An amazing bluebird day at Nakiska, nestled in the Canadian Rockies. Riding the 1988 Olympics alpine is so much better with hot pink bindings. Jacket, Helly Hansen. Skinny Mini snowpants, Shaun White for Burton. Bindings, Force by Union.
I was a little concerned when I arrived at the fundraiser for the Glenbow Museum and saw the swag. Pencils? Cardboard George??Then I ordered champagne and it came in a can. But since it was Sophia Coppola’s sparkling wine, with bendy straw, accompanied by Givenchy-wearing software genius Drew Tollerud, suddenly, the evening had potential. Then the show started:
All clothes from Holt Renfrew’s spring collection. Was the style actually schmancy? Not sure. But was Schmancy Style a fun evening raising money for a museum that celebrates Western Canada? Yes. Yes it was.
This pic might be more Narnia if it was in a scenic snowdrift, but I live in Calgary’s Age of Winter. Today it was a tough slog, glamming up back alley survival with Eskimo attitude in sub zero temps. Someone’s gotta do it. Hooded cable knit sweater, Roots. Scarfs (all three) by Mom. Mukluks, from way up north.
When it’s -15 on a Sunday, a snowboarding girl’s thoughts skip the slopes and turn to brunch. At Cassis, my favorite french bistro in Calgary, a Mimosa was merely a citrus starting point for a Croque Madame… accompanied by a Kir Royale – champagne with creme de cassis, bien sur. Earrings from The Artworks in Edmonton. Sweater: Hache from Beckley Boutique in LA.
Meanwhile, fervor for fashion will have to keep us warm. Environmental scientist Andrea Douglas looking appropriately tres francaise et tres chic. Hat, Chapel Hats. Sweater, Club Monaco. Watch, Links of London.
Mid January in Calgary: my boots sink deeper into the snow. But the snowshoe hare that keeps crossing my path doesn’t have the same problem.
The long feet that allow this bunny to skip along the surface of the snow were the inspiration for the original hardwood, rawhide snowshoes designed by indigenous peoples all across the snowy regions of North America. Don’t let the leather laces on my Vero Cuoio boots fool you — they have no such function. But since they were crafted in Italy, way beyond my rabbit’s turf, it all makes perfect sense. Ciao coniglio!