the swans, yves saint laurent and serena van der woodsen

one woman's trash is another woman's treasure

No offense to the ladies of Potomac and those who love them, but…

I pride myself on never watching reality television. It’s my bragging right, my righteous sense of self creeping into cocktail party conversation, as if the hours I’ve saved from abstaining from the housewives haven’t seamlessly deployed to Instagram rabbit holes instead. But recently, I took a look at my media diet and realized… it was all a lie. I’m just as addicted to the drama as the rest of the you.

The only difference with my subset of delicious, gossipy women (and men!) is that sometimes I cement it in history (1970s Paris!), nostalgia (New York, 2007!) or literature (Wharton!) to make it feel like an intellectually worthy pastime. In truth, it’s all the same story: restless, beautiful people haunted by their own shadows, stumbling through their glittering, dangerous lives. Lives filled with objects of desire: couture fittings at the Dior atelier, estates designed by Renzo Mongiardino, a Van Gogh sunflower as a con…