Excerpt
Tiny Threads
Chapter 1 December 4Samara’s first day The lobby is all dark furniture with hard edges and luminous glass walls, except for the piece of art located above the reception desk. Samara recalls reading how the legendary fashion designer Antonio Mota, her new boss, acquired this artwork by the late Cuban artist Ana Mendieta for an exorbitant amount of money. The piece, titled Color Photo of the Earth, depicts the artist covered in green grass and white flowers. In the article, Antonio said the image spoke to him. “Even in death, Ana’s message lives on.” The banal-enough statement became the pull quote for the article. Some say Mendieta was pushed out the window by her jealous lover, artist Carl Andre. It’s interesting how the striking photo became a print on a pencil skirt Antonio sent down the runway last season. If Ana were still alive, would she have approved?—a question the reporter failed to ask.
“Hi, I’m here to see—”
The receptionist stands.
“Good morning, you must be Samara. Welcome! We’re so happy to have you be a part of our family. My name is Lake Montoya.”
Lake is tall and thin with long black hair framing her profile. She wears all black, from the designer’s fall collection: a long, clinging silk skirt and a form-fitting blazer with severe, pointy shoulders.
Samara spent the last couple of months committing to memory the various collections and the themes associated with each. Antonio started off in New York in the late seventies with violent, complicated designs that rarely translated into sales. Only a select few bold personalities were able to wear them. He eventually conquered Paris with his less intense creations, but as the years went by, his collections became more and more diluted. They became safe. Easy. After the line for Target came out, his edge was gone. He wants—no, needs—to return to his roots.
The receptionist gestures toward Samara’s luggage. A tattoo of an anatomical heart peeks out from her right wrist. “I can take that from you and store it, if you like. How was your flight?”
The place is library-quiet. Only slight murmurings can be heard above the soft, ambient music. There’s a whiff of the woodsy and grounding smell of palo santo. The eponymous fragrance is new for the company as they expand into other verticals. Samara’s mind can’t stop working overtime naming each of the new products. She may have secured the job, but her testing period has begun.
“It was fine,” Samara says. “No crying babies, thank God.”
Her voice changes to her “white girl voice.” When she’s with family and friends, her jaw relaxes and her speech drops to a lower octave. It’s deeper, guttural. Her white voice is higher, more controlled.
“Antonio should be arriving soon.”
“Great. Is there a restroom I can use?”
Samara follows Lake, admiring her towering flatforms. Lake takes a quick left and presses her hand against a silk-screen wallpaper based off of one of Antonio’s textile patterns to reveal a hidden door. Samara enters the spacious bathroom with toiletries displayed hotel-style.
Inside, she adjusts her sheer Helmut Lang top and tucks it into her Chanel sailor pants. Her style has always been very Italian mobster princess/hip-hop queen, rocking Nike high-tops and her signature large nameplate hoop earrings. Vintage aviator sunglasses sit atop her straightened brown hair. Samara dresses high and low—mostly low . . . always low—but she’s learned to mask the cheap by sprinkling in designer brands here and there. It’s how she’s been rolling even while living rent-free with her nosy Cuban family in Jersey. Working as a journalist meant being knee-deep in delayed checks courtesy of unreliable freelance gigs.
Moving away from journalism to work behind the scenes with a designer is what excited Samara most about her new position. She has such deep respect for anyone who can manipulate fabric to convey desire or violence. And it all began with a simple sketch and ended with the wearer of the fashion piece becoming a translator of the designer’s vision. As Executive Director, Global Brand Voice, Samara can help articulate that visual conversation, try to capture what the designer wants to convey to the masses, and with her input, help shape his message.
Some in the industry thought her too inexperienced for the title. But at twenty-five, Samara was the only fool still living at home instead of with friends crammed into a small apartment in the city no one could afford. So no matter what people said, this was her moment to carve her own space.
Moving to California in December meant she could give Jersey winters—and certain recent f***ed-up events that almost destroyed her—the middle finger.
“Stop Sleeping on Vernon” was the title of the New York Times Style feature Samara wrote six months ago, covering how designer brands were setting up shop in the once industrial city of Vernon, California. Located southeast from downtown, just ten minutes away, Vernon is the new L.A., and now it is her new home.
“Where is she?” A commanding voice resonates across the office.
Samara steps out of the bathroom and places one hand in her pocket. Her headache from the tiny airport liquor bottles she consumed on her flight is mostly gone. She’s as alert as can be with a hangover. She walks back to the receptionist desk.
“You’re finally here,” Antonio loudly says, breaking the silence with his deep voice.
Antonio’s turning sixty-five this year, although people say he’s secretly way older, especially since he’s always so coy about revealing his age in interviews. He’s lucky to be both beautiful and ageless in that Latino way, with surgeries also keeping his face baby smooth. There’s no judgment from Samara about that.
They hug and do a kiss on each cheek. He holds a small stack of notes, phone messages, and a green juice.
“I’m so happy to see you,” he says, then addresses the receptionist. “Conference room.”
Lake nods. “It’s all set up.” She presses a button and makes an announcement on the intercom for everyone to meet in fifteen minutes.
Antonio leads Samara to his large expanse of an office. This is not where he sketches. He prefers to work alongside the junior assistant designers he hires in the open floor plan. This office is purely ego, to showcase more art pieces, but it’s not the art he’s acquired that draws the eye when entering. Instead, it’s the art he created: the dress form that showcases his first major design. The Ramona.
Samara walks up to the dress and admires it, finally seeing it in person after reading so much about it. The garment itself combines intricate lacework and leather in vampire red with a plunging neckline revealing an exposed breast. The skirt has a steel-wired hoop, creating a structured bustle with balloon sleeves. Motifs from nature, of flowers and dragonflies, travel up and down the dress. The lacework juxtaposed against the leather became Antonio’s signature style. The gown is named after Antionio’s great ancestor, the matriarch who forged a new life in California at the turn of the century after leaving Europe.
“Antonio, no one can ever come close to replicating your designs,” she says while caressing the leather flowers.
“They always try,” he answers with a chuckle.
Samara fell in love with how Antonio found ways to fold violence with beauty. At his first show in Paris, Antonio asked two model friends to end the show with one covered in bloodred paint and wearing a thin silk chemise and the other wearing The Ramona. When the model wearing The Ramona pretended to strike at the blood-drenched woman, as Antonio had instructed her to do backstage just minutes before she stepped on the runway, the crowd went wild. He named the show La Venganza. Critics loved the boldness of it, how he featured white models subservient to the indigenous-looking ones, for once flipping the script. Although he was raised in New York, ten years ago Antonio traced his roots to California. It’s why he landed in Vernon. His actual percentage may scream Mexican, but he never fails to bring up how connected he is to his Basque side—the Ramona side.
“Are you settled in your new apartment?” Antonio asks, pouring a cup of tea for her. Samara joins him on the couch.
“Not yet. I will after I leave today.”
“You didn’t have to come here right away. You could have stopped first at your place. I’m not that evil.”
