The Scott Schuman Smile

Zara suede shorts // Vintage shirt // Aarzoo Jewelry earrings // The Row sunglasses from VuSunglass.com // Stuart Weitzman Lowland boots // Old Navy bag 

I was hanging out with Alyssa Lau and Alex outside of the Diesel Black Gold Show earlier this week in New York and we were having a fun little convo about this and that, standing beside a street lamp around which someone’s muted mint bicycle was locked. How was I supposed to know Scott Schuman, The Sartorialist himself, was the owner of that bike? And yet there he was. Short and stout. Unlocking his bike and lingering to have what seemed like a three-hour-long text conversation.

I was staring him down the entire time.

First, I thought, OK is this really him? I had never seen Schuman in real life and I have been one to participate in the cruel game of mistaken identity, more than once. I didn’t want to go up to some random guy unlocking his bike and fan girl the fuck outta him. He wasn’t even carrying a camera so that weirded me out, too. And why would he be lingering outside the show answering text messages without being accosted by anyone. Was he an asshole with a god complex? That, was also a strong possibility.

You see, Scott and I go way back. Way way back to my computer desk that used to flip open and reveal a shiny black hand-me-down Acer computer (my parents didn’t believe in technology unless it was a new Marshall amp or yet another Fender Rhodes). So, my aunt used to give us her old computers whenever she bought a new one. I had to force my parents to get AOL dial-up internet just so I could be on ICQ.

And I digress. I’m just trying to paint a picture of a green Justine (username: stellina17) racing home after school to see if Style.com had updated their Sartorialist column. Every few weeks there would be a new picture and it was like receiving life. A woman in a long white skirt beside her bike in Florence. These were actual stylish people out there in the world and I could creep them and copy their outfits all in the comfort of my bedroom-slash-piano-room-slash-office. Nothing could get my heart racing quite like it.

He had a questionable tribal phase that I couldn’t quite identify with and then he went dark, only to resurface a few years later and by then everyone knew him. Imagine how snotty I used to feel when I’d mention The Sartorialist to my classmates in University. They thought I was nuts. In fact, I suppressed most of my interests in aesthetics and fashion just to fit in with the Italo-Canadian-mommy-and-daddy-want-me-to- go-to-law-school-and-be-a-jerk-type characters I met in University (who, might I add, are either losers now or have finally shown support for what I’m doing here).

Scott Schuman. Man, there’s a guy who left an impression on me. Fast-forward a decade later, he’s standing at my feet, unlocking his bike. The whole time I was, of course, in an emoji-like paralysis debating whether or not I should say something cliché to him like: “You’re the reason I got into fashion” or some inflated proclamation along those lines. Instead, I chickened out. And I was just about to avert my gaze when he must’ve picked up on my stalker frequency and looked up, into my eyes.

I smiled. (One of those affirming smiles where you don’t need words but know what each other is trying to say. You know, the stalker-type smiles like: You don’t know me, but I know you, Clarice. Oh, I know you very very well.)

And guess what, bitches? He smiled back. It wasn’t a full teeth smile or a wrinkle in his eyes – but his mouth curled up ever so slightly so as to say: “Yes, it’s me.”

Scott Schuman smiled at me! We shared a moment that I will never forget and I don’t care if he’s an asshole or five-foot-two or rides a bike to shows. To me, it was one of those coming-full-circle instances that make over-analyzing everything that happens to you totally worth it.

Now if only I could figure out why I had a dream about rolling pizza dough with Patricia Manfield last night and she kept ashing out her cigarette in a bowl of tomato sauce, that we had to keep replacing, each time. Until the elephants came over. What does it mean?!?!?!

I unfollowed her when I woke up. I’ll tell you that much.

Peep Scott in the background on the left. 

Justine Iaboni