Born to Be Brad (28 page)

“I felt like the fat kid in my childhood bedroom all over again, staring up at the stars and wondering what was next for me.”

I came to New York for the first time as a small-business owner. And it was a different world. This time, I wasn’t staying at the Mercer or the Crosby. I was crashing with my friend Annabet, whom I’d met the first summer I spent in New York. It was a reality check. It was also the best slumber party in the world and a learning experience. I had called in clothing from every major men’s designer for the
EW
job. Messengers were showing up to Annabet’s apartment at all hours. I had every boot. I had every shoe. She came home one night to find a dozen racks in her living room. She looked around the apartment and laughed, “Babe, you need to learn how to edit.”

I loved that. I worked for one of the best stylists in the world, but I needed my best friend to tell me to edit.

In the end, the joke was on me. I got to the shoot. I was setting up the racks, opening boxes and laying accessories out on a table. I had so much clothing I actually stopped opening boxes because there was no room. Meanwhile, Jake and Anne were so comfortable with each other that they decided to pose naked, with Jake’s gorgeous ripped arm draped around Anne. I got a styling credit, but there was no clothing in the photo. It was my first cover and there were two credits: a pair of boxer shorts and a bra.

“Now here I was again, fighting to prove myself, playing dress-up and pretending.”

I felt like the fat kid in my childhood bedroom all over again, staring up at the stars and wondering what was next for me. Wondering how I could make this happen. More than ever, I wanted to call my grandma Ruby for advice. Whenever something big happens in my life I want to call her. At least, I was excited again. I could feel the promise in my bones, the anticipation. In a way, I flashed back to how I felt during my very first New York Fashion Week, after my internship at
Vogue.
I was about to start my sophomore year in college, and Annabet was an associate fashion editor at
Jane
magazine. She’d taken a freelance gig for Fashion Week, styling a runway show for the Los Angeles–based jewelry designer Chris Aire. The show was major. There were twenty-five million dollars’ worth of diamonds on display. Wyclef Jean performed. Tyson Beckford walked. Isabeli walked. (Fun fact: This was Rosie Huntington-Whiteley’s first-ever runway show.) In the days leading up to the event, Annabet was so overwhelmed with fittings and stylings that she couldn’t attend any other runway shows. So she called me: “Come by the hotel and you can have all of my tickets. Everything is RSVP’d for already.” And I did, playing pretend that year, walking into those shows acting as if I belonged.

Now here I was again, fighting to prove myself, playing dress-up and pretending. I was back to New York often that fall for an endless stream of meetings. I was banging the drum, trying to build up business. And I was crashing with Annabet in her twenty-ninth-floor one-bedroom in the financial district. Her apartment was largely empty, which felt like a metaphor for something. I had Annabet’s keys. Her doorman knew me by face and by name. Annabet was going through a breakup, and in a way, so was I. We could have been miserable. But not everything had to be so serious. Instead, we decided to go out and enjoy the best city in the world. Who knew when we’d have this time again? And so, it was a lot of late nights of dancing and mayhem. We played “Hot Tottie” by Usher and Jay-Z. We had impromptu dance parties in her apartment. We were out every night of the week. At the Chanel party. At the Proenza after-party. We went to Cafeteria in Chelsea at five in the morning, like we were twenty-two-year-old interns all over again. We fell asleep at the table eating shepherd’s pie. In the morning, I actually forgot that we ate. I felt something heavy in my stomach and turned to Annabet, asking, “We ate last night?” We were like college students again, eating deep-fried Oreos. At night, we’d be all dressed up—the perfect fashion couple—and the doorman would ask us where we were heading. Meanwhile, we’d come back at five in the morning trying to avoid eye contact with him, like little kids in trouble. Because we looked like the party machine spit us out. My hair would be flat, I’d be missing a button, and my bow tie would be askew.

New York, New York

MY FAVORITE MANHATTAN RESTAURANTS

ABC Kitchen, 35 East Eighteenth Street

When I’m right off the plane, this is usually my first stop for dinner. The space is beautiful: a whitewashed room of bleached wood and this harvest table where they display the fresh ingredients. My must-have meal: carrot and avocado salad, fried chicken, and the salted caramel sundae. Delish.

Arturo’s, 106 West Houston Street

I usually stay at the Mercer Hotel when I’m in New York, just down the street from Arturo’s. If I’m staying in for the night, I’ll order a pepperoni pizza from Arturo’s and have it delivered to the room. Nothing beats it.

One Lucky Duck, 125 East Seventeenth Street

During Fashion Week, One Lucky Duck is my go-to spot for a quick health fix. It’s across from Milk Studios, so it’s a big fashion hangout. My recommendation: the blue-green algae smoothie.

Locanda Verde, 377 Greenwich Street

Chef Andrew Carmellini can do no wrong. Every dish here—from the lamb meatball sliders to the fennel-glazed duck—is flawless.

Il Buco, 47 Bond Street

Two words: kale salad.

Gemma, 335 Bowery

On a brisk New York morning, there’s nowhere better for an outdoor breakfast. I sit at a table on the Bowery, order the baked eggs cooked in the wood-fired oven, and read
Women’s Wear Daily
. It’s also great for people-watching.

Balthazar, 80 Spring Street

On a cold winter day, stop in for a ginger tea in the late afternoon. Ginger is good for your health, and this cup will warm you right up.

Lupa, 170 Thompson Street

Delicious Italian. Try the chicken diavola and the ever-changing menu of seasonal desserts.

Gramercy Tavern, 42 East Twentieth Street

A great place for dinner with your family. On the way out, the staff will hand you a little fresh-baked muffin for breakfast, which is the chicest touch.

We were regulars at the Boom Boom Room, at the top of the Standard Hotel, a glass palace of high glamour that opened on the High Line. Halloween that year was major. I was attending a party for Lanvin, and Annabet and I decided to dress up like our favorite fashion bloggers. It was all very fashion-forward. I had nothing but free time, and so I called Annabet. “Meet me at Ricky’s,” I demanded.

“They say that when you leap, a net will appear. I had to believe it would.”

And we scoured the party store for costume embellishments. Annabet dressed up as Jane Aldridge from Sea of Shoes, wearing Dolce & Gabbana. I dressed up as Tavi Gevinson, the teenage blogger and muse of Karl Lagerfeld who is flown all over the world to attend fashion shows. I wore a purple wig and a full Louis Vuitton look and clear glasses—a look ripped directly from her blog. At the party, people were freaking out. The next day Tavi tweeted me saying she loved it. That night was everything. And the next day was more of the same. There were more parties, more chances to remind people that I was out there and available. For another party, Annabet and I went to Sephora and I put on a full trans face. I dressed up as Anna Dello Russo, an editor at large for
Vogue
Japan and a fashion icon. Annabet was Brigitte Bardot in red lipstick and a leopard Dolce top. That night there was a run-in with a Dolly Parton look-alike and thousands of balloons and we got in a cab with Joe Zee and Danielle Nachmani and headed to this party underneath the Chelsea Hotel.

For a Halloween party at the Lanvin store, I dressed as Tavi Gevinson and Annabet went as Jane Aldridge from Sea of Shoes. There’s nothing else to say about this amazing photograph.

I borrowed this Louis Vuitton look from the showroom for my Anna Dello Russo Halloween costume, and I have more legs than a bucket of chicken.

Men Behaving Badly

THREE FASHION MISTAKES WE NEED TO CORRECT

1. Embroidered jeans with embellishments

Not a good look—on anyone.

2. The super-deep V-neck

If you have a great chest, there are other ways to show it off. Wear a button-down shirt and leave an extra button open. Or buy a traditional V-neck T-shirt in a tighter cut. But leave some mystery.

3. The boxy suit

Once a month, take a few pieces to the tailor. Those oversize suits? The ones with the drop shoulders and the jacket that goes down to your knees? That’s not a flattering look. Breathe new life into those suits by having them taken in. Even the most inexpensive suit can look great with the right tailoring.

Maybe it was all a distraction, but it was a beautiful distraction. I had no idea when I’d ever be able to stay up until five in the morning and sleep until three again. But I confessed my deepest fears to Annabet: Was I any good? I kept saying, “Maybe I don’t have anything to say.” Some advice from Prabal Gurung flashed through my head: “This is not the beginning of Brad the Fabulous. It’s the beginning of Brad the Stylist. You have to pound the pavement.”

“Because I was nervous, too. I was plagued by the feeling that I was out of my depth.”

They say that when you leap, a net will appear. I had to believe it would.

I was at home in Los Angeles when my phone buzzed with a text from Joe Zee, a man whose work I greatly respect. Among other unforgettable shoots, he styled my all-time favorite spread of Jennifer Lopez for
W
magazine. J. Lo is photographed so often you think, How can you make this new? But Joe totally pulled it off, in a Guy Bourdin–inspired shoot, dressing her in fishnets and a bodysuit and Louboutins with her hair blowing.

The text from Joe read: “I’m on set with Jessica Alba shooting her for the cover of
Elle
. She told me her stylist is leaving. Do you want to style her?”

Um, duh.

Apparently, Jessica Alba had the vaguest sense of who I was. She knew I worked for Rachel but hadn’t heard that I was now on my own. Joe put in a good word and connected me with Jessica’s publicist, who promised to set up a call for Jessica and me to speak. I was at a taping of Bravo’s
Watch What Happens Live
with Andy Cohen when my phone rang: Alba. I ducked out for an hour and she and I talked. She asked about my aesthetic, about the designers I like. She’d been working with her stylist for ten years, she explained, and she was concerned about finding the right person to take his place. They had a well-established relationship, and their work together had been widely applauded. Jessica Alba is known for being modern and cool but not trend-specific. She’ll wear the dress of the season, but in her own way.

There was a time crunch here. The task at hand: Jessica had a press tour coming up for
Little Fockers,
with stops at the major talk shows on both coasts plus a Manhattan premiere. It would be the dead of winter on the East Coast, which presented its own challenge. The weather was only one hurdle. This was a big movie for Jessica. She was the youngest woman in the cast, and she was new to the
Fockers
franchise—suddenly thrown into the deep end of a major studio comedy alongside the likes of Ben Stiller, Robert De Niro, Blythe Danner, Dustin Hoffman, and Barbra Streisand. I appreciated her candor. Because I was nervous, too. I was plagued by the feeling that I was out of my depth. Perhaps she and I would confront this challenge together.