn’t make the explicit point that these between-times are why gardens need structure. That’s why the place looks so good all the time. I know you talk about the details, but I don’t think people are necessarily going to understand that there’s a larger concept.”

Her comment caught me up because I both never think about structure and, at the same time, always think about structure.  Structure is quite beyond me. 

I admire gardeners who announce: I’m going to re-create Monet’s Giverny, and do so, carefully studying the space, existing colors of surrounding buildings and trees, adding textures and plants and flowers with four seasons of interest.* On a simpler level, I admire gardeners who observe the rule of three, and plant lovely groupings that grow thick and impressive. 

These are the sorts of gardeners who have patience. They read the labels and follow the instructions to plant 6 or 8 or 12 inches apart and are happy to watch plants fill in gradually, year after year. They also believe it when told those pretty things require full sun, which does not mean full sun for 15 minutes at 8am, followed by increasing dapple. 

Those people are not me. 

That garden a few blocks away began with a few carefully selected plants, which probably looked like nothing for several years (I base this on not noticing them).  It took years to establish, but now the rewards are being reaped for the garden’s owner and passersby. What a smart thing to do, one mutters to oneself. 

As I’ve written (too many times) we were never going to stay in this house; a good starter, said we. We were already stuck with an apricot tree, a sprig of a thing the previous owner planted among the laundry lines. I added a couple of grand ideas—wisteria and honeysuckle to cover the fence walls (who cares if they’re invasive, we won’t be here. Right?). Someone was throwing out roses, so we stuck those in. Dinner guests arrived with hydrangeas, so we stuck those in too. I found a pond in a thrift store. Pond! Annuals filled any gaps. Somehow 38 summers have moved on, but not us. 

The invasives did what they do, crept along laughing and throttling whatever was in their path. Facing off with each other, the horticultural equivalent of King Kong vs. Godzilla. The roses, for whatever long-forgotten reason, were planted on the garden’s dark wall. They died. And so forth.

With a garden so small and with so many wants, no rule of three for me. One this, one that, stuck in whatever space. Last week my magpie eye squeezed in a single pinkish red caladium, a small pot of ballet slipper pink fuchsia, and a bit of lavender. I just wanted them, dammit. 

Sometimes I think of ripping it all out and starting over. But now life itself has grown too short. I doubt I’d be around to see it all mature; Baby will have trucked me off to a rest home—or I’ll be mulching heaven. 

Just to be a Debbie Downer. 

*Re-create Giverny? Here’s a start. Read it and weep, as I did.

Two designs from Cristobal Balenciaga, a decade apart. Left, his camel wool “Shar Pei” scarf coat, Autumn 1950. Right, a pale gray and navy blue plaid wool coat, 1961. / Photos courtesy the Museum at FIT.

By Nancy McKeon

BREATHE IN. Breathe out. Relax. There’s nothing rushed or anxiety-inducing about a fashion exhibit at FIT, the legendary Fashion Institute of Technology in New York. No timed tickets, no enormous crowds. The clamor of the Met’s Costume Institute finds no home here, in the self-proclaimed “most fashionable museum in New York City.”

Drawing from its own extensive collections, the museum just opened Dior and Balenciaga: The Kings of Couture and Their Legacies. Two of the biggest figures in 20th-century couture—what more is there to say? But that may not be the right question. What is there to look at? Where are the similarities and the contrasts?

The exhibit promises a more rigorous examination of the two men whose work largely set the styles for the post-World War II era.

Speaking of contrasts . . .

Christian Dior was an affable, but business-savvy, man from a wealthy French family, more illustrator than dressmaker. He “built” his garments with interior structuring (corsets, paniers, etc.) to emphasize what he saw as the ultimate female form: forthright bust, small waist and wide, swirling skirts. By the mid-1950s, about 55% of French couture exports was produced by his atelier.

Cristóbal Balenciaga, on the other hand, came from a modest family in a Basque fishing village, was apprenticed to a tailor at age 12, opened his own little boutique in Spain, eventually moving to Paris because of the Spanish Civil War. He was reclusive, rarely mingling in society. His clothes were created by draping and manipulating fabric on the body. Which he did brilliantly.

The difference in the two men’s techniques can be appreciated by the juxtaposition of two similar full-skirted evening gowns. The Balenciaga gown weighs 2.2 pounds, according to materials created by museum deputy director Patricia Mears, who curated the show, and her staff. By contrast, the Dior gown weighs in at almost 10 pounds.

Balenciaga rarely talked with the press, but the press—fashion writers and newspaper reporters—talked about him, as did the society women lucky enough to have him make one of his confections for them.

Christian Dior once said that Cristóbal Balenciaga was “the master of us all.” The haute couture was “like an orchestra whose conductor is Balenciaga,” he said. “We other couturiers are the musicians and we follow the direction he gives.”

The House of Dior continued after the master’s sudden death after 10 years of wild success. Left: Designers who kept the name alive included a young Yves Saint Laurent, who made this charcoal wool dress for Dior. It’s from his 1958 “Trapeze” line.
Right: Ten years after the wasp waists of the New Look, Balenciaga bought forth a more relaxed silhouette, the “Sack Dress,” in Spring 1957 (also introduced by Givenchy that season). This example is sleeveless in tan slubbed silk. / Photos courtesy the Museum at FIT.

Left: The two day suits are, left, Balenciaga, in gray wool flannel, circa 1950, and right, Dior, in blue wool, 1952. One imagines that the bracelet-length sleeves accommodated the gloves then routinely worn by women. Right: This frothy cocktail dress is by Balenciaga, 1957. / Photos courtesy the Museum at FIT.

The House of Dior in the 1960s: Left to right, Gaston Berthelot (for Christian Dior New York) a red, white and blue wool tweed suit, circa 1965; Marc Bohan for Dior “Acacias” gray wool suit, 1961; also Marc Bohan for Dior, a black-and-white wool crepe culotte dress, 1967. / Photo courtesy the Museum at FIT.

Left to right, a Balenciaga striped cotton dress, Summer 1938; a Balenciaga beige wool-crepe day dress with black leather belt, 1948; from Nettie Rosenstein, a New York dress designer who followed Dior closely, a black wool and silk faille dress, 1947; a Balenciaga gray wool-flannel suit, circa 1950; and a Dior blue wool suit, circa 1952. / Photo courtesy the Museum at FIT.

Left to right: Red ribbed-cotton coat by Balenciaga, circa 1958; a muslin toile of the coat, by Ellen Shanley, former curator of the Museum at FIT; a purple mohair coat by Balenciaga, circa 1960. From Christian Dior, 1952, a coat in olive wool boucle. / Photo courtesy the Museum at FIT.

The new kids on the fashion block. Left: A 2016 puffer coat, hood and scarf from Balenciaga designer Demna Gvasalia.
Right: Dior’s current designer, Maria Grazia Chiuri, pairs a T-shirt with an embellished tulle skirt. It’s from Spring 2017. An embellished tulle evening gown by Christian Dior dates from Autumn 1957. / Photos courtesy the Museum at FIT.