I grew up as a happy child. And a lucky one. My life has always been surrounded by beauty— music, art, culture, society, people. Fashion has always been present from what I can recall. Even when I was little, I would count the minutes before my parents left the house to go to work just to sprint down the hallways and play all day in my fantasy world, A.K.A “their closet”. My father’s suits, my mother’s heels, her dresses paired with his ties. It was absurd but very instinctive. I was dressing myself into the comfort of their presence. I remember I used to love smelling their scent through the silks, the leathers, and the suedes. Years later, when Saint Laurent sent padded-shoulder suits with stilettos down the runway, I laughed — I knew something was absurdly familiar.

I had the opportunity to grow up surrounded by fabulous men and women. My grandaunt, Regina Espinal, an absolute diva, taught me that fabulousness is a lifestyle, not a dress you put on. Although if we’re talking about the finale look at Jean-Paul Gaultier Spring 1996 Haute Couture, then it can be. My mother’s fragility and femininity. Very restrained yet stylish. My grandmother was sharper, colder, enjoying the use of cutting words whilst redecorating her house at least 3 times a year. And let’s not even dare to speak of my grandfather. A true collector at heart. My dearest references.

As a child, I played the piano, the flute, and even took singing lessons. My sister is the violinist of the story. I remember my mother used to sing to me the most comforting lullabies right before bed. Music was more than just music. I grew up convinced that Tchaikovsky is a better babysitter than cartoons, and I still think I’m right.

Swan Lake, The Nutcracker, and Mozart’s Requiems became my stairway to heaven. It later revealed to me the cruelty of perfection and the sultriness of obsession. As a perfectionist, I believe it’s true — I often speak of perfection as both a blessing and a curse. You’re certainly not doing yourself any favors when you demand the impossible. And yet we starve for beauty, every day, every minute, every second.

In high school, things weren’t as whimsical as they once were. Peers saw me as an oddball, but to be fair, I’ve never cared. “Judgement and prejudice often come from the illness of ignorance”. Ignorance towards individuality and identity at such an early age. I had moments when I felt the need to blend in, just to avoid stirring waters. I’ve always overanalyzed everything around me, but that’s also what has helped me develop my eye. I’ve become a collector of images, references, and obsessions the way some people collect mature bottles of fine wine (which I also enjoy). Nonetheless, I’ve always had the instinct of what is good and what’s not. Whether something works or it just doesn’t. And I’ve developed that vein because I am a never-ending consumer.

My devotion to Galliano is no secret. Dior Haute Couture 1998 is, to me, not a show but a beacon of hope for kids like me and probably like you. Anyone can spend, but not everyone can live beautifully. To me, luxury can be the simplest of things, such as winding down before bed. Mulberry silk pajamas, clean brushed hair, a turmeric and honey herbal infusion garnished with 3 dried roses, a long skinny cigarette, a few spritzes of Chanel No. 5 on my pillows because it reminds me of my grandmother and provokes a sense of nostalgic comfort. And the angelic voice of La Divina, La Bible de l’Opéra, Maria Callas. Singing, as only she could, her haunting Ave Maria from Verdi’s Otello. To me, that is wealth. Wealth that has nothing to do with a social construct such as money. 

I’ve always known fashion, beauty, and art would be constants in my life. Even when I thought I’d work elsewhere, life has redirected me back here. Writing this is not just for me. I want to share my visions of culture, society, and life. To inspire, to learn, to build a community — because there is no fashion, no art, no beauty without people. A place to share what moves me, what entertains me, what I find exquisite or absolutely unbearable. It’s not a diary, nor a sermon. Think of it more as a conversation — one that I begin, and you’re welcome to finish.