If 6,000 people gathered in a city square for a protest, a party, a manifestation, global collaboration, an orgy, an obstacle course, a debate, a trial, a tar and feathering, a festival or market, Margot would find the highest climbable tree far enough off the main strip but close enough to hear and feel the activity. She would go. But she would sit in that tree and note every sound and passer from afar. Hours, perhaps even days later, the clamor would fade, crowds would part and she would remain to ponder and forecast until peacefully gathering herself to depart. Margot questions everything, and struggles incessantly to get straight answers. A rare find.

Contributing to her struggle for clarity on a plethora of quests- from why Russian spies can’t locate the largest jeweler thieves in eastern europe, to explorations on the Allegory of the Cave the distinctions between metaphysics then and today, to how Bergdorf-Goodman became what it is today, to how to get a working visa for the United States… the list goes on, as does her perpetual loss and gain of self confidence – Margot also battles with perfection. Margot recently took an online test which revealed her deteriorated cognitive skills. She seems to have lost her once amazing photographic memory; numbers, names, all things logical evaporate in her head more often. Unfortunately, the discouragement has her interest in retaining information, and her effort to regain such cognitive skills somewhat awry. However, given her very serious obsession with the word and its distorted meanings perfection, there stands a very good chance that she will restore her senses and regain ground, further crippling all scores above hers to master her cognitive ability.

On a hot summer eve sometime after 9pm, having just returned home to Bombay after a year in Dublin, Margot entered a local pub stuffed with former colleagues and unknown relatives. Not having seen nor grown much with her natives, she propped herself on a silver-casted rectangle nudged between a glass tabletop sipping (a local mango concoction) while texting her friends in London from her iPhone. Hours passed. The social chaos dimmed after 1am and the bartender rounded up her 5 comped glasses as she tapped the final text.

Margot has eyes like light lanterns. Giant and powerful that can fill a room with warmth and a thousand untold stories. Though much of her remains hidden. An evening out with the lady is not full of adventure, rather puzzle and wonder. Not many words are verbally exchanged but if you can get her in the right seat, under the correct lighting, with the adjusted volume of music, just the right music, paired with the season’s herb and crisp street sounds, you’re bound to have many mental exchanges; a surreal conscious telepathic dialogue. Even expressionless. Not totally mute, but often times awkwardly silent in the first hour. Eventually spurring a rich conversation. An evening with Margot only begins after 2 hours, and never before dark.

This lady Bombay is detailed both inside and out. Artisan jewels adorn her wrists and collar. Delicate prints with fine patterns of intricate animals or fantastic designs covered by cropped sweaters with beaded or rhinestoned  hems. Every piece has a story, a memory, an origin different from one another. She is like a totem pole. And when you see her for the first time she looks quite literally like the seasons of the year combined. There is a prominent aura of winter in the darkness of her hair and the depths of her features. The exuberance of summer is present in the rhythm of her walk and shades of her skin and the waves of her clothing. Fall is her composure, how she carries her body in long thoughtful strides, while Spring is expressed through her careful selection of colors. Nature-like graphics and always catwalk heels.

The seasons repeat and come into full blossom with conversation as stories, philosophies, ideas, and doubts all reach a head after a full circle of analysis or contemplation or fervor and hope and freshly freed words from some hibernation in left field. She appears and slips away. Always at fingertips length. She is global. Having been raised in a prominent family, thus having been subjected to defaults and implications that come with being a female with a rich savings, an education, and beauty, no doubt was an edge casted upon her early on. A British middle school, a summer in Africa, family trips throughout Asia and the US. A Scientific University. Pre-arranged marriage. Inherited garments. A horse and an elephant. Limited access to media. Limited democracy. Limited men. Limited opportunity. All enough to push the little soul into a flame of roaring desires. Art, sex, travel, controversy, invention, rebellion, discovery, religion, youth. She swept Paris and bounced through San Francisco. She tapped Berlin and planted in New York for a Bachelor’s at Parsons. Fell in love with  a Korean. Worked for Comcast, Joe’s Caffe, Sammy’s Ink Shop, and interned at Ogilvy. Became a potter. Designed glass. Master Moroccan cuisine and frequented The Basque. She eats French toast for breakfast and wines at 5.

Margot is an expert on overthinking everything, and of never not thinking about something.


About Angela Gleason

visual designer | writer | pianist in the basement | painter in the night | fashion critic | lush | Italian savant check me out: