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  • Essays and observations on books, culture, and life in the city of lights, by Lauren Elkin, a writer, reader, and native New Yorker.

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« Paris shopping spree | Main | dépaysée, still »

February 13, 2008

Gentry de Paris, Hiver 2008

Gentry4


You may or may not know that among the things that I love, silk, satin, and cashmere figure high on the list. Fashion them into lingerie with a Weimar decadence about them, and they rise even higher. 

And no one designs for my aesthetic better than Gentry Lane, who has just released her new collection, just in time for Saint Valentin. Her lookbook is strewn with quotes from Anaïs Nin and Oscar Wilde. Clearly this is a girl after my own heart.

12:57 AM in Paris, Style |

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Comments

God, that's phenomenally gorgeous!
Thanks for the eye candy and stopping by, glad to meet you, sorry it took this long! I'm LOVING your life and am happy to live vicariously!

Posted by: Claudia | February 15, 2008 at 02:15 AM

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  • All of the text and most of the photographs on this blog are the exclusive property of Lauren Elkin, (c) 2004-2008.
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Coin poésie

  • Elizabeth Barrett Browning, from "Sonnets from the Portuguese"
  • How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
  • I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
  • My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
  • For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
  • I love thee to the level of everyday's
  • Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
  • I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
  • I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
  • I love thee with the passion put to use
  • In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
  • I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
  • With my lost saints--I love thee with the breadth,
  • Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
  • I shall but love thee better after death.
    • (1850)

Coins poésie du passé

  • Marilyn Hacker, "April Couplets"
  • Mild Sky of a day which may or may not be forgotten
  • as days of a life, lives themselves, are forgotten.
  • Tenacious ivy crawls from a plastic pot in
  • a window-box which the early rain's forgotten
  • Nocturnal narrative's coherent plot in
  • the sleeper's mind disconnects, and the dream's forgotten
  • textures, flavors, burlap, honey, satin
  • systematically derange, dissolve: forgotten
  • This morning's crisp half-loaf in which I've bitten
  • a crescent lies near coffee dregs, forgotten.
  • On a lined page in front of me are written
  • haphazard words grasping what I've forgotten
  • A letter will be answered today or not. In
  • the gap, what it might have said could be forgotten.
  • A three year-old picked up w dropped red button
  • and cried for a lost rag doll not quite forgotten.
  • The sidewalk glistened in the Marais, Manhattan
  • or a Balkan town whose vowels howl unforgotten
  • chronicles of neighbors at war, ill met in
  • each market-place, blood mixed, but no slur forgotten
  • What key turns in the lock, who will be let in
  • to the bright room of what is not forgotten?
  • The scribe turns hacker: DOS displaces Latin:
  • Exiles hoard both, the plain speech of peace forgotten
  • William Carlos Williams, "Danse Russe"
  • If I when my wife is sleeping
  • and the baby and Kathleen
  • are sleeping
  • and the sun is a flame-white disc
  • in silken mists
  • above shining trees,--
  • if I in my north room
  • dance naked, grotesquely
  • before my mirror
  • waving my shirt round my head
  • and singing softly to myself:
  • "I am lonely, lonely.
  • I was born to be lonely,
  • I am best so!"
  • If I admire my arms, my face,
  • my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
  • again the yellow drawn shades,--
  • Who shall say I am not
  • the happy genius of my household?
  • [c. 1917]