StyleShifter: August's Cuore Di Moda: Harper Lamé (contact: harperlame@gmail.com)

Curating life.

Ch 6. He turned, tiny studs dripping down his shirt like the end of the affair. At least he had done what he wanted to do without fear of the consequences, and, for a moment, had truly lived. After all, as Harper Lamé always wrote, it was better than not being noticed at all.

Ch 5. They were interrupted by a shriek, as her nemesis pulled them apart. Startled and disgruntled, she eyed her nemesis up and down to observe a dress from next season’s Harper Lamé collection. The garment was moveable sculpture, giving the illusion of many layers of diverse fabric, when in fact there was one simple piece beneath. She gave out a laugh, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the warm brick wall.

Ch 4. He knew it was wrong, but he didn’t care…he couldn’t stop if he tried. He took her hand and led her away from her friend and away from the crowd. As they walked, he quickly glanced over his shoulder at her to see that she looked quizzical but somehow under-standing. They stopped. She laid down her Harper Lamé bag with its elaborate detailing, black leather body, and hardware handles, and they faced each other.

Ch 3. She joined her friend at the bar. Her friend updated her that even though he had gone through a tragic breakup last week, there was hope on the horizon. Tonight he wore a hoodie designed by Harper Lamé, with the somber breakup holes around his waist disappearing into studs springing from the gentle tap on the shoulder of a new love, as if left behind as jewels.

Ch 2. Absentmindedly, he played the glittering gold bar like the keys of a piano, awaiting an electric green absinthe. His silent song halted as he glimpsed her approaching. Her dress skimmed her body like molten metal.

Gone were the fleeting and varied glances of a moment ago that had revealed the versatility of Harper Lamé. No longer did he observe how the intricate detailing, studs, carefully shorn holes, thread adorning torsos at unexpected intervals, amount of skin revealed, and, of course, lamé, fit each person as if it had been so ordained. No. Instead, he was now inspired.

Ch 1. Her boot extinguished the glimmering embers he had left on the wrought iron staircase as she joined the underground party. Both of them wore custom Harper Lamé, flowing like living art throughout the group.

This was the only party in New York City worth attending and Harper Lamé was the only label worth wearing, to cry out brat, designer boho, outcast, glam, gutsy…and to change the world.