Porcelain, print, and silk.
“The best things have already lived a life. We find them, tell their story and pass them on.”
Founded in 2019 and grounded in New York City, the collection began with vintage clothing and grew into a wider cabinet of curiosities. Every piece, from a century-old Japanese art book to a Parisian coat, is selected for a considered life.
Notes on place, objects and the lives that gather around them.
Kagoshima to Tokyo, sporadic notes. Arctic Fever Hello from the other side of the world. I watched as the Arctic protuberances fell into a deep purple nightfall across the alien landscape. On the plane, they have miso soup on tap. I can't feel my legs and the plane smells of Play-Doh. The sound on my screen is broken, so I'm…
Read the letter“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” Oscar Wilde 09 / 09 / 2026 Living in Paris feels like kneeling at the altar of appetite. I’m gutted to be leaving her. With her bored elegance, gold-leaf streets and blood-red, ruby lights. She doesn’t try to seduce you; she assumes you’ll fall…
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GLAYUM is the work of one collector's eye, trained under masters of the craft. It is a private sourcing practice for vintage, antique & rare clothing, objects, art, decor & books, gathered by hand from nearly 40 countries. Every piece, from a 200 year old Japanese art book to a Parisian coat, has passed through Elizabeth's hands & met her standard for what belongs in a considered life.
Founded in 2019 & grounded in NYC, GLAYUM began with vintage clothing & grew into a wider cabinet of curiosities, sourcing directly for private clients & collectors. The premise is simple: the best things have already lived a life. We find them, tell their story & pass them on to people who'd rather own one object with history than ten without.
The work has since gone beyond private collections. GLAYUM has sourced & consulted for photo shoots, screen & stage productions, & hospitality venues. A handful of pieces are under review for acquisition by an established New York museum.
That standard is inherited rather than learned. Elizabeth's family arrived in the United States from Switzerland in the mid 1800s & opened a department store, the kind of place where the shelves held everything a town needed & the owner knew the story behind each item. Almost two centuries later, GLAYUM works from the same instinct: find the rare, well made thing & put it in the hands of someone who will cherish it.
The eye runs in the family. Her grandmother was an interior decorator who perfected homes with a magazine like, southern charm. Her mother built a career in national advertising, translating taste into stories. Between the two of them, Elizabeth grew up believing that taste isn't decoration: it's what makes a life feel like your own.
GLAYUM is now expanding this practice into a curated online shop, bringing the same eye for rarity & provenance to a wider audience of collectors. It stays small on purpose. What's here is here because she couldn't leave it behind.
Everything is waiting for the person it belongs to.
Kagoshima to Tokyo, sporadic notes.
Hello from the other side of the world. I watched as the Arctic protuberances fell into a deep purple nightfall across the alien landscape. On the plane, they have miso soup on tap. I can't feel my legs and the plane smells of Play-Doh. The sound on my screen is broken, so I'm watching Saturday Night Fever in silence with Japanese subtitles.
I'm full of soft-boiled eggs from 7-Eleven. Every toilet here is suitable for a king. It's illegal to be unkind. The punishment for J-walking is death. The mysticism and intention in every detail makes me feel like I'm seeing the world through the eyes of a child again. I've been spoiled with a translator / guide / homie to help me land on my feet at the start of this 6 week journey. 🙏 Arigato gozaimasu, Mr. Jones!
First stop, the most southernmost end of the island, the Kagoshima Prefecture. Kirishima Shinto Shrine for a goshuincho notebook to collect stamps around the country, an onsen (full nude bathhouse with people 2–3x my age), a folklore mask museum, winding mountain roads with the most bountiful flowers I've ever seen, and Kagoshima City adventures.
Fascinating fact, "snack bars" are all over the country, where bartenders are paid for the amount of time they chat with their patrons. And I'm not sure what a "soapy soapy" bar is, but I can take a wild guess. Just about everything in Japan is efficient, sans work culture. I've yet to see a shitfaced salaryman sleeping in a public space, but my hopes remain high. Kanpai, sararīman!
Is this a dream, or jet lag? We wandered through a labyrinth-like Chinese garden (Kangakuen) that was pure peace. Picnics under cherry blossom trees, dragons and ancient stories never forgotten, gifts from a kind man, and a hidden island shrine with rambunctious cats and tsunami walls.
We stopped at Shirahama onsen, then for coffee and burritos at a beach shack nearby. I used the toilet that's just a hole in the ground for the hell of it (very functional for 2's if you have the thighs for it). They have little slippers in the bathroom that say "Toilet." To my dismay, I won't be able to buy them to complete my weekend club look.
Kangakuen Chinese Garden had a mystical energy force that hits you the moment you stand before it. Cherry blossoms in full display, dragons poking their heads out of ancient wall corners, micro-pinecones littered across the bouncy moss forest floor, all layered in a labyrinth dreamscape. We came across some ancient art. I stopped before a fan with a man speaking to a turtle. Suddenly, a man who resembled the man on the fan came up next to me. A monk. He offered me a beautiful postcard as a gift. I took it with both hands, bowed, and teared up. You don't need words to feel what someone has in their soul.
Next stop, Terushima Shrine, a hidden cat island with sea battered stone walls. I pet every single one. All docile, but looked like they take part in cat yakuza gang fights in the evenings. There were tree stumps of varying heights scattered in rows across the forest as a balancing game. Parkour!
I had an omelet for dinner. I asked them not to pour the ketchup-looking sauce on top and you would have thought I asked them for their firstborn child. They poured it over anyway, as if to clothe the shame of the naked omelet, while eyeing me as the pervert who compromised its vulnerability.
Jake called out sick from work for the extra day off. They knew he had a friend in town, so I fully expected them to send the police for him for such a heinous act. After my 647th gas station egg and a side of white peaches, we hopped in the tiny car (that apparently you could purchase for around $1500 USD) and floored it before the coppers could track us down. On the lam in Japan has a nice ring to it.
We started our road trip in a beach town named Akune, where we studied anemones and tiny octopi in shallow crystal tide pools. It looked like the beach from The Goonies, with the mountainous blips stretching up from the water's surface. I let the sound of the waves wash me away.
Next we continued up the northwestern coastline of the Kagoshima Prefecture to Izumi, where there were preserved samurai estates. There was a beautiful Japanese grandmother waiting to give us a tour. I couldn't stop staring at her perfect skin. I had Jake translate that I thought she was beautiful, and asked for her skincare routine, to which she replied, "A natural self-made mixture." With a secret ingredient of peace. She dressed me up in full armor and handed me a sword for a photo op. I'm sure someone out there on the internet won't be happy about this choice, but when sweet grandmother says put on the helmet and swing, you put on the helmet and swing. As we were pouring out gratitude and saying our farewells, she told me that I look like a flower. I fear this trip will leave me permanently misty-eyed.
As we rounded the corner of the museum, a 19-year-old bunny and the human equivalent of a 19-year-old bunny appeared. The man saw us and picked up the rabbit, holding him like an oracle orb, motioning us to come closer. I looked deep into its glacier blue eyes and placed my hand on its nape to absorb its mystical powers. God, is that you? They both hopped away, drenched in joy. MISTY. EYED.
That night, we slid into a hidden sushi spot in town. The older gentleman kindly motioned to the seats at the beginning of the empty bar. I wanted to hug him. We gave him the reins, "Omakase, kudasai," his choice. I watched in awe as he constructed the most beautiful 8pc set of sushi that I've ever seen. For a whopping $8. I could cry. The most expensive restaurant in New York doesn't even come close. The TV above was playing a children's show. We all watched together in silence, all of us in that moment, five-years-old.
Next stop, Fukuoka (the birthplace of tonkotsu ramen). Many thanks to my kind host for a grounding first few days (and sparing me of public shaming and/or imprisonment due to societal rule-breaking). I had breakfast at the train station: whole carrots, cucumbers, strawberries & a decadent dark chocolate, half-sweetened KitKat ("Adult KitKats"). You could smell the strawberries from across the street. I accidentally left a small bag at the train station, so they delivered it the next morning 5 hours away for $7, with a bow on top... not kidding.
I explored the Tochoji Temple and Kushida-jinja Shrine. Meditated under a cherry blossom tree and lit a candle of prayer for good health. I fell in love with "Tough Gummies," which are energy gummies filled with what translates to be, "merry powder." Although I'm slightly concerned re: the bottom of the package translating to, "Be careful not to get too clogged..."
The next morning I stopped at "Fuk Coffee" for some you-know-what and then for an elaborate avocado toast & seasonal strawberry pavlova from "Niiioce Cafe." I got tips from a fellow traveler who sat next to me at breakfast (Hi, Webb!). He recommended the Fukuoka-jo Sakura Festival for hanami (flower viewing) and eating various things on a stick (say less, I'm in). Ohori Park was pristine and everyone was out in their traditional best. The pond was lined with the happiest weeping willows I've ever seen. The park toilets sing you a song when you pee for comfort.
As the day ends, I find myself speeding through the middle of the country in a big metal tube towards Tokyo to find a Harajuku girl's crew to adopt me. It's dark when I arrive. I wander into a yakitori restaurant (you food influencer bastards will have to pry the name of this heavenly-hole-in-the-wall from my icy blue hands!!) and have a transcendent meal of the freshest version of every food, on a stick (the fat kid at the county fair in me is salivating at the thought). The woman next to me is so sure of herself, with such peace and bad-bitchery. She's dripping in multicolored early 90's attire, mixed with a business blazer. She lights up a cigarette inside. I lean over and gesture to her clothes and cigarette and frame her with my hands and bow. She shrugs her shoulder towards her chin and half smiles with delight. She pulls out her pack and offers one to me. For the sake of politeness and to keep the "stick" vibe going, I acquiesce and am transported to another time. A time where everyone smoked by default. Fuck your lungs, tables number 12, 6, and 15... mama wants a cig pairing!
APA Hotel is very popular throughout Japan. The rooms are basically just the bed, but who wants to spend time in a room when you're in magical Japan? There's an onsen on the roof that faces the Tokyo Skytree. I found myself naked with strangers from Italy with an open sky above. I imagine the practice of bathing nude with strangers would not go over well in the US.
My mission here is to find rare items for an online shop I'm curating (dear past self, we made it!). First stop was a shop in Asakusa owned by Yoko, with stunning handmade items from central Japan. Then a quick lunch on a balcony facing the river and skyline. I'm testing the limits of how much tea one human can drink. Everyone here is dripped the hell out, whether in gorgeous silks, classic monochromatic draped linens, Harajuku, alternative, or otherwise. The elderly population wins, hands down; Fashion Week could never.
After completing my daily shrine ritual of prayer and stamp collecting, I stopped for my 67th matcha. I asked the owner behind the counter whether he had coconut matcha on the menu. He was bewildered and said he'd never made that before, but wanted to try. I gave him my recipe and we shared them together. He loved it so much, he said he would put it on the menu and name it after me (please see the pin on my Japan map to find the Elizabeth coco-matcha).
Next I stumbled upon an antique shop, that had a mysterious curtain with disco lights behind it in a room upstairs. I, of course, peeked in and saw a sign that said, "shunga" or "erotica." Inside were a handful of incredibly rare vintage silk kimonos with ancient depictions of Japanese erotic art on the backs. An incredible start to my collection~ thank you, Fabrizio, for your guidance! Fast forward to now, where the pieces are under review by the Museum of Sex NYC and Miami. What a dream!
I'm averaging 20,000 steps a day. I had wagyu ramen for dinner. And I'm marinating in an onsen again like a naked chicken in a stew pot.
I've officially lost 5lbs since being here. I've acquired legs of steel. Anyways, off to the penis festival! Here is the history of the celebration and yes, the giant paraded penis and I share a name. I'm honored. ~
The festival traces back to an old Japanese legend about a demon who fell in love with a young woman and hid inside her, then maimed two bridegrooms on two separate wedding nights out of jealousy. A blacksmith forged her an iron phallus to break the demon's teeth, and that object ended up enshrined at Kanayama Shrine in Kawasaki and is paraded in the streets once a year to celebrate.
The festival's purpose is to bring luck regarding fertility, but has turned into a mini Pride for Japan’s queer community. In Japan, they have a saying: “The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.” There are few opportunities for the queer community to express themselves, as who they are is generally not accepted in the rigid society here. Their self-expression was a beautiful sight to see and an important reminder of what I’ve often taken for granted in the US. There are few moments better in life than truly feeling seen.
Today I was introduced to the incredible Oedo Antique Market in central Tokyo. I’ve never seen such a superb collection of art and artifacts… museum-worthy! The Japanese really know how to take care of their possessions. Many items were hundreds (emphasis on the “s”) of years old, and pristine. Interestingly enough, I also found better American memorabilia than what I've come across in America.
Provenance is meaningful on a spiritual level. Objects hold energy and the right piece can be transformational for your spirit and the spirit of the space it’s in. What I sourced in Japan absolutely rocked my world; it's going to be heartbreaking for me to pass them on. BUT, ladies and gents, the show must go on. That's showbiz (erm, I mean picking).
Now, off to Bangkok! Cue an 11-hour delay, then a “Just kidding, we’re boarding now,” as I’m doing yoga in a corner somewhere on the other side of the airport. You really think you’re in shape until you have to run a quarter mile with luggage.
How much does your time cost? Over-delayed gratification and withholding joy can feel like doing time. What are you saving for? How can you optimize your life to do all of the things on your bucket list? Life is a game of Tetris and every piece, every moment, has to fit just right in due time. Waiting to climb Mt. Everest until you’re retired likely will not work out. The opportunity to read books to your young children will not come again. Being 21 and traveling all of Europe on trains and staying in hostels can only happen once. Maybe I've just had a greater tolerance for risk in my life. A lot of people worry about running out of money. I’m worried about running out of life.
Thank you to Japan for changing my perspective on life and magic. I'll never be the same.
xx EB
“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” Oscar Wilde
09 / 09 / 2026
Living in Paris feels like kneeling at the altar of appetite. I’m gutted to be leaving her. With her bored elegance, gold-leaf streets and blood-red, ruby lights. She doesn’t try to seduce you; she assumes you’ll fall eventually. A romance a heart gladly bleeds for.
Recently, the blade said to have parted Marie Antoinette from her breath was purchased at auction. The revolution still seeps up from the cracks in the pavement, from the dust of the street stalls, and ramblings of the boisterous drunks arguing philosophy on every corner. The bones of six million beneath the city rattle at the thought.
Here, the air is thick with lust and smoke, just as the chocolate is thick with Chantilly cream. We all swim through, slowly, savoring, and with a sigh. The unbothered spirit leads a life pure of guilt. The pure march on, vices in hand, with hearts the weight of a feather.
Beneath all of this velvet and sugar, something stirs. What is the cost of beauty? Did Monet tire of the lilies? Degas of the bodies that refused to stay still? Did they feel encased in their own creation?
I’m falling into the quicksand of my troubled mind. I look around at the faces nearby. I look down at my hands.
“Mousse au chocolat, offerte par la maison.” A voice resonated nearby.
“Mon préféré!”
Darkness falls over Le Marais as my final evening begins. The final act. Sugar on the tongue. The blood moon painted the glistening cobblestones as I slipped into a café. A man peers out from behind his cigarette plume,
“When the music’s over, turn out the lights.”
I thought I was hallucinating, until the bartender popped up from behind the bar and nodded in his direction. Earlier that day, I had stood before Jim Morrison’s grave at Pére-Lachaise, leaving him a bottle of Jack Daniels with one swig missing. Tribute, or dare?
“There are things known and things unknown,” he wrote, “and in between are the doors.”
“Fermée?” I asked in my clumsy accent, doing something unfortunate to the “r”.
He gave me a once-over, “Oui, but you can sit. I close when I close.”
My grandmother always used to say, “You could jump out of a plane and find a parachute on the way down.” Possibly more for caution than encouragement.
I’ve observed in my life a pattern, a secret choreography between danger and deliverance. Pressure builds, swelling until one can no longer contain it. Just when the rupture feels inevitable, when I’m certain I’ll split open upon the pavement, improbability intervenes. A door swings open. A palm appears from the shadows. I don’t rely on it, but I’ve come to expect it. Luck, madness, and grace wear the same perfume. I have kissed each of them in the dark.