Just Try Putting Yourself in His Shoes!

 PAUSING in front of the Brian Atwood boutique on Saturday, a pair of parka-clad matrons pressed their noses to the glass, staring covetously at the fringed suede boots perched like jewels on pedestals. Then, clearly intimidated, they gave the store a pass.
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  It takes brass, after all, to saunter past the formidable beveled glass and limestone facade, and stroll on in, especially if, like me, you fret that your salt-stained hurricane boots will scuff the rug.

But a solitary visitor, who had stopped in to admire a pair of leopard boots, seemed to suffer no such pang. Fastidious but suitably brash in a lynx-spotted swing coat, her flax-colored hair looking steam-pressed, she appeared wholly of a piece with the store’s old-time Hollywood air.

Underscoring that mood are marble and quartz walls, and mirrors, mirrors everywhere. Near the door, a relatively muted gray-carpeted antechamber gives way to an extravagance of purple Venetian plaster walls and velvety settees. Standing sentry near the door, a stylized plaster palm soars toward the ceiling.

The cheek: you have to love it. The shop is “not exactly minimal,” Mr. Atwood told reporters shortly before it opened last month. “It’s like a Fabergé egg.” Contributing to the ornateness of it all are rows of gem-cut glass vitrines housing Mr. Atwood’s latest fancies.

Till Next Time CJ Azani Fashion