“We could do that . . .” he said, surprising even himself with his lack of resistance. Christopher wondered aloud why, if we were going to take a year off from our lives, we weren’t going on a bigger adventure, to Saigon or something. But I didn’t want an adventure. I wanted to be calm and peaceful and reflective. I’d had enough upheaval. Also, I knew I would be happy in England, whereas the other places we briefly considered couldn’t guarantee that for me. And so that was it. Of course we talked it over and over and spent time independently thinking it through before we made it official, but the course to England was pretty straight from there. We just kept taking the next step forward, albeit quietly and a little nervously.
• • •
It wouldn’t be until a few months after I left Barneys that the real reason I quit became clear to me. I’d left the job on March 15, exactly a year and a month after my first day there.
A journalist from the New York Times had called to propose writing a story about me giving up my coveted, high-profile fashion job for a year off on a farm. Immediately I was cautious and scared. I knew from experience that it was nearly impossible to have a personal story written in the press without some form of deep disappointment attached to something I said or being misunderstood. I felt that I had gotten over the hurdle of leaving Barneys without causing too much drama, so why risk bringing it all up again? Why risk leaving this chapter of two wonderful decades I had spent in New York on a bad note? But the journalist was determined to write the story with or without my participation—yikes!—so I realized this was a challenge I would have to face.
• • •
In preparation for our meeting, the journalist repeated a conversation she’d had about me that brought my entire past year into sharp focus.
“Amanda, your former boss [from WME] Mark Dowley says you are the most balanced person he knows. He says that the way you balance your work, your children, your husband, your home, your health, and your whole life is down to an enviable science.”
Right then I knew that Mark had generously articulated the very thing that meant the most to me in the world—balance. While I was at Barneys, I had let that balance completely disappear. It wasn’t possible for me to do that job and maintain my family life or my home or my friendships the way I always had. It wasn’t the responsibilities of the job themselves that caused so much stress. It was the fact that I missed Zach’s birthday because it fell during Paris Fashion Week, and I knew I’d always miss it if I stayed on that path. It was because Coco could never understand why I didn’t eat dinner with her anymore. It was because the two herniated discs in my back that had started to bother me before I went to Barneys became prohibitively worse when I was there, culminating in the Paris disaster and the spinal steroid injections that followed. It was because I had abandoned my own creative voice following the success of I Love Your Style and the creation of my blog. I had given up so much that was meaningful to me that I didn’t feel like myself anymore.
Perhaps the worst regret was when I’d missed a week of work due to my back injury, and then two weeks after I had returned, Zach was diagnosed with pneumonia. He wouldn’t have to be hospitalized, the doctor told me, as long as I brought him to the doctor’s office twice a day for oxygen treatments. To fit these into my workday, I scheduled them early in the morning and late in the evening (not convenient times for a sick child) so that I could leave him with his nanny and go to work for a full day in between. I still struggle with myself for dragging him out of the house at inappropriate times and not staying home with him when he was the sickest he’d ever been in his life, just because I didn’t feel I could miss any more work. To be fair, I didn’t ask for the time off. When I was in charge of my own work life, I wouldn’t have hesitated to miss any professional opportunity to be home with my seriously ill child, but in this instance I didn’t have it in me to explain myself again. My weakness was no one’s fault but my own, but it was not the Amanda that I wanted to be.
• • •
Besides packing, renting out our apartment, updating passports, securing visas, and saying good-bye to practically everyone we’d ever met in New York, the last hurdle was getting through the New York Times interview in a sincere, positive, and humble way. I consulted trusted friends and family, tried to get the closest to the truth in my own heart about my reasons for leaving my job and moving out of the country, and then spent some time alone just thinking about the way I wanted to present myself and explain my current state of mind.
The article was posted online the night before it appeared on newsstands. I knew this because I got an e-mail on the way to our good-bye party with the subject line “New York Times article.” It was from Dana Lorenz, the designer of Fenton/Fallon jewelry. The e-mail simply said, “You go girl. This is your time!” I felt immediate relief, but I still needed to see it for myself before I knew if I was in the clear.
At home on Chrystie Street, NYC, shortly before we moved, in a Proenza Schouler T-shirt and J Brand jeans.
I stood outside in the rain on my iPhone reading the article before heading inside to my friend’s apartment. I got through the whole of it without too much shame, disappointment, or embarrassment. As with all things written about me, I would have changed a few things here and there, but I knew enough to feel lucky for the simple fact that, essentially, they had portrayed me as I’d wanted to be seen.
With all of that behind me, there was nothing left to do but make it to the airport with our dog and all our luggage! I haven’t regretted for a moment the decision to take a break from the world that had been mine for so long and to have an experience that would give me a new point of view.
SIDEBAR
SELF-NOURISHING
SOULCYCLE
I know you’re probably laughing at me right now, but—truth be told—the spiritual guidance that led me through my challenging year at Barneys came from a dark sweaty room with pounding nightclub music. There were barely six inches to walk (sideways) between the stationary bikes that filled up the room, and candles were the only light that guided the way to my reserved bike. Seven A.M. was the only class I could fit in my schedule, and I would go every Tuesday and Thursday to ride that bike to the beat of the perfectly curated music and listen as my teacher Danny’s wisdom, enthusiasm, and passion guided me into the day. The class was so intense that it was impossible to think about anything other than where I was in that moment, and the resulting high lasted for hours. To have an experience like this before I went into work gave me the feeling of owning my day, of taking the best part of the morning for myself before going out and giving to work, to my career, to other people.
A WATER VIEW
Another thing that created sanity for me throughout my time in New York and my career is nature, specifically water. I moved around a lot when I first arrived in the city full time, and the street I lived on where I finally felt settled had a view of the Hudson River at the end of the block. Coming home each workday to see the early-evening light shining off the surface of the river gave me a sense of psychological release, of freedom that I hadn’t felt thus far in the city. Later, when I would move into a family-size apartment on the Lower East Side, I was very worried about losing my evening glimpse of water. But shortly after, we got a little weekend house on Long Island, right on the Sound. Sitting on the beach watching the water and listening to the waves made the two-hour drive out and back, even if just for the day, worth it. Sometimes we would arrive late on a Friday night, long after dark, and after putting the kids in their beds, I would walk down to the beach in the dark and listen to the water. The sounds washed all the stress of the week off my mind.
The view from the top of the lighthouse steps that I climb for exercise when I’m at our summer house in Southold, New York.
Clockwise from top left: Yvonne Force Villareal; me, Rachel Feinstein, and Yvonne; Rachel; Inez Van Lamsweerde; Anh Duong.
STYLE INFLUENC
E
MY ARTIST FRIENDS
THERE ARE many reasons that I value my friends who are artists, but speaking strictly from a style perspective, my time spent around them has been sartorially very liberating. Unlike fashion people, artists are trying to be different from the rest of the pack. They are far less self-conscious in using clothes to define themselves, and the resulting look is often far more considered and personal than just piling on the latest trends. My friend Yvonne is the girl I know who is the least scared of embracing a total look. She sees fashion and clothes as if they are a statement by the designer, and she is very respectful of maintaining the integrity of that expression. While most girls I know want to change the look to make it their own, Yvonne’s own look is about choosing the look that is right for her and embracing it as faithfully as she can. Rachel’s style, on the other hand, is more focused on her iconic body, hair, and face. As an artist herself and as the muse of her husband, John Currin, Rachel’s look—if it can even be defined—is buxom bombshell with a vintage sexy-secretary vibe thrown in. It suits her entirely and no one else looks like her. Isn’t that what we all aspire to? Then there’s Anh. She knows herself so well. She is probably the most exotic-looking friend I have. Her face is so exquisite that she would look great no matter what she was wearing. It is for that reason that she embraces simple, classic clothes that let her physical features do all the talking. As glamorous as she looks dressed up at night, I am most inspired when I catch a glimpse of her in an apron and clogs in her painting studio. And finally, Inez, a photographer, is another striking-looking woman, and she wears a daily uniform that is practical for photo shoots and flattering to her figure. She wore New Balance sneakers every day long before it was cool to do so, and in the evening she’ll dress up her jeans and T-shirt with a fur jacket and high-heeled boots. To me, her look says “I am the coolest girl in high school,” and I bet she was.
On the farm in a J.Crew sweatshirt and my trusty Céline sunglasses.
A YEAR ON THE FARM: MAKING JAM IS THE BEST REVENGE
I’M SURE it will take me many years to understand the full extent of why moving to England was so good for me, just like I am still processing why it eventually came to be that living in New York at that time in my life had become untenable. But the fact is that I am happy here, on a much simpler but deeper level than I could have imagined for myself. I have never been more certain of who I am and what is important to me. There is enough time and space here to listen to myself—my mind and my body. I know when it’s time to work hard and when it’s time to rest. The tension is gone from my shoulders, and the adrenaline that lived inside my belly for twenty years in New York has settled down. I know it because whenever I go back to New York, the rush returns and I notice it now because I’m less used to it—it’s a foreign feeling. My husband is as happy as I am, for similar reasons. And my kids are thriving. Thriving.
Laura Bailey and me holding newborn lambs at nearby Daylesford Organic Farm.
For the first year here (it’s now been nearly three!), I really did just allow myself to unwind and to find a new balance. The demands of setting up family life in a new country are not easy. My kids had been ripped away from their comfort zone and required thoughtful encouragement and consistent support from me in finding a new one both at home and at school. Our house had never been a full-time home and needed many improvements to withstand greater use. I had to learn to drive on the wrong side of the road, figure out how to navigate a roundabout, and eventually pass the notoriously challenging British driving test. But I balanced these responsibilities with the more pleasurable pursuits of learning to jump fences on my horse, taking blackberry-picking breaks with my husband in the midafternoon, cooking three meals a day for my family, and discovering the challenges and joys of jam-making. Yes, I really do make jam. First of all, we, as a large extended farm family, could never eat all the fresh fruit that grows on the trees here, but more important, I love the kind of meditative step-by-step method of measuring the fruit and sugar, stirring the mixture slowly over the fire while watching for signs of setting, sterilizing and labeling the jars, tying a bow around the lid, and ultimately giving the finished product as a present to friends. (I’ve been watching Scandal on TV recently, and every time Olivia Pope and the POTUS dream of giving up their high-powered careers to make jam in the countryside, I must admit I get a little whiff of self-satisfaction.)
And of course, because I’m me—a ball of energy who feels most at home with a schedule and a goal in front of me—I set about to write this book. It’s taken longer than I planned because I didn’t anticipate so many pleasurable distractions, but still it’s held me accountable to my long-term goals and made me feel that I wasn’t just a farmwife, a country bumpkin, a soccer mom—all titles I am proud to accept for the time being.
When I was sitting in my office at Barneys fantasizing about my impending life on the farm, I imagined having the time to do yoga regularly and meditate each morning. I imagined creating an art studio for myself, pulling out all the inspiration I have collected over the years and creating something entirely original. Perhaps I’m still unwinding from the addiction to busy days, but I haven’t quite found the time for those activities yet. Or maybe I just have to take responsibility for not holding those goals high enough on my priority list.
I do, however, have a long, hot bath before I get into bed every single night. Why didn’t I do that in New York? It’s such an obvious stress reliever. I also take walks with my dog, Ginger, during which I allow my mind to wander, to see things more clearly, and to process how I ended up here in this place so far away from what I know. I am starting to be able to look at my life in New York City and what I consider to be only the first half of my career, and find some wisdom in the choices I made.
There was a part of me that never forgave myself for giving up photography so quickly when starting out in my twenties. Photography was the truest passion in my life when I emerged from college and moved to New York. Why had I abandoned it at the first chance I got? At the time I was confused about whether to pursue a photography career in fashion or a fine art. And in either case I didn’t know what would set me apart from all the other photographers out there whom I loved and was influenced by. But isn’t that the struggle of every artist’s beginning? As I have thought it through further, I started to think about the conditioning I received from my exceptional education. No question I attended fine academic institutions surrounded by “the best and the brightest” of America’s future, but I realized that, over time, I became attached to this idea of being at the top of the pile, ahead of the field. I had the Ivy League diploma, the coveted internships, the drive, the discipline, the ambition. Nothing prepared me for going to New York at the bottom of the pile, for being a struggling artist. Nearly every single one of my school friends had already aligned themselves with prestigious institutions—investment banks, well-known charitable foundations, further education at Yale or Harvard—to continue their tradition of excellence. And soon I followed suit, quickly giving up my photography dreams to align myself with Gagosian, the most prestigious art gallery in the world. I reconciled this by telling myself that I could always have photography in my life. It didn’t have to be my career—it could be my hobby. And maybe one day, when the moment was right, I would return to my pursuit of my greatest creative passion.
And you know what? That part actually turned out to be true. Just when I was leaving New York, I discovered Instagram. I had really struggled with Twitter. I don’t find myself to be quippy or clever in 140 characters. But for me, images say everything I feel the urge to express. I started sharing pictures of my unfolding life on the farm, and people have responded to them in the most gratifying way. Taking photographs again has fulfilled a deeply buried craving. I don’t know where this pursuit is going yet, whether I will pursue photography as part of my professional life or whether it is destined to remain as my hobby.
In terms of fa
shion, I have never enjoyed getting dressed more than with the limited options I have here at the farm. This new simplicity has forced me to further define who I am and what I want clothes to say about me. After twenty years of being a fashion chameleon, I finally can say I have the defined sense of my sartorial self that I was always looking for. I have to work harder to make old things seem new by combining them in unexpected ways or changing the proportion. I dress more discreetly than I ever have, but I still take great pride in the quality and design of the things I choose to buy. On the whole, my outfit each day starts with practicality—if my day includes riding, I put on jodhpurs; if not, I usually wear corduroys or jeans that are narrow enough to tuck into boots. I seem to always wear boots here—wellies when it’s wet (very often), Portuguese soft leather riding boots when it’s dry, or my beautiful custom-made E. Vogel boots (a coming-to-England present from Christopher) if I am planning to get on a horse. Then I’ll wear a T-shirt in the summer or a turtleneck or plaid flannel in the winter, topped with a chunky sweater. This base look pretty much makes me feel like a prep-school girl, and truth be told, that’s what I am. I feel at home in this look. But then I always add something chic and current to remind myself of my fashionable alter ego—a Proenza Schouler vest, a Balmain pea coat, my Repossi ring. Sixty percent of what is in my closet these days are classic basics from J.Crew, but I still have the occasional splurge on Isabel Marant when I am in London, and the nearby Céline outlet store (YES! There is a Céline outlet thirty minutes from my house!) has proven a very effective way to relapse into overspending on clothes when the urge overwhelms me.
Always Pack a Party Dress: And Other Lessons Learned From a (Half) Life in Fashion Page 21