2017 has given us many fashion moments like the RompHim™ and the revival of the velour tracksuit. To pay homage to these trends, while simultaneously giving back, imre employees put on their "holiday best" to shoot a high-fashion lookbook to raise awareness for Dress for Success and Career Gear. imre will be making a donation to each organization and we hope this collection inspires you to do the same.
She said to me once, while sipping espresso on the Promenade, the New York skyline unfurling in front of us, that I had that James Dean, daydream look in my eye. I told her she had the classic red lipstick I adored so much. She reached across the table with Hepburn-thin wrists and patted my hand. “If we come crashing down,” she said, “we’ll always come back.” I nodded knowingly, then whispered, “We never go out of style.”
During my wayward youth, I’d gained a reputation as quite the skilled pugilist. Though fisticuffs was not my preferred manner of negotiation, the neighborhood frequently made it necessary. One day while tending to my beloved pigeons, I witnessed some unsavory business with the local toughs. I sought counsel from my local vicar, who told me he had high hopes for my future but needed to let my conscience guide me. And so I confronted the toughs. What ensued would go down in the annals of local lore, with the toughs receiving their comeuppance—and how! When I moved away from the neighborhood, I lost touch with Father Barry, but I do hope, wherever he may be, he would say I’ve lived up to my potential.
And lo, I saw unto the Jigme Dorji forest the faintest shimmer of light and sprung to my frozen legs, shambling forward through the brush, my eyes watering in the winter air, then the forest opened itself to me and I saw in the clearing, the moonlight sifting down over the snow-kissed ground, the remarkable Bhutanese silver deer, and as a cloud of breath burst through its thin lips, our eyes met on that isolated expanse, and I never felt cold again.
Behold, the ferocious beast! I chanced upon him on only one occasion, while traveling with a dear friend and expedition leader Y. Cornelius, a man whose adventurous spirit was matched only by his pileous nature. Naturally, when confronted with such an achromic wonder, I was struck cold with fear. But worry not, the valorous Cornelius shouted as he deftly calved the section of ice on which we were standing. The beast gave chase once more, but found water not to be his ally. During later correspondence, Cornelius informed me that he had come to an accord with the beast. The beast had changed his ways and become an integral member of the community with a towering presence. This story of transformation inspired me to design a new line of sweaters.
One fall afternoon while walking back from my favorite boulangerie in Montmartre, three baguettes tucked beneath my arm, I turned into an alley and happened upon a troupe of acrobats. At first I thought they were practicing, constantly flipping and somersaulting as they were. However I eventually learned that they were trying to find their next performance but had lost their way. I gave rudimentary directions—their French was as good as my funambulism—and offered two baguettes. They quickly jumped atop one another, contorting in the most glorious fashion to spell merci with their bodies, before bounding off along Rue d’Orsel. Back in my flat, I made a sandwich, and it tasted ever so much sweeter than before.
Dress for Success is an international not-for-profit organization that empowers women to achieve economic independence by providing a network of support, professional attire and the development tools to help women thrive in work and in life.
Donate TodayCareer Gear is a not-for-profit social enterprise that provides services to agencies and institutions of higher learning and their clients and students in order to provide improved employment outcomes for men entering or re-entering the workforce.
Donate TodayI saw a great moose, once, grazing a stone’s throw from the cabin on the Newfoundland coast where I’d taken to summering. As his snout snuffled through the brush, I sipped at my cup of tea. Lapsang Souchong, I believe it was, or possibly just a common Earl Grey. Nevertheless, he went about foraging with no regard for me, only once looking up with something I’d consider a glancing look. But in that brief connection, I sensed something beneath his lustrous coat. Was it self-awareness? Did he know how magnificent he was? Or was it loneliness? Did he feel the unyielding pressure of being the pinnacle of his species? Alas, my query would never be answered: A hunter’s rifle echoed in the distance and spooked my fleeting friend. He shambled into forest, disappearing between the trees.
“I did not mean to make that film,” Akira Kurosawa once told me as his niece prepared matcha tea for our ceremony. But, while visiting his grandparents when he was young, he found photos of his grandmother in traditional geisha dress, surrounded by rōnin, or masterless samurai. When he inquired, she responded with only a demure smile. Later, he pressed his mother, who told him the story of how she, the most-skilled swordsman in the village, helped train transient rōnin, as social expectation forbid her from practicing. In return, the rōnin spread her nom de guerre across the country side as the greatest samurai in the land. The story stayed with Akira, and years later he named Kyūzō in Seven Samurai to honor her.
When I was young, my mother Margit would tell me stories from her native Norway. My favorite to reenact was the Dancing Elf of Holmestrand. Every 12th of December, the Dancing Elf would wake from his slumber near the rocky shore and dance his way into the village. He'd knock at every door to rouse the children and join the revelry, every boy and girl twirling and prancing to their heart's content. When the cobblestone lane became a cacophonous melange of giggling glee, the Dancing Elf would slip away back to the shore. And when the children eventually danced themselves to exhaustion, they returned to their houses, only to find a present from the Dancing Elf on their pillow. Looking back on it now, I suspect she was rather trying to tire me out so I would go to bed, but I still can’t explain how those presents arrived in my room.
During our brief trip down this mortal coil, we are given the rare chance to find a real companion, one who needs not speak a word but still say something profound, who can convey utter contentment with a sigh, who will accompany us wherever our travels take us, and, on occasion, only ask for a biscuit in return. These are the true ones, the ones to cherish, the ones you can never plan for but can’t live without.
I met Telly Savalas once, while walking down Broome Street in the Lower East Side. We were headed to a charming Italian restaurant when I saw him approaching. I struck out my hand, giving him what I assumed to be a handshake of sufficient strength yet also deference, then grasped his forearm with my other hand in a manner I’d expect him to appreciate. I said with gusto, “Who loves ya, baby?” To which he responded, “My name is Carl. I’m an accountant in Queens. But I love ya, too.” He embraced me tightly, then went on his way.
Dress for Success is an international not-for-profit organization that empowers women to achieve economic independence by providing a network of support, professional attire and the development tools to help women thrive in work and in life.
Donate TodayCareer Gear is a not-for-profit social enterprise that provides services to agencies and institutions of higher learning and their clients and students in order to provide improved employment outcomes for men entering or re-entering the workforce.
Donate TodayAt times, I have felt like life is a mystery, as if everyone must stand alone, independent, autonomous. But then I hear the voice of my love, as if calling out a prayer for all lost sailors. Regardless of the space, whether temporal or terra, and even in the midnight hours, I can feel that power and she takes me there—as if I’m flying, she takes me home. I must imagine it is nearly the sound of angels sighing.
Once while traveling on dog sled through Swedish Lappland, navigating by starlight, my team became lost. Exhausted and freezing, we happened upon the small village of Yrttivaara. A local boy who was gathering firewood took us into his home. We thought it modest at first, until the door swung open and in came the Härskare Rendjur—Lord of the Reindeer. In his hands he bore steaming mugs of cocoa that soothed our souls and lulled us to sleep. When we woke in the morning, he was gone, but I will always think fondly on the colored necklace he wore.
When the snow begins twirling and the wind it is whirling, a spirit more sterling than visions of Rod Serling, the garland unfurling around newel posts with burlings, the holiday elf floats down to the ground, adorned in a gown more green than brown, and then she spreads cheer both far and near, to out there and here, through acres austere, to kids and to helpers who don’t fear reindeer, and when the day breaks and makes the fruit cakes shine like snowflakes and frozen blue lakes, the elf can start down back to her town where the curling of ribbons sates all our yearning.
Who can say what makes a work of art truly great? Is it the hint of smile on the Mona Lisa? The curvaceous lines of Ruebens’ Venus at the Mirror? The dulcet skin tones of Vermeer’s eponymous Girl? The revolutionary contrapposto stature of the Kritios Boy? Or is it simply that, when standing in the presence of greatness, we feel a quivering of the heart and give ourselves over to the experience of wonder.
Somewhere in the Outback, there sits a ranch amid the scrub brush and cracked clay dirt. Though it looks like an average abode, I found one summer that it is anything but. It is, in fact, home to the largest kangaroo boxing tournament in the country—and, very likely, the world. The owners slip gloves over the animals’ paws to prevent injury, then let them loose inside a fenced area. They bounce and tumble over one another, rolling along the ground as they create a terrific cloud of dust. The owners eventually declare the winner as whichever kangaroo has not become distracted. It is a most unusual event, as thrilling as it is uplifting to see the animals is such a state of joy.
Dress for Success is an international not-for-profit organization that empowers women to achieve economic independence by providing a network of support, professional attire and the development tools to help women thrive in work and in life.
Donate TodayCareer Gear is a not-for-profit social enterprise that provides services to agencies and institutions of higher learning and their clients and students in order to provide improved employment outcomes for men entering or re-entering the workforce.
Donate TodaySo valiant and courageous are the warriors, those who ride alongside us through every adventure. We question not their loyalty, their commitment to our vision, their ability to overcome every adversary and challenge, nor do we question the reverence of life debt. But, do we ever question what they want? Say, a cup of tea, tempered by a splash of Bantha milk, or perhaps a quiet evening spent in front of a rolling fire with a classic Kashyyykian novel. Would they like to live on a small piece of land twelve parsecs from another person, as parsecs are a measurement of distance not time? Perhaps they enjoy living life at warp speed, but perhaps we should listen to what they have to say.
So often, we focus on the flashy ones, the people who bask in the limelight. It is natural, of course, for our eyes to be drawn to them. We are, after all, only human. However we must not forget those who operate in the shadows, behind the curtains. For it is because of these people—the ones who optimize gift delivery routes, who coordinate toy production lines, who manage the disputes bound to arise when elfen workers spend 364 days side-by-side, all while remaining composed and looking spectacular—that we are able to celebrate so festively. It is to them that we give a resounding huzzah!
Deep in the Dnieper Upland, Ukraine, we took in a local performance of kazatsky, known to westerners as the Cossack Dance. The participants put on a marvelous show, running through many forms, including prisyadka, the widely known squat kick. They flipped and bounced, twirled on their heads and launched each other high into the air. Late in the show, I was recruited to take part in a special section: the choreographed sword duel. Though nervous, I was still mindful of their traditions. Late in the routine, my partner—vastly more skilled than I—maneuvered around me before thrusting himself forward in attack. However, my sword pierced his chest with a splash of red. My face turned pallid and I nearly dropped the implement. Then my partner extracted the beet positioned beside his arm. The crowd roared for his theatrics and he grabbed me to take a bow. Although the response was rapturous and appreciated, I have never recovered my taste for the vegetable.
A friend once came to me for advice. Young Beatrix, a fierce woman, had been scorned by the love of her life, an older gentleman called William. She was distraught and angry, as well she should be. I told her, “You must be composed, Kiddo. It is fine to want closure, but anger will only worsen the situation.” Young Beatrix set off on a trip to find her former beau. First she meet his old friend on the island of Okinawa and shared in some terrible sushi. Then she found another former colleague in a house of blue leaves, in urban Japan, then another in El Paso. Finally, she took the sunny road to Salina, Mexico, where she eventually found William. I don’t know that their issues were resolved amicably, but I do know that Young Beatrix, the lioness, now lives happily with her cub, and all is right in the jungle.
What is the reason for the season? Is it the jingling bells? Is it the sugar cookies, cut with care into festive, wintery shapes? And what is the correct proportion of chocolate chip to walnuts? Or would pecans maybe be better? How many cookies should fit on a baking sheet? And how often does a tree need water? Do colored lights look better on trees, and white lights on the house? Or is it the other way around? Why would anyone use blue lights in the first place? How long does it take to put Santa and reindeer on top of the house? Do families with Elf on the Shelf feel like they’re being watched? Is there such a thing as eating too many candy canes?
Dress for Success is an international not-for-profit organization that empowers women to achieve economic independence by providing a network of support, professional attire and the development tools to help women thrive in work and in life.
Donate TodayCareer Gear is a not-for-profit social enterprise that provides services to agencies and institutions of higher learning and their clients and students in order to provide improved employment outcomes for men entering or re-entering the workforce.
Donate TodayWhile the young ones nestle in bed and their exhausted parents look expectantly toward the next morn, while the pets curl before the crackling fire, basking in the warmth while oblivious to the holiday bustle, let us not forget the solitary person, the brave, intrepid soul who must watch over Santa Claus’s route. For without her, no ribbons would shear, no paper would fly, no laughs would undulate down hallways dotted with holly. With unceasing alacrity, she guides him along his route, steady-handed, never ending, and she does it all for us.
T’was the night before Christmas and all of the family
Was frantically pacing when Rudolph pulled a hammy.
Dasher was panicked while Dancer was vexed
And Comet and Cupid were totally wrecked.
When up on the roof, there arose such a bumping.
They all rushed outside, with all their blood pumping.
And who was astride, with a mane almost lyrical,
But a green and black savior, an equine miracle!
She harnessed the sleigh while the toys I fetched
Then she called out to Rudolph, “Remember to stretch!”
We were far along the Mollepata trail in our quest to reach Machu Picchu, nearly 4,000 meters above sea level, when the altitude sickness struck. Three members of our group succumbed, including our navigator and the man who wrangled the burro carrying our supplies. We had not the rations to survive for long, and our scheduled meeting with our partner group remained two days away. The situation threatened to become dire, until two valiant creatures emerged from the vegetation, their green garments shining like beacons in our dark night. Our spirits buoyed, we determined to continue traveling. A day later, we met our group. When we turned to offer our animal sherpas food as a show of our gratitude, we found they were gone.
Many years ago, while at a cocktail hour in Colorado, Carl Sagan told me a riddle. He informed me, drink clasped in hand with pinkie at a perfect crescent, that the seminar on time travel would be held last Tuesday. Then he slapped my shoulder and went to offer Marlon Brando an orange slice. But still to this day, I wonder: Was that more of a joke?
While researching runic inscriptions during university, I came upon an enrapturing tale. An epic poem from the Norse Sagas, the text detailed an ages-old battle between Odin and Evivårgen, a half-wolf, half-man elder god. The conflict raged for millennia, causing great destruction to the land—until one year, a few days removed from the winter solstice, Odin summoned his animal companion. Great Odin’s raven flew across the heavens, eight compatriots following. The distraction allowed Odin to best his adversary, restoring peace to the land. As recompense for the chaos, Odin bequeathed unto his subjects many gifts, replacing all they had lost. Every year, to the day, he repeated the gesture. Though my familiarity with runes is merely conversational, not fluent, I can’t help but wonder if, through transliteration, Great Odin’s raven became Rudolph, and if beneath the surface of our beaming, beneficent Santa Claus, there beats the heart of a valiant warrior.
Gabriel García Marquéz once said to me, “It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.” It seemed an offhanded comment, one of Gabbo’s normal aphorisms, but something about it burrowed deep inside me, constructing a den within my heart where my dreams would grow. How do we know we are ourselves and not one permutation of hundreds of other near-identical selves? The thought entranced me. Years later, as I faced yet another Board of Directors lined up like my personal firing squad, I thought of Gabbo—and for some reason, my father. I crunched a piece of ice between my molars, felt those long-dormant dreams blink open their eyes, and knew what I must do. I spun on my heels and marched out of the room, then sequestered myself for what felt like a hundred years, until I finally realized my vision, my purpose.
This collection is that vision.
