ZAYDE’s love

My belongs to my Daddy!

Fashion is as contradictory as female gender roles. An outfit says everything, is she a slut? Is she lazy? Is she absolutely crazy? Every woman understands the feeling of not having anything to wear. They limp around in one high heel and one flat, rushing from closet to mirror, and while simultaneously stripping and accessorizing in between. ‘If only something would match the way I want to feel!’  Women search for that perfect reflection, that rush of high when a black silk tunic looks just right. The other night I could not find that outfit. I found myself frustrated in front of a closet full of clothes. Adjusting her hair in the full-length mirror, my friend Lauren asked, “Well do you want to look hot or pretty?” The proposed differences between those options are loaded with meaning. I looked down at the pile of silk and sequin encircling my feet, and thought ‘seriously?’ That is the thing about fashion: it sucks girls up and spits them out in thigh high boots. Shameful, maybe— but that euphoric high, the dopamine that surges through my body as I strut, is worth the search party.  I found that outfit in a pair of jeggings, (a hybrid of jean and legging) a white tank, and a covet worthy chain linked bag. It was not until the next morning that I allowed myself to contemplate the question that had rolled naturally off Lauren’s tongue, “hot or pretty?”

There is something so demeaning yet empowering about that question. The empowering part is the simple fact of knowing exactly which outfit to wear to achieve the desired look. The part to focus on however is the demeaning, because within that proposed question resides the contradiction of female gender. Fashion is not just fabric massed together stitch-by-stitch, it is full of hierarchy and consciously ignites an identity crisis in every woman. There is a degree of participation, and commitment that distinguishes the fashionistas, from the mall rats. A level of reverence for Chanel and an utter disgust for BCBG. Those who worship the pages of Anna Wintour’s Vogue are quite different than those who flip through Cosmo. Fashion is a proposed freedom of expression, but that is as fake as Goyard bags in Chinatown. Fashion is just an easier way to distinguish social class, and with a city as diverse as New York, one is likely to be fashion road kill than obtain that ‘je ne sais quoi.’

Fashion is not as exclusive as it believes itself to be. It is one of the few worlds that every American participates in, regardless of class, race or gender. Every single person must throw something on their body, so naturally a hierarchy has evolved. Some women wake up and climb high into Louboutins, and others simply lace up their Keds. The differences between a coal miner who slings his overalls on, and a hedge-fund guy who fastens his Brioni suit off with monogrammed cuff lings, is merely levels of expectations and price tags. The fact is however that fashion is common ground. Polar opposites such as a conservative Christian fundamentalist and a liberal feminist start their day faced with the very same decision, ‘what to wear.’ The closet might just be the one place where both Barak Obama and I stand. The uniting threads begin to unravel though, as the cashmere separates itself from the polyester, and the ripped jeans become markers for blue collar. The proposed idea that fashion is a freedom of expression is a counterfeit thought, because what we wear, wears us.

Everyone has those days…the moments that feel endlessly lonely. Sometimes that mood sneaks up on me. It catches me outside while walking down Fifth Ave from school. It must be all the family tourists, or the international couples who must hold hands, and take kissing pictures— either way I often escape into the calming serenity of Bergdorf Goodman. As I take the escalator down to the beauty department, the pretty aromas of sandalwood and jasmine fill my nose, and I am greeted by red rouged smiles. A healthy does of attention and suddenly a ballet pink lip-gloss goes a long way. I feel a natural affinity to Truman Capote’s character Holly Golightly.

“You know those days when you’ve got the mean reds…. the blues are because you’re getting fat or maybe it’s been raining too long.  You’re sad, that’s all.  But the mean reds are horrible.  You’re afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don’t know what you’re afraid of.  Except something bad is going to happen, only you don’t know what it is. What I’ve found does the most good is just to get into a taxi and go to Tiffany’s.  It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there…”

Sometimes though, long after Tiffany’s, or Bergdorf’s has shut its doors, the loneliness comes over me and I might try to text my way out of it. A random bbm to a boy I should have deleted long ago— In reality though don’t we all just prefer to eat our way out of it. I have no shame in admitting that often a distracting bowl of cereal can clear those mean reds. Tonight as I went to seek refuge, I got a real sign. I opened my cabinet and was smacked in the face, but before I could look up or down, cheerios jingled all over my floor. Honestly I could have cried. There I was gathering on my hands and knees, picking up single cheerios from my zebra rug. I finally just began to laugh and I formed a pretty picture from this mess.

If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?


This quote found in Alice and Wonderland, completely resonates with me. On the brink of turning 21, I find myself completely lost, and yet completely satisfied. The world I would create would be complete nonsense, just as it seemingly runs today. I’m not dismissing universal healthcare, or Iran’s enriched uranium- but I am admitting that when I walk out the door a whole lot of glorious nonsense awaits my flakey attention. Luckily (for you,) I do not have to make decisions that will change the world. Instead I get to change someone’s day just by holding the door open, my contribution can be as simple as that. And the truth is, that is not nonsense. Little considerations should not be overlooked. I am here in the now, standing at the corner of Starbucks and your street. What I do on a daily basis affects fellow city dwellers a lot more. Create an atmosphere that you want to be apart of,  “One that nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t.” Or at least say “thank you,” when some one holds the door open. 

Lolo Ballerina Pump

Starting at age 4 I was carpooled to ballet class. All jammed into one mother’s SUV, we begged for TCBY on the way home. At that point it was just pink tutus and little feet, but as the years past the carpool became smaller, and I was left to pursue dance seriously alone. It was never forced on me, I naturally gravitated towards it. The Marley floors became my sanctuary, and slowly I began to identify myself as a dancer.

I can tell you this for certain a ballerina’s body is sought after, the long legs to die for… But I’m going to let you in on the secret, and that is Pointe shoes. The boxed toe creates a delicacy, and Christian Louboutin is first to capture this beauty in his ‘Lolo’ pump. I guarantee this is the look to splurge on, be ahead of the trend. The Ballerina toe is going to become the standard; it captures the perfect amount of femininity.

    I hear my name being called from backstage, “Please give a warm welcome to Nicole Ellie.” It is show time, one quick glance in the mirror and I am ready to go. I can hear my brothers yelling Nikki, Nikki!” I know they will enjoy my song choice. It is truly a song for them, “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey, has supplied many enjoyable memories for the three of us. One in particular was at my oldest brother, Jason’s wedding. The three of us jumped on the dance floor and belted out the words along with the band singer. As we danced around, with our fists pumping up to the sky, I couldn’t help but become teary eyed. It was really the last time the three of us, would just be the three of us. In that moment change happened and all I could do was savor the last chorus.  It is all the more fitting that the chorus states “hold on to that feeling.” As I walk out onto the stage and the first few beats begin to sound, I see my two big brothers jump to their feet and smile at me. Although we will all be living separate lives, I know that this song will forever hold our childhood. Whenever we want to revisit, all we have to do is press play.

This is my brand, authentic honest and completely in love with my family. It is difficult to brand myself. Part of the difficulty stems from my age. I am only twenty and am just beginning to own who Nicole Ellie is, and who I may become. One constant theme however will be my family. Our love is indescribable, not in a sappy way. They are my strength, and have allowed me to grow into myself. I genuinely like myself, and I know that this confidence is from my family. High expectations, and unlimited support, this is my brand. I have come to realize at an early age that what I choose to do with my life is secondary; what matters is family. I can design all the gowns I want, be editor and chief at Vogue, I can sing on stage, or I can win an Oscar. The best part of all these dreams is not that I have potential to accomplish them, but is that I can pick up my cell phone and share it with my family. Honestly I am not looking to make myself into a ‘wholesome family brand,’ because my family is not perfect. We are divorced, living in many different states, and are gloriously inappropriate, but that’s real. I am real, I am always going to be late, I love breakfast at dinnertime, and I would wear a Chanel Couture dress all day if I could own one.  I have courage, or as my grandparents would say “Hoospah.”

It is because of my Grandparents I feel the need to live life to its fullest, and have begun writing a blog. Unconsciously I named it perfectly to fit with my brand. ‘Zayde’s love’ is my attempt to connect with someone I barely got to know. A man who had a horrible, and unfair beginning, but allowed himself to move on and smile. My Grandpa Zayde, survived the Holocaust, along with my grandmother Bobbi. I wish I knew more about my Zayde, but from what I understand he loved living, and everyone loved him apart of life.  I don’t know if I am anything like him, but this dedication makes me feel closer. This blog is about what I see, feel and love. Simple, maybe even stupid, but this is who I am. I offer the world my potential and I am dedicated to filling it.

 The Heel Can Only Hold Your Head So High-

The pleasure of shopping- an idea lost, disregarded, or completely taken for granted by top designers. No awe inspiring, love that shoe is under six hundred dollars. Perusing through Barneys shoe department is no longer fun. The carefree Clueless movie moment is of the past. Designers believe that a woman will fall in love and somehow reason the price rational. They are out of touch. Forget the recession for a minute; women are not shopping as much, because the prices are absolutely ridiculous. The shopping spree is what pumps the heart -millions of bags digging into our arms, that can barely fit in the taxi kind of damage. The psychological benefits of shopping cannot be met without an occasional wholesome spree. It is frustrating for shoppers because we do love ours shoes, our feet do not gain weight. If couture, designer, and contemporary all agreed to come down a price level all would be the same. Women would go animalistic if Christian Louboutin circled the dollar at five hundred. Imagine the happiness on all sides, give the girl what she wants… Feed our shoe addiction. 

W Magazine

http://tinyurl.com/da9wp8

I enjoyed this article by Vanessa Lawrence of W Magazine.

I never realized the pressure some feel over fashion.

I never could get dressed in the morning, but not because I cared what others thought. I generally just needed to feel right in my clothes. Nothing is worse then feeling uncomfortable and even as a preschooler I understood that. In fact my own mother took me to school in my underwear, because at age five with my arms tightly wound across my chest, I would shake my head no.  Every beautiful outfit my mother tried to get me in led to an argument

and finally she just got fed up. 

(Don’t worry when we got to school, I got dressed in the back of the car.) 

I don’t settle when it comes to fashion, I may love my Elizabeth and James nude jacket today, but tomorrow it will be the last thing I throw over my shoulders. I guess to achieve that ‘effortless chic’ look, you have to be really stubborn and throw all your clothes on the ground, until it is that right outfit.  It’s all about how you feel, because that is what everyone else notices. Your confidence is what people perceive as effortless.

Only you have to go home and fold up your mess. 

I used to lay awake in my bed wondering what I’d be like in my twenties. Now that I am here, I’m not sure what to do first. The thing people often tell you about your twenties are that you spend most of them discovering who you want to be. I want to change that suggestion- I know basically what I want. It is more a matter, where do I go from here? This revolution-taking place in the communication world is exciting, yet for those of us who dreamed of writing, the communication world is pretty unsteady. I know that I do not want to stare at a computer screen the rest of my life. I think it is sexy to read a newspaper. There is something classic and beautiful about flipping though a fashion magazine, a weird fulfillment and excitement when W appears in my mailbox. I don’t want to give that up. The fact that I must write in moleskine notebooks just to retype on a word document says something about my commitment to an industry that will die on paper. A world I never got to experience, complete disappointment. I won’t budge I feel like the computer sucks out the rawness of a writer. Stripping my life down ink to page- Nothing better. For example right now total cramp in my hand. I am not stubborn, clearly I blog- but it is different. Two separate entities. The romance, the allure of writing is ‘lost in translation’ on screen.  

photo taken in central park, today. 

n i c o l e . e l l i e . 2009

This is called- I don’t want to do my homework. (sorry Mom) 

Yes, she reads my blog, which makes me happy. 

In this picture, I attempted my own Chloe´shot.

(http://tinyurl.com/bc7578)

(Chanel bag, Dita glasses, See By Chloe dress, Hermes wallet,

unknown awesome gloves,  and my obsession W magazine.)

Alexander McQueen

See by Chloe <3 that dress.

Charlotte Olympia- enough said

Future Classics

Love McQueen, and can’t get enough of Charlotte Olympia.

My style is like my personality- hyper.

I mix in t-shirts and floral dresses with combat boots.

Corduroy is on my coffee table, on top of Karl Lagerfeld’s Chanel

Welcome to my life. 

Oaknyc.com

Fresh, always a fun site to waste time on.