There's a certain romance of a bygone era; this isn't news to anyone but my fascination lies in the fact that it exists in most, if not all, bygone eras that I know very little about. What is it about nostalgia that is so mysteriously alluring? What is it about a temporary visit by way of one busy street in Los Angeles and a pair of exaggerated flares that have the power to instantly transport me to a time I never lived through? Bob Dylan's 'Tangled Up in Blue' is about the only connection I feel worth mentioning about the decade - which I listened to on my Sony Walkman (also a product of the seventies) - which is embarrassing considering this decade was anything but boring. Elvis met Nixon, the Beatles broke up, punk music was born, Gandhi was re-elected (the first woman to ever hold office as Prime Minister in India), Margaret Thatcher claimed the title as the first ever female British Prime Minister (speaking of which, if you haven't yet listened to Malcolm Gladwell's Revisionist History 'A Lady Vanishes' podcast, you're welcome), the original American Hustle took place, the first successful IVF baby was born and Mother Teresa won a Nobel Peace Prize. A pretty standard series of events, right? But let me tell you, I can still recite the Whitlam's cover of Tangled Up In Blue. Without music. Alas, Ellery's fall collection and an accidental stumbling onto a Hollywood movie set is enough to kick my millennial mind into overdrive, rapidly opening and closing mental filing cabinets, searching for a point of reference to create a cohesive story. Pao and I attempted to apply all of the stealth our bodies could muster at such serendipity in order to "fit in" to a seventies Hollywood movie set, but failed. This is a holy grail situation for someone like me. What are the odds of searching for a utopian 70s Hollywood set and it actually being there? Seriously. Not pictured are the acting extras dressed in cowl neck sweaters and bell bottoms waiting for their take. It was all too perfect. Throw in an Ellery dress that could rival the volume of Farrah Fawcett's famous locks and you have yourself a wormhole (albeit warped) to the seventies. Had a kind young man not gently ushered us away (he gave us five minutes to get our shots) we would have been lost in this time travel vortex for hours reimagining ourselves as 70s kids, pretending one of those convertibles belonged to us, or ya know, our parents.
Photography: Paolo Pineda / Styling & Art Direction: Kim Jones