Lifestyle
These never-before-seen photos of Björk at Chateau Marmont are giving otherworldly glee
Mike had me cornered. He’d graduated ages ago, but his tastes hadn’t. He still went to high school house parties to drool over girls who read Sassy and got their braces tightened every four weeks.
“Hey,” he said to my padded bra.
“Hey,” I grumbled back.
Adulthood had given Mike a power he was eager to exploit; he could buy alcohol legally. Since my underage friends and I relied on people like Mike to supply us with Boone’s Strawberry Hill, we used caution around them. Mocking these losers could endanger our access to saccharine wines. It also could endanger us.
Mike gestured at my face with his half-empty bottle of Zima and asked, “Anyone ever told you you look like Buh-Jork?”
“You mean … Björk?”
Mike ignored my correction, instead asking, “What are you? You’re so … exotic.” He rambled on about Buh-jork’s “kind-of-Asian-hotness” until friends came to my rescue.
I confess this embarrassing Gen X memory as a gesture of solidarity. Many multiracial ladies of a certain age were similarly fetishized by their local Mikes, and for those of us perceived as embodying a certain type of racial ambiguity, being flirtatiously likened to Buh-jork was a collective rite of passage in the 1990s. Gross guys stereotyped us, casting us as orientalized, manic pixie dream girls.
When One Little Indian and Elektra Entertainment released Björk Guðmundsdóttir’s international debut solo album in July 1993, the world went bonkers for the record. “Debut” introduced the 28-year-old Icelandic musician to millions of fans, but some of us already admired her; that’s why we knew how not to butcher her name. We were kids who listened to the Sugarcubes, the alternative rock band for which Björk sung and pounded the keyboard. Released in 1992, “Stick Around for Joy” became the Sugarcubes’ third and final album, and it had given me “Hit,” a melodramatic song perfect for channeling my sophomoric woes. I was in awe of the way Björk growled the exasperated lyric, “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” and I adopted those five words as my own, growling the verse when I got Fs on French quizzes or popped ripe zits too close to the bathroom mirror.
The two-hour shoot at the Chateau Marmont happened the day before Spike Jonze and Björk would begin working on the iconic video for the single “It’s Oh So Quiet.”
(Spike Jonze)
Among those smitten with “Debut” was Spike Jonze, an instrumental figure in the history of California skateboard culture. Jonze’s passion for documenting street skating led him to filmmaking, and he became a leading music video director whose easily identifiable style, one that married the indie with the chic, shaped the visual aesthetics of the ’90s and early aughts. In 1995, Detour Magazine sent Jonze to the Chateau Marmont to photograph Björk. Five years prior, the storied French Gothic castle perched high on Sunset Boulevard had changed hands, coming under new ownership. Hotelier André Balazs subjected his acquisition to a facelift that erased much of its gritty and dilapidated charm. Tattered curtains, matted carpets and missing shower heads were replaced. A gym was installed in the attic. After witnessing its restoration, former It girl Eve Babitz, a Chateau regular, lamented, “I couldn’t imagine wanting to commit suicide here anymore.”
The singer aggressively winks at the camera, reminiscent of a pirate. We peek at Björk, but the voyeurism is mutual.
(Spike Jonze)
The two-hour Detour shoot happened the day before Jonze and Björk would begin working on the iconic video for the single “It’s Oh So Quiet,” and the mountain of photographs that they created together revives some of the Chateau’s former mystique. Björk and Jonze made use of the hotel’s interiors and pool, and the results are imbued with a sense of otherworldly glee that tells me the pair probably had a damn good time making art together. The results also present Björk’s beauty and intelligence as hers, not ours to devour. This self-possession is apparent in one of the six photographs published as part of Detour’s 1995 music issue. In it, the singer aggressively winks at the camera, reminiscent of a pirate. She withholds much of her body, especially skin, from the lens. Her pose forces the viewer’s eyes to her face, drawing attention to her eye. We peek at Björk, but the voyeurism is mutual.
Decades after the Chateau shoot, the fashion designer and creative director Humberto Leon discovered a trove of outtakes while helping Jonze to organize his archive. The two had met in 2004, when Jason Schwartzman introduced Jonze to Leon at a Christmas party, and the pair quickly developed a close bond, becoming one another’s artistic sounding boards. The pictures struck a nostalgic chord in Leon, a longing for the subcultural days of yore, and after proposing to Jonze that he exhibit at Arroz and Fun, Leon’s restaurant and gallery space in Lincoln Heights, the two decided to display 25 of Jonze’s never-before-seen photographs at the space (the show opens Feb. 15 and will remain on view through May). For die-hard fans unable to make it to Lincoln Heights, Jonze also is releasing “The Day I Met Björk,” a free downloadable zine through WeTransfer. A limited supply of physical copies will be sold at the gallery.
The image of Björk holding a white coffee mug to her lips summons the mornings after teen slumber parties.
(Spike Jonze)
Often, when a male photographer shoots an ingenue in a hotel room, she winds up on the bed in a come-hither pose not found in the wild. Think Britney Spears’ first Rolling Stone cover shot by David LaChapelle, the one where the teen is wearing lingerie, holding a phone to her ear and cradling a Teletubby. It is pure Lolita. Instead of invoking such motifs, Jonze’s bedroom shots of Björk are goofy girl slumber party, the kind my friends and I had. Wrapped in white sheets, the singer transforms into a joyful poltergeist hopping on the bed, reminding me of the time that I jumped so hard on my bed, it broke. This incurred my father’s wrath but here’s the thing: Sometimes pissing off your dad is worth it. Björk’s other bedroom photo, the one where she wears an orange button-down blouse and sits at the foot of the bed, holding a white coffee cup to her lips, reminds me of the morning after our teen slumber parties. Recovery from our revelry required that we sip Alka-Seltzer and wolf down menudo.
If we run our eyes up and down the contact sheets from the shoot, our minds can construct a moving picture of Björk as artist and muse.
(Spike Jonze)
If we run our eyes up and down the contact sheets from the shoot, our minds can construct a moving picture of Björk as artist and muse. She steps through doorways, down hallways and toward the light. Engulfing her face, the brightness creates a white eclipse. While this series of photographs taken of Björk in orange relies on preternatural tropes, those made in the bathroom take it further, pushing into the realm of the supernatural, of time travel. In a pose reminiscent of the fight scenes from “The Matrix” franchise, Björk appears in suspended animation, her back arched, head frozen above the faucet, arms dangling at her sides. She stares up, at no one. The pose is vulnerable and just ethereal enough. It raises the question that we may, or may not be, living in the same dimension as Björk.
My favorite portrait created at the Chateau was shot underwater. Once again, Björk appears suspended, this time in rich blue. Her brown mane swirls and snakes, reaching for the surface. She is backlit by the L.A. sun, whose rays create an aura above her head. Her green dress summons the illusion that Björk is a scaly creature, one who breathes through gills and uses a tail to propel herself through lakes, rivers and oceans. She might also use that tail in self-defense. The photo recalls another classic ’90s image, Nirvana’s “Nevermind” album cover with the aquatic baby. While Nirvana’s baby spreads both arms wide, Björk uses her right arm to wave at the camera.
(Spike Jonze)
She seems happiest as a mermaid, and I can’t help but hope that her joy comes from her affinity for the sirens, those ancient Greek tritonesses who lured sailors with their magical voices, only to inspire these mesmerized seamen to sacrifice themselves against seaside cliffs. Björk is no Disney mermaid. Instead, I imagine that as a mercreature, she has more in common with Michi-Cihualli, the fish woman who dwells in Chapala, the Mexican freshwater lake where I spent some of my childhood. According to the Coca people, Michi-Cihualli is the daughter of Tlaloc, the rain god. When winds blow hard across the lake and storms brew over its waters, it is said that Michi-Cihualli is angry and must be pacified. Soothing her requires blood, and my imagination can easily conjure Björk accepting blood sacrifice, gnawing on the rib of an annoying sailor who dared to tell her that she looked exotic.
In 1996, a video of Björk attacking reporter Julie Kaufman at the Bangkok airport surfaced. The scene dispelled the popular image of the singer as a mindless, erotic elf and cemented her status as someone not to mess with, someone willing to draw a little blood. An artist in blissful control of her trademark strangeness, Björk’s way of being a weird woman in the music world meant a lot to aspiring weirdos like me. Instead of the typical hypersexualized vamp, Björk offered girls like me a different template, and the more bizarre she revealed herself to be, the more our loyalty to her deepened. Images of the singer were part of the collage that covered my bedroom walls when I was a teen, and I hope that the newly published pictures of Björk find their way into the right kid’s hands. There are so many girls who need a ferocious mermaid with a beautiful voice to sing them into adulthood.
Björk is an artist in blissful control of her trademark strangeness.
(Spike Jonze)
Myriam Gurba is the author of “Mean,” a ghostly memoir about survivorship that was selected as a New York Times Editors’ Choice. Her latest book, “Creep: Accusations and Confessions,” was published by Avid Reader Press.
Lifestyle
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Lifestyle
Vintage-obsessed millennial parents are driving L.A.’s booming kids’ clothing resale market
Kids’ vintage clothing sales are experiencing a remarkable boom at in-person markets and online, where prices for clothes for little ones have shot up on websites including Depop and Poshmark. Millennial parents are looking to outfit their kids in the clothes and TV and film characters they loved (or coveted) when they were kids.
The result? There’s a new generation of kiddos hitting the playground looking incredibly cool. Take Amari Case, a SoCal toddler who spent a Sunday afternoon this spring ambling around a vintage market in a West Hollywood warehouse clad in baggy jeans and a ’90s-era tee emblazoned with the “Dragon Ball Z” character Son Goku.
When she wasn’t scribbling on a Lorax coloring sheet, she’d been cruising around the market with her dad, Aaron Munoz Case, snapping up new pieces destined to make her the flyest kid at the preschool playground.
Neil Wright, from left, Kristine Nite Scalzo and Brandon Rosenblatt, co-founders of Elemeno Kids Vintage Market.
Showing off Amari’s new vintage satin L.A. Raiders jacket and tiny teal Grant Hill Detroit Pistons jersey, Munoz Case, who was also impeccably dressed, noted that while Amari went through a phase at about 18 months where she wanted to dress herself, eventually she gave up and went back to letting her dripped-out dad dictate her wardrobe.
Munoz Case found Amari’s first vintage piece at the Rose Bowl Flea Market and got the bug, going back every month to pick up something to add to his little’s wardrobe.
Trendspotters and researchers say Munoz Case isn’t alone in his quest. The market for kids’ vintage clothing has heated up precipitously over the last few years, perhaps hitting a boiling point in January when an Eeyore romper from the ’90s sold for over $3,000 on EBay. (It was new with tags, but one without tags still went for almost a grand about a month later.)
The thirst for tiny throwbacks is so popular that first-ever, all-kids market Elemeno — named after the “L-M-N-O” bit of “The Alphabet Song” and where Amari was toddling and shopping — drew 17 vendors and over 2,000 attendees over a single weekend in March. (There are plans for another Elemeno Kids Vintage Market pop-up later this year in New York, as well as plans to bring the event back to L.A. sometime next year.)
1. Cameron Scalzo, wearing a vintage McDonald’s T-shirt from the ‘90s, and mom Kristine Nite Scalzo. 2. Cameron Scalzo rocks an Avirex jacket from the ‘90s.
Eye Speak Vintage’s Kristine Nite Scalzo, who co-organized the event and is opening an all-kids vintage store in Pasadena this month, says she fell under the kids vintage spell in 2020 when she was pregnant with her son. She’d always been a vintage shopper for herself, so she knew she wanted to pass the passion down to the next generation. She started filling up her son’s closet, and soon enough, she found herself selling her other finds out of a bodega in her garage.
She has a by-appointment space in Pasadena now, where she draws everyone from Rihanna’s stylist to out-of-town moms who make a point to stop by on their way to Disneyland. “The community around kids vintage has really skyrocketed on Instagram over the past six years,” Scalzo says. “We want to know who we’re buying from. We want to know that we’re doing good with buying secondhand. And it’s a hobby for people that can turn into a possible business on the side. Because knowing there’s a big group that’s interested in vintage kids clothes, you can always pass an item [your kid outgrows] to someone else or resell it.”
Scalzo says some parents are out digging through bins at the Goodwill Outlet looking for the perfect piece, while others are content to pay up for, say, a ’90s Simpsons T-shirt or a mini-size Harley-Davidson jacket. Scouring the racks at the Elemeno market, most pieces cost $15 to $40, though there were special pieces pulled to the side in some booths with price tags that could make a parent’s eyes pop. (Think $275 for a set of well-worn Spider-Man overalls from the ’00s or $150 for a pair of Cross Colours denim shorts from the ’90s.)
In kids and adult vintage alike, mint condition is highly valued. No matter the era in which they were raised, kids tend to be messy. They get strawberry juice on their shirts or scuff up the knees on their Bugle Boy jeans. Vintage kids clothes that look pristine are more expensive, and while plain kids clothes do sell, items with characters on them or cool prints tend to draw more attention and dollars.
Brandon Rosenblatt, another of the Elemeno organizers, says he’s had his eye on a specific kids “Back to the Future” shirt for some time, but notes that it typically sells for about $1,000. He’s partial to McKids clothes for his daughter, from McDonald’s short-lived kids clothing brand, noting that he’s even snagged her a vintage official McDonald’s-themed aloha shirt from Hawaii, something he says he’s never seen anywhere else.
1. Siblings Amora and Milo Castilo wear vintage cowboy hats, jackets and chaps. 2. Thalia Castilo and her kids Amora and Milo.
Other collectors, he says, might be a little less obscure, leaning into mainstream characters such as Strawberry Shortcake or from ’80s and ’90s properties including “The Land Before Time” and “Rugrats.”
“A lot of millennials are having kids — like everyone who’s in their 30s and 40s — and they all want to put their kids in the same IP they grew up in,” Rosenblatt says.
“It’s the thrill of the hunt that gets everyone so excited,” Scalzo says. “Once you find that perfect nostalgic piece, you’re like ‘Holy s—,’ and you just want to chase that feeling again and again.”
Mia De La Rosa, a reseller who was at the Elemeno market, says that like Scalzo, she started buying kids vintage clothes when she was pregnant with her daughter, Liv, who’s 6 now, very into everything on PBS Kids and has a closet full of thrifted vintage garb covered in characters such as D.W., the annoying little sister from the ’90s show “Arthur.”
Everything Liv wears is “completely her style,” De La Rosa says. “She dresses herself every day and she gets compliments on what she’s wearing at school all the time.”
Other vintage-wearing kids — and in particular younger ones — might simply be sporting what their parents like or might just like the look of the shirt even if they don’t know what it’s advertising. (An 8-year-old boy at the Elemeno market, for instance, chose to wear a pristine T-shirt highlighting the ’90s Jim Carrey movie “The Mask” because it featured his favorite color: green.)
Derrick Broaster, a vintage enthusiast turned full-time reseller, says that while he chooses to put himself in clothes from the ’60s and ’70s, he outfits his two sons in clothes from the 2000s. (“How Bow Wow used to dress when he was a kid,” he says.)
Although his younger son tends to rebel against Broaster’s vintage picks, opting for whatever Spider-Man shoes happen to be in his eyeline, his older son has leaned in, letting his dad advise him on what vintage pieces could work and what would be the most stylish.
1. Julian, left, and Javier Gutierrez show off their vintage clothing. Javier says his mom always tells him to keep his vintage outfits clean. 2. Mom Priscilla Guzman, clockwise, Dad Javier Gutierrez and sons Julian and Javier Gutierrez enjoy the vibe of vintage clothing. Guzman says she’s been buying and selling kids’ vintage since her oldest son was born eight years ago.
Rosenblatt says a good portion of what vintage finds he sees in the market now has returned to the U.S. from places in Central America and South America or Asia where those pieces were likely sent decades ago after they were donated or given away.
“There’s a real underbelly of this vintage game with rag houses getting access to bulk product overseas and letting people sort through it,” he says. “There are companies now that rip through 20, 30 or 40,000 pieces of vintage clothing a week. It’s a really interesting ecosystem.”
For many kids vintage sellers, finding their stock is just as fun and interesting as getting it back into consumers’ hands. “Anywhere we can find clothes, we’re there,” says Matthew Carlos, owner of Long Gone Youth. He started selling vintage clothes 11 years ago, when he was 15, switched to kids vintage at 20 and has spent the last six years scouring flea markets, websites and swap meets.
“The kids market is definitely growing,” he says, “but I still feel like we haven’t even gotten close to where we can go. It’s just getting popular now, but the more events [like Elemeno] we can do, the more it’ll go mainstream.” Even now, some major brands like Gap and OshKosh B’gosh have recognized the interest in some of their styles from the ’80s and ’90s, moving to re-release the looks in limited runs.
Jackie and Frank Oropeza with daughter Rumi Mae shop at Elemeno Kids Vintage Market.
Kids resale is also leaning into streetwear culture. Rosenblatt, who worked in the streetwear industry, says that he’s noticed that a good portion of those interested in kids vintage — particularly, male shoppers — tend to be fans of streetwear brands like Supreme, Fear of God Essentials and Bape. At Elemeno, for instance, a good portion of the parents we saw pushing strollers were well-dressed dads seemingly on solo missions, something you don’t always see at kid-centric events.
“I just want my son to feel like I did as a kid,” said Justin Nguyen, while watching his toddler, Jayden, play with bubbles. “I want him to be happy, carefree and joyful, and I want to be able to spend time with him. My mom and dad were always working, even on the weekends. Now that I’m a dad, taking my son out on weekends to do stuff like this just seems like a blessing.”
Lifestyle
‘Hellions’ author Julia Elliott wins $150K fiction prize
Author Julia Elliott won for her short story collection Hellions.
Forrest Clonts/Tin House
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Forrest Clonts/Tin House
Writer Julia Elliott has won this year’s Carol Shields Prize for Fiction for her short story collection Hellions. The award honors work by women and nonbinary authors in the U.S. and Canada.
Elliott, who also authored the novel The New and Improved Romie Futch and the short story collection The Wilds, is known for blending elements of Southern gothic horror, surrealism and fairy tale. Hellions, published in 2025, includes stories set against backdrops like a plague-stricken medieval convent, a feminist art colony, and small Southern towns.
“This eerie, eclectic, genre-leaping collection takes no half-measures; every sentence of Hellions crackles or crawls,” wrote the prize jury in a statement. “Here, human folly moves against a backdrop of horror and magic … But for all its wildness, there is tremendous control.”
The prize, named after a Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist, awards $150,000 to one winner each year. Novels, short story collections, and graphic novels by women and nonbinary authors are eligible.
This year’s finalists included Quiara Alegría Hudes (The White Hot), Lee Lai (Cannon), Megha Majumdar (A Guardian and a Thief), and Sonya Walger (Lion). They will each receive $12,500.
The Carol Shields Prize went to writer Canisia Lubrin in 2025.
You can listen to actor Donna Lynne Champlin read Elliott’s story “Hellion” on the Death, Sex & Money podcast here.
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