Zani gugelmann biography examples
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In Tribeca, a trinity of must-gift coffee table books for the holiday season were on display. Ahead of the holidays, friends J.J. Martin, Mathilde Favier, and Laura Gonzalez invited an international cohort to join them for a celebration of their respective coffee table tomes at Gonzalez’ gallery.
The idea to host a triple whammy of a book signing fete came while the pals were holidaying in Sicily this summer. A far cry from a warm Italian evening, guests braved a blustery New York night on Tuesday to head to the recently opened showroom on Franklin Street for a toast.
As art curators and tastemakers gathered at a grazing station chock full of food from Lev NYC and enjoyed glasses of Moët & Chandon, Martin, the founder of maximalist fashion and lifestyle brand La DoubleJ, was doing the rounds. The Milan-based editor-turned-designer recalled that she first came across Gonzalez when the celebrated furniture and interior designer posted images tagging the brand a few years back. “
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The Number-One Girl
It was the perfect letter—if the goal was to blow up New York samhälle. A bombshell of preening and aspiration, it set off a war between an aging princess and the girl who threatened to snatch her crown. There was just one catch: According to a complaint filed gods week with the Manhattan district attorney’s office, the letter was a fake.
The publisher of the letter was socialiterank.com, a mysterious Website that appeared on April 24, 2006, declaring itself unofficial judge, jury, and executioner of 10021—the Zip Code of upper Park Avenue and Fifth, and the home of many ung women who appear on the charity-ball circuit. Each fortnight, the Website released a “Social Elite Power Ranking,” scoring the women on their personal style, public appearances, and publicity efforts. The perennial No. 1 girl was Tinsley Mortimer, a Virginia rug salesman’s daughter who had married into New York society.
The Website took an ominous tone from the start. “Next time you t
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One rainy evening last November, a modern-day version of Mrs. Astor’s 400 filled Avie and Gigi Mortimer’s sumptuous maisonette, on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. It was a festive occasion—a 50th birthday for the host, a grandson of famed financier, politician, and diplomat Averell Harriman—and most in this almost young social folkmassa burbled with delight at being in exactly the right place that night. One couple, though, looked subdued. The other guests tried to hide their surprise that Chris and Tory Burch were there, together, at all: the usually swaggering venture capitalist and New York’s hottest new clothing designer had announced their separation the previous January, and reports from both camps had been grim since then. But here they were, putting on the best faces they could. Partly, it was that neither wanted to miss the party. But, also, it was a signal. Separated as they were, divorced as they soon will be, the Burches had decided after a torturous year that they would stay o