Leave it to Leonor #457

This week’s takeover is by Ella Cerón. Ella is an author and journalist (her first novel, Viva Lola Espinoza, is available here.) She’s from Los Angeles but has lived in New York City for her entire adult life, plus two months of her teenage years. She wears a lot of black. The city suits her better, she thinks.

Ella and I met as co-workers and bonded over our mutual love of books (especially Austen retellings) I’ve been lucky enough to read her writing and can’t wait to see what she next decides to put out into the world. I hope you enjoy her beautiful takeover which made me a little misty eyed.

I’ve been thinking a lot about permanence, and about making a mark wherever you are. Making things your own. Maybe it’s because of the impermanent nature of my hometown — I’ve always felt that either earthquake country mean things aren’t made to last, or that a lot of buildings are simply built like film sets, designed to be torn down every few years to make way for something newer, shinier, more easily parceled up into weird walkable condoplexes that will inevitably be torn down in a few years to make way for… — or because I’m hitting that point of my 30s where renting forever and buying disposable clothes from Zara every season feels less and less financially sound. (To point one, I live in New York City, a lot of people are renters forever, self, get a grip; to point two, the first thing I bought from Zara in years was a dress in Mexico City this summer and that’s partly because everyone knows the Zaras outside of the states are eons better than the ones we’ve got here, but I digress.)

I moved last month, after being in my last apartment for 13 years. And I really left my mark on that place. That was partly as a result of everyday pre-war horror stories — the bathroom ceiling leaked through the light fixture every winter; the electricity would go out in the kitchen if you tried to run more than two appliances at the same time; my packages got stolen so regularly, some companies refused to ship to my address; entire chunks of the plaster lath were visible in the hallway for years, like broken bones out in the open. When I finally convinced my landlord to swap out the (very exposed) knob-and-tube breaker box and ceiling wiring for something safer, the electrician also found that whoever had done the last landlord-special flip left the 1925-original light fixtures with a space for a gas line to go through in the ceiling. I moved in when I was 22 and broke, and couldn’t afford any nicer; I stayed because the rent was cheap, and because for a while, I had a two-bedroom apartment to myself. I told myself that was worth putting up with all the rest of it. 

I spent a lot of time and money on that place. I talked my super into installing more counter space and cabinets in the kitchen, I had dimmer switches and nice lighting and a better medicine cabinet put in to their respective rooms, I paid a guy to overhaul the two closets into more functional versions of themselves, I painted every room whenever I was on book deadline (truly, my preferred method of deranged procrastination). It was a rental, but it was mine, and whenever anyone asked me why I would spend so much money on a place I didn’t own, I’d tell them I didn’t see it that way. I lived there at that moment, and I deserved a nice home. And I hope whoever moves in also benefits from the upgrades I made, all in the quest of a more efficient life. 

There’s this idea that because we don’t own something, it’s not worth investing in, or that because something is only going to be around for a short period of time, it’s not worth the work. In some cases, that’s true — if you take a vintage Forever 21 dress to the tailor (and yes, it hurts me emotionally to call Forever 21 vintage, but at this point… it kind of is?) it’s probably not worth your money to get it hemmed or refashioned, because the fabric will likely disintegrate on sight. But investing in the things that are durable, and making sure they last — there’s value in that. I love when items have patina and show their wear — that they’ve been used, that you made memories in them, that they’ve had a life — and I firmly believe in supporting my tailor and my cobbler, people with skills I do not have and which are less and less valued every day.

My old apartment was like that. The landlord clearly saw some value in it — the company wouldn’t have kept it in its portfolio if the costs were more than the rent to be gained — but not enough to actually care for it. They didn’t know or care how their tenants lived, or what their quality of life was in that spot. If something needed to be fixed, they’d send a contractor, not the specialist. You had to specify if you wanted the electrician, and not just some guy; two men they sent once to to address some nasty exposed wiring only ended up breaking a hole into the ceiling and shoving the electrical nightmare in question closer to a wooden beam. Fucking yikes. 

I’m in a nicer building now as a result of some truly gobsmacking luck, and the difference is night and day. There’s a dedicated maintenance crew, and a package room that keeps an eye on your deliveries. Blinds were already installed when I moved in, so I didn’t need to buy cheap-o accordion blinds like at my last place. Even so, the first person I called was a guy to install ceiling tracks so I could hang curtains, and the second was a guy who added shelves to a closet with way too much empty space up top. I bit my fingernails every second they drilled into the ceiling and the walls — my security deposit!!!!!!! — but the end result was worth it. (I can always spackle the holes over, which makes those changes renter-friendly in my eyes.)

And now, as I organize and arrange and hang art, I am truly staggered by how much stuff is out there just so you can keep things hidden and out of sight. There are entire stores expressly meant to sell you stuff to, ahem, contain your stuff. And inside a closet? I get it, I do. I have a significant wardrobe, and I can use all the help and acrylic storage boxes I can get. 

But not everything needs to be shoved into those little compartments. Most things, I argue, should not. Your mementos from traveling, your kid’s finger artwork, weird little postcards you get with the bill at the end of the meal and keep just because. Stick a nail into the wall and hang up a framed photo strip from the booth in the bar down the street, paint the ceiling black, hang up a beloved dress as a decor piece rather than shoving it into the back of your closet. If you want a white couch and your own personal Nancy Meyers set, I’m not going to stop you, but if I walk into your home, I do want to know immediately and irrevocably that it’s yours. 

You can be a little more permanent in this life. I dare you. I want that for you, and for me. 

This week in tailoring. . .
The RealReal sells vintage Bob Mackie (as in that Bob Mackie) sometimes, which is a fun fact that hurts me to tell you as much as it brings me joy. (What if you buy the beaded gown I wanted to buy?) I found this wonderfully garish skirt suit there for $20 and my plan is to have the jacket cropped and wear it with jeans. My boyfriend also took a double-breasted Armani blazer to the tailor this week, after I bought it for $40 on a hunch and sliced up the seam at the cuff in case there was fabric there to let the sleeve out a bit. There was — the working theory is that it was initially made custom, but a second person also had it tailored — and now Mike the tailor gets to work magic on a piece that deserves a third life. 

Also, I must say it: The bridesmaid’s industrial complex has to be stopped. I’m in a wedding this month, and being in said wedding required me to spend $100 on a dress (Fine! Happy to do it in the name of love!) and [redacted] (Like, truly, oh my god, aahhhhhh!!!) on its tailoring. And when I went to the tailor’s, three other women were getting their bridesmaid’s dresses fitted, too. ‘Tis the season and all that, but there must be a better way, particularly for polyester dresses we will truly only ever wear once in our lives.

This week in Resy. . .
Or really, I should say, the last few weeks: Glasserie in Greenpoint is in an old glass factory (hence the name) and feels like a great little place to know. If you haven’t been to the holy trinity of Eyval (Bushwick), Sofreh (Prospect Heights), and Sawa (Park Slope), they are all connected by cooks that worked at one and opened the other, etc, and are all phenomenal. The pastries at By Gloria on Vanderbilt have been particularly summery lately — I haven’t yet braved the Radio Bakery line, but soon. Meju was both a splurge and a revelation – I learned so much about Korean food and fermentation in general; it felt like a gift for the chef to share that knowledge with us. I live near a Xi’an Famous Foods now and the fact that I am not 78% noodles is shocking to me, too. 

This week in reading. . .
I love Elissa Sussman’s books, and Totally and Completely Fine is both delightful and a great example of how a book can be technically delicious. Elissa’s pacing? Her sentence flow? The best. Also, my very good friend Nikita’s take on weird ragebait advertising made me think a lot about the function of ads, overall. 

​This week in listening. . .
It’s either been Pantera radio on Spotify or DtMF, with no in between. I am a woman of duality.

This week in Google searches. . .

• “Birkenstock repair NYC”

• “What to wear to Nobu Malibu”

• “Best automatic cat litter box”

• “The rammys tweet”

me, making decisions, 
Ella

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