Lifestyle
How does a holiday tradition shine for 104 years? Meet Altadena's village of volunteers
• Christmas Tree Lane in Altadena is a neighborhood holiday lights extravaganza that’s taken place nearly every year since 1920.
• 135 deodar cedars stretching nearly a mile along Santa Rosa Avenue are strung with lights by volunteers each year for the event.
• This year’s lighting ceremony and winter festival takes place from 3 to 9 p.m. — the lights turn on at 6 p.m. — on Dec. 7.
If Santa were skinny and endlessly energetic, he’d be a dead ringer for Scott Wardlaw, president and chief cheerleader of Altadena’s 104-year holiday tradition known as Christmas Tree Lane.
But Wardlaw’s domain is nowhere near the North Pole. Since late September, sometimes in triple-digit heat, he’s been wrangling 20 to 30 volunteers every Saturday and Sunday to get the lane’s 135 massive deodar cedars strung with lights in time for the holidays.
His crew is mostly high school students collecting community service hours along with old hands who have been using wobbly ladders, ropes and pulleys for years to string long strands of lights from the cedars’ graceful branches.
Once the lights are pulled as high as the pulleys will allow, the volunteers whip and flip the strands of lights as best they can from the ground to cover the canopy of bristly branches that stretch nearly a mile along Santa Rosa Avenue (the real name of Christmas Tree Lane) from Woodbury Road to East Mariposa Street.
Wardlaw is 76 and walks with a limp, but on a Saturday in late October, it doesn’t stop him from striding up and down the block repeatedly, answering questions, encouraging newcomers and demonstrating how to muscle a stubborn string of lights up and over an uncooperative branch.
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1. Scott Wardlaw, 76, president of the Altadena Christmas Tree Lane Assn., pulls on a string of lights while hanging lights on the massive deodar cedars on Santa Rosa Avenue. (Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times) 2. A volunteer carries a basket of LED light bulbs that will be used on Christmas Tree Lane. 3. Volunteer Clyde Haslett, 13, clutches a handful of lights to replace burned-out bulbs. 4. Volunteer Clyde Haslett tackles the tedious but necessary job of replacing burned-out lights. (Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)
It takes nearly 10 weekends to get the lights in place in time for the annual Christmas Tree Lane Lighting Ceremony and Winter Festival, which this year is from 3 to 9 p.m. Saturday and includes vendors and speakers outside the Altadena Public Library. The lights come on at 6 p.m., and visitors will be able to walk the lane until 9 p.m. to admire the display, which is then open to vehicles until the lights go out on Jan. 5.
After all that, the volunteers turn out again for another eight to 10 weekends — depending on the weather — to take the lights back down. It’s not possible to leave the lights up during the year, Wardlaw said. High winds and/or heavy rains can damage the strings, and the trees grow so rapidly that lights quickly become unreachable and can’t be removed for maintenance.
Santa Rosa Avenue has no sidewalks or street lights, so for safety’s sake, once it reopens to traffic, Wardlaw recommends that visitors drive the route. And many thousands do every year, despite the old-school, low-tech display: basically long strands of multicolored lights hoisted a good 30 feet high on the cedars’ stately branches, creating a quiet canopy of sparkly colors for the slow-moving cars lined up underneath.
Temple City High School student Desmond Xie, 14, left, gathers a string of lights to be pulled up into one of the 135 deodar cedar trees that are decorated each year on Altadena’s Christmas Tree Lane.
(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)
“A lot of people are looking for flashy, blinky lights and the sound of music, but that’s not really what we’re about here,” said volunteer foreman Derek Nowak, a 22-year-old urban planning student at Cal Poly Pomona who began helping with the lights when he was 8.
“We’ve had people ask us, ‘Can’t you at least sync it to some music?’ And we have to say, ‘Well, no, unless you want to sit out here every night and flip the switch,” Nowak said, rolling his eyes.
Nowak is a steady, unflappable volunteer who shows up every Saturday and Sunday from 8 a.m. to noon to make sure the work is completed properly. He grew up around the corner from Christmas Tree Lane, and during the holidays, he’s the one who comes out at night, during wind and rainstorms, to fix lights that aren’t working.
He’s been replacing bulbs and rewiring these light strands since he was a teen under the tutelage of his predecessor, longtime volunteer Tony Ward, and he probably knows the ropes almost as well as Wardlaw, who’s been a volunteer since 2008. But he’s taken aback when he’s asked to explain why such an old-fashioned tradition persists.
“What we’re doing is more for the history,” he said finally. “This is something special for the identity of the community. It makes us unique, in a way.”
Volunteers Casty Fortich, from left, and Temple City High School student Patience Cam, 14, pull on a string of light bulbs as Scott Wardlaw and Feli Hernandez, right, look on.
(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)
Sisters Tessa and Hannah Skidmore seem just as flummoxed by the question about why Christmas Tree Lane has been a hit for generations. Tessa, a junior at John Muir High School, followed the lead of Hannah, a senior, who joined the crew as a freshman to collect community service hours. Students need 40 hours of community service to graduate. Hannah, after some prodding from Wardlaw, admits she has 400 community service hours, many from her years of volunteering at Christmas Tree Lane.
But why? Hannah stares at her sister, who laughs and shrugs. “It’s cool to see your work on display when it’s done,” Hannah said finally. “It’s not always fun to be out here, but it’s pretty wonderful to see what the end is. You couldn’t have all this without community service. I guess it’s because it makes things better.”
Her friend Aaydan Aguilar, another John Muir senior, also started his freshman year. At first, he said, it was just for the community service hours. He learned through the school’s Interact Club that the lights he’d loved all his life weren’t put up by the city. “It was this little community organization that needed help,” he said. “And I take care of my own.”
Learning that Christmas Tree Lane is a volunteer operation makes an impression on people, said Ward, 80, who began helping with the lights soon after he and his wife, Maureen, moved to Santa Rosa Avenue in 1971.
They started slow at first, helping to install lights on their block, but eventually their involvement grew. Both served as presidents of the organization, and all five of their children were drafted as volunteers. (“It was an expectation in the Ward household,” Maureen said, laughing.)
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1. Derek Nowak, 22, volunteer foreman of the Christmas Tree Lane installations, prepares to plug a string of lights into an electrical box installed on every deodar cedar on Santa Rose Avenue. Nowak has been helping with the installations since he was 8. 2. Longtime volunteers Tony Ward, 80, and his wife Maureen, 74, have been involved with the Christmas Tree Lane Assn. since they moved to their home on Santa Rosa Avenue in 1971. (Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)
But over their decades of service, they never really considered making any changes to the display. “We’ve had feedback,” Tony said, “that people like the small-town atmosphere of Christmas Tree Lane.”
The lane’s history (compiled in a series of short videos by Altadena Libraries, the Altadena Historical Society and Christmas Tree Lane Assn.) dates back to the community’s creation. Back in the 1880s, what is now Santa Rosa Avenue was actually built to be the grand entrance to the home of Altadena’s founder, real estate developer and rancher John Woodbury.
In 1883, Woodbury saw and fell in love with deodar cedars, which are native to the Himalayas in India. The cedars came to Altadena via Italy. After he determined the cedars could thrive in Southern California, Woodbury bought some seeds and had his brother (and partner) Frederick grow them into young trees on their ranch in Altadena. Frederick had already built his house next to the site where John planned to build his.
Two years later, the trees were planted along the long driveway leading to John Woodbury’s future home, under the supervision of ranch foreman Tom Hoag, according to the Christmas Tree Lane Assn.’s official history.
A volunteer from Temple City High School makes sure there are no faulty light bulbs.
(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)
In those days, the long driveway that would become Santa Rosa Avenue was compacted dirt, so lots of effort went into keeping the surface intact during rainstorms, when runoff from the foothills tried to wash it away, Wardlaw said. The solution was mounding the road a bit in the center and building sloping stone-lined ditches on both sides of the avenue to carry the runoff away.
Those slippery ditches still function well today, but they make working against the trees challenging. The adult volunteers have to carefully adjust their ladders to get firm purchase on the stones, so they can climb up to the power boxes installed on the trunk of each tree, a good 15 to 20 feet above the ground. The ladders look a bit precarious, and student volunteers aren’t permitted to use them. But longtime volunteers such as Tony Price and Casty Fortich climb up and down with ease, plugging each string of lights into its power box to make sure they work.
John Woodbury never built his grand house due to the real estate bust of 1887, but the stately avenue became part of his legacy, coming to be known as the Avenue of the Deodars. In 1920, Altadena resident and Pasadena department store owner Frederick C. Nash came up with the idea of stringing lights along the cedars during the holidays.
Nash enlisted help from the city of Pasadena and fellow members of the Pasadena Kiwanis Club to light up a quarter mile of the street.
Within a few years all the deodars were strung with lights, and ever since, people have come by the thousands to admire them. The only years the lights weren’t on was during 1943 and 1944 — not because of World War II, but because the snowpack was very low those years, causing concerns there wouldn’t be enough water to generate hydro electricity, according to the history.
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1. A vintage postcard bearing a 1947 postmark, from the collection of L.A. Times reporter Patt Morrison, tells the story of Altadena’s Christmas Tree Lane, although the dates differ from the Christmas Tree Lane Assn.’s official history that Frederick C. Nash started the lighting in 1920. 2. From Dec. 25, 1948: “BRIGHT HIGHWAY — Lights on Altadena’s Christmas Tree Lane went on last night, and more than 1,000 cars witnessed the annual spectacle of brilliantly lighted 80-foot trees,” according to The Times. (Los Angeles Times)
Motorists cruise Santa Rosa Avenue, better known as Christmas Tree Lane in Altadena, in 2018. The holiday light tradition has continued in pretty much the same way for 100 years.
(Calvin B. Alagot / Los Angeles Times)
In 2020 and 2021, the COVID-19 pandemic canceled the annual Christmas Tree Lane Lighting Festival, but volunteers still got together to hang the lights.
The lighting ceremony and winter festival resumed in 2022, and the display continues pretty much the same as it’s been for the last century. The Christmas Tree Lane Assn. raises money by selling merchandise during the festival and offering $35 memberships to cover power costs, replacement lights and maintenance on the aging cedars.
Many of these trees are more than 140 years old, after all, and the association is always looking ahead, Ward said. In their native Himalayas, deodar cedars reportedly live many centuries, but their lifespans are typically shorter in other parts of the world. Thus, deodar sprouts are carefully collected on the street and tended by a resident on the avenue until they’re big enough to be replanted. Volunteers fill in gaps with saplings sprouted from mature trees growing right there on the avenue.
There has been one significant modernization: The association saved a bundle on its electric bill about five years ago when it switched from incandescent, easy-to-break glass bulbs to plastic LED lights. The lights are faceted, Wardlaw said, so they give off better light and they rarely break. Best of all, the association’s power bill dropped from about $2,500 to under $500.
Nowak, the young foreman of few words, oversees all the wiring. It’s his primary job to ensure the lights go on smoothly during the ceremony on Saturday and stay on throughout the season, and he takes his responsibility seriously. He hopes to find a job in the area after he graduates in June because he likes this community. This is his home. And he expects his work with Christmas Tree Lane to continue for as long as it can.
“I know it won’t last forever,” he said. “Eventually there will be a point where time and availability will be harder and harder, but for the time being, it’s something I will be doing.”
Traditions are important, Nowak said. Christmas Tree Lane helps define his community, and for better or worse, he has a role in keeping that tradition alive. “This started before me,” he said. “I don’t want to be the reason it stopped.”
Lifestyle
It Started with a Midnight Swim and a Kiss Under the Stars
When Marian Sherry Lurio and Jonathan Buffington Nguyen met at a mutual friend’s wedding at Higgins Lake, Mich., in July 2022, both felt an immediate chemistry. As the evening progressed, they sat on the shore of the lake in Adirondack chairs under the stars, where they had their first kiss before joining others for a midnight plunge.
The two learned that the following weekend Ms. Lurio planned to attend a wedding in Philadelphia, where Mr. Nguyen lives, and before they had even exchanged numbers, they already had a first date on the books.
“I have a vivid memory of after we first met,” Mr. Nguyen said, “just feeling like I really better not screw this up.”
Before long, they were commuting between Philadelphia and New York City, where Ms. Lurio lives, spending weekends and the odd remote work days in one another’s apartments in Philadelphia and Manhattan. Within the first six months of dating, Mr. Nguyen joined Ms. Lurio’s family for Thanksgiving in Villanova, Pa., and, the following month, she met his family in Beavercreek, Ohio, at a surprise birthday party for Mr. Nguyen’s mother.
Ms. Lurio, 32, who grew up in Merion Station outside Philadelphia, works in investor relations administration at Flexpoint Ford, a private equity firm. She graduated from Dartmouth College with a bachelor’s degree in history and psychology.
Mr. Nguyen, also 32, was born in Knoxville, Tenn., and raised in Beavercreek, Ohio, from the age of 7. He graduated from Haverford College with a bachelor’s degree in political science and is now a director at Doyle Real Estate Advisors in Philadelphia.
Their long-distance relationship continued for the next few years. There were dates in Manhattan, vacations and beach trips to the Jersey Shore. They attended sporting events and discovered their shared appreciation of the 2003 film, “Love Actually.”
One evening, Mr. Nguyen recalled looking around Ms. Lurio’s small New York studio — strewed with clothes and the takeout meal they had ordered — and feeling “so comfortable and safe.” “I knew that this was something different than just sort of a fling,” he said.
It was an open question when they would move in together. In 2024, Ms. Lurio began the process of moving into Mr. Nguyen’s home in Philadelphia — even bringing her cat, Scott — but her plans changed midway when an opportunity arose to expand her role with her current employer.
Mr. Nguyen was on board with her decision. “It almost feels like stolen valor to call it ‘long distance,’ because it’s so easy from Philadelphia to New York,” Mr. Nguyen said. “The joke is, it’s easier to get to Philly from New York than to get to some parts of Brooklyn from Manhattan, right?”
In January 2025, Mr. Nguyen visited Ms. Lurio in New York with more up his sleeve than spending the weekend. Together they had discussed marriage and bespoke rings, but when Mr. Nguyen left Ms. Lurio and an unfinished cheese plate at the bar of the Chelsea Hotel that Friday evening, she had no idea what was coming next.
“I remember texting Jonathan,” Ms. Lurio said, bewildered: “‘You didn’t go toward the bathroom!’” When a Lobby Bar server came and asked her to come outside, Ms. Lurio still didn’t realize what was happening until she was standing in the hallway, where Mr. Nguyen stood recreating a key moment from the film “Love Actually,” in which one character silently professes his love for another in writing by flashing a series of cue cards. There, in the storied Chelsea Hotel hallway still festooned with Christmas decorations, Mr. Nguyen shared his last card that said, “Will you marry me?”
They wed on April 11 in front of 200 guests at the Pump House, a covered space on the banks of Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River. Mr. Nguyen’s sister, the Rev. Elizabeth Nguyen, who is ordained through the Unitarian Universalist Association, officiated.
Although formal attire was suggested, Ms. Lurio said that the ceremony was “pretty casual.” She and Jonathan got ready together, and their families served as their wedding parties.
“I said I wanted a five-minute wedding,” Ms. Lurio recalled, though the ceremony ended up lasting a little longer than that. During the ceremony, Ms. Nguyen read a homily and jokingly added that guests should not ask the bride and groom about their living arrangements, which will remain separate for the foreseeable future.
While watching Ms. Lurio walk down the aisle, flanked by her parents, Mr. Nguyen said he remembered feeling at once grounded in the moment and also a sense of dazed joy: “Like, is this real? I felt very lucky in that moment — and also just excited for the party to start!”
Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: I loved someone who felt he couldn’t be fully seen with me
He always texted when he was outside. No call, no knock. It was just a message and then the soft sound of my door opening. He moved like someone practiced in disappearing.
His name meant “complete” in Arabic, which is what I felt when we were together.
I met him the way you meet most things that matter in Los Angeles — without intending to. In our senior year at a college in eastern L.A. County, we were introduced through mutual friends, then thrown together by the particular gravity of people who recognized something in each other. He was a Muslim medical student, conservative and careful and funny in the dry, precise way of someone who has always had to choose his words. I was loud where he was quiet, messy where he was disciplined. I was out. He was not.
I understood, or thought I did. I thought that I couldn’t get hurt if I was completely conscious throughout the endeavor. Los Angeles has a way of making you feel like the whole world shares your freedoms — until you realize the city is enormous, and not all of it belongs to you in the same way.
For months, our world was confined to my apartment. He would slip in after dark, and we’d stay up late talking about his family in Iran, classical music and the particular pressure of being the son someone sacrificed everything to bring here. He told me things he said he’d never told anyone, and I believed him.
The orange glow from my Nesso lamp lit his face while the indigo sky pressed against the window behind him. In our small little world, we were safe. Outside was another matter.
On our first real date, I took him to the L.A. Phil’s “An Evening of Film & Music: From Mexico to Hollywood” program. I told him they were cheap seats even though they were the first row on the terrace. He was thrilled in the way only someone who doesn’t expect to be delighted actually gets delighted — fully, without guarding it. I put my arm around his shoulders. At some point, I shifted and moved it, and he nudged it back. He was OK with PDA here.
I remember thinking that wealth is a great barrier to harm and then feeling silly for extrapolating my own experience once again. Inside Walt Disney Concert Hall, we were just two people in love with the same music.
Outside was still another matter.
In February, on Valentine’s Day, he took me to a Yemeni restaurant in Anaheim. We hovered over saffron tea surrounded by other young Southern Californians, and we looked like friends. Before we went in, we sat in the parking lot of the strip mall — signs in Arabic advertising bread, coffee, halal meats, the Little Arabia District — hand in hand. I leaned over to kiss him.
“Not here,” he said. His eyes shifted furtively. “Someone might see.”
I understood, or told myself I did, but I was saddened. Later, after the kind of reflection that only arrives in the wreckage, I would understand something harder: I had been unconsciously asking him to choose, over and over, between the people he loved and the person he loved. I had a long pattern of choosing unavailable men, telling myself it was because I could handle the complexity. The truth was more embarrassing. I thought that if someone like him chose me anyway — chose me over the weight of societal expectations — it would mean I was worth choosing. It took me a long time to see how unfair that was to him and to me.
We went to the Norton Simon Museum together in November, on the kind of gray Pasadena day when the 210 Freeway roars in the background like white noise. He studied for the MCAT while I wrote a paper on Persian rugs. In between practice problems, he translated ancient Arabic scripts for me. I thought, “We make a good team.” Afterward, we walked through the galleries and he didn’t let go of my arm.
That was the version of us I kept returning to — when the ending came during Ramadan. It arrived as a spiritual reflection of my own. I texted: “Does this end at graduation — whatever we are doing?”
He thought I meant Ramadan. I did not mean Ramadan.
“I care about you,” he wrote, “but I don’t want you to think this could work out to anything more than just dating. I mean, of course, I’ve fantasized about marrying you. If I could live my life the way I wanted, of course I would continue. I’m just sad it’s not in this lifetime.”
I was in Mexico City when these texts were exchanged. That night I flew to Oaxaca to clear my head and then, after less than 24 hours, flew back to L.A. No amount of vacation would allow me to process what had just happened, so I threw myself back into work.
My therapist told me to use the conjunction “and” instead of “but.” It happened, and I am changed. The harm I caused and the love I felt. The beauty of what we made and the impossibility of where it could go. She gave me a knowing smile when I asked if it would stay with me forever. She didn’t answer, which was the answer.
I think about the freeways now, the way Joan Didion called them our only secular communion. When you’re on the ground in Los Angeles, the world narrows to the few blocks around you. Get on the freeway and you understand the whole body of the city at once: the arteries, the pulse, the scale of the thing.
You understand that you are a single cell in something enormous and moving. It is all out of your control. I am in a lane. The lane shaped how I drive. He was simply in a different lane, and his lane shaped him, and those two facts can coexist without either of us being the villain of the sad story.
He came like a secret in the night, and he left the same way. What we made in between was real and complicated and mine to hold forever, hoping we find each other in the next life.
The author lives in Los Angeles.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Lifestyle
The Nerve Center of This Art Fair Isn’t Painting. It’s Couture.
The art industry is increasingly shaped by artists’ and art businesses’ shared realization that they are locked in a fierce struggle for sustained attention — against each other, and against the rest of the overstimulated, always-online world. A major New York art fair aims to win this competition next month by knocking down the increasingly shaky walls between contemporary art and fashion.
When visitors enter the Independent art fair on May 14, they will almost immediately encounter its open-plan centerpiece: an installation of recent couture looks from Comme des Garçons. It will be the first New York solo presentation of works by Rei Kawakubo, the brand’s founder and mastermind, since a lauded 2017 survey exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute.
Art fairs have often been front and center in the industry’s 21st-century quest to capture mindshare. But too many displays have pierced the zeitgeist with six-figure spectacles, like Maurizio Cattelan’s duct-taped banana and Beeple’s robot dogs. Curating Independent around Comme des Garçons comes from the conviction that a different kind of iconoclasm can rise to the top of New York’s spring art scrum.
Elizabeth Dee, the founder and creative director of Independent, said that making Kawakubo’s work the “nerve center” of this year’s edition was a “statement of purpose” for the fair’s evolution. After several years at the compact Spring Studios in TriBeCa, Independent will more than double its square footage by moving to Pier 36 at South Street, on the East River. Dee has narrowed the fair’s exhibitor list, to 76, from 83 dealers in 2025, and reduced booth fees to encourage a focus on single artists making bold propositions.
“Rei’s work has been pivotal to thinking about how my work as a curator, gallerist and art fair can push boundaries, especially during this extraordinary move toward corporatization and monoculture in the art world in the last 20 years,” Dee said.
Kawakubo’s designs have been challenging norms since her brand’s first Paris runway show in 1981, but her work over the last 13 years on what she calls “objects for the body” has blurred borders between high fashion and wearable sculpture.
The Comme des Garçons presentation at Independent will feature 20 looks from autumn-winter 2020 to spring-summer 2025. Forgoing the runway, Kawakubo is installing her non-clothing inside structures made from rebar and colored plastic joinery.
Adrian Joffe, the president of both Comme des Garçons International and the curated retailer Dover Street Market International (and who is also Kawakubo’s husband), said in an interview that Kawakubo’s intention was to create a sculptural installation divorced from chronology and fashion — “a thing made new again.”
Every look at Independent was made in an edition of three or fewer, but only one of each will be for sale on-site. Prices will be about $9,000 to $30,000. Comme des Garçons will retain 100 percent of the sales.
Asked why she was interested in exhibiting at Independent, the famously elusive Kawakubo said via email, “The body of work has never been shown together, and this is the first presentation in New York in almost 10 years.” Joffe added a broader philosophical motivation. “We’ve never done it before; it was new,” he said. Also essential was the fair’s willingness to embrace Kawakubo’s vision for the installation rather than a standard fair booth.
Kawakubo began consistently engaging with fine art decades before such crossovers became commonplace. Since 1989, she has invited a steady stream of contemporary artists to create installations in Comme des Garçons’s Tokyo flagship store. The ’90s brought collaborations with the artist Cindy Sherman and performance pioneer Merce Cunningham, among others.
More cross-disciplinary projects followed, including limited-release direct mailers for Comme des Garçons. Kawakubo designs each from documentation of works provided by an artist or art collective.
The display at Independent reopens the debate about Kawakubo’s proper place on the continuum between artist and designer. But the issue is already settled for celebrated artists who have collaborated with her.
“I totally think of Rei as an artist in the truest sense,” Sherman said by email. “Her work questions what everyone else takes for granted as being flattering to a body, questions what female bodies are expected to look like and who they’re catering to.”
Ai Weiwei, the subject of a 2010 Comme des Garçons direct mailer, agreed that Kawakubo “is, in essence, an artist.” Unlike designers who “pursue a sense of form,” he added, “her design and creation are oriented toward attitude” — specifically, an attitude of “rebellion.”
Also taking this position is “Costume Art,” the spring exhibition at the Costume Institute. Opening May 10, the show pairs individual works from multiple designers — including Comme des Garçons — with artworks from the Met’s holdings to advance the argument made by the dress code for this year’s Met gala: “Fashion is art.”
True to form, Kawakubo sometimes opts for a third way.
“Rei has often said she’s not a designer, she’s not an artist,” Joffe said. “She is a storyteller.”
Now to find out whether an art fair sparks the drama, dialogue and attention its authors want.
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