SUNDAY MORNING
A bride. A city. A quiet hour before everything changes. A city has a particular stillness on Sunday morning. The streets belong briefly to early risers—the baker unlocking his door, newspapers stacked on the corner, café chairs waiting to be set out. Before traffic and conversation take over, there's an hour when even a familiar city can seem strangely private. Into that quiet comes a bride. She isn't rushing from a hotel surrounded by bridesmaids, photographers and bouquets. She is alone, walking through streets that are only beginning to wake. Her wedding dress is ivory 4-ply silk crepe, fluid enough to move with her. The silhouette has a distinctly vintage vocabulary: a long, horizontally draped bodice, softly dropped waist, low shoulder line, and an ankle-skimming skirt made for walking. A closely spaced row of covered buttons finishes the back. Her little floral headpiece and short veil are almost the only announcement that this is a wedding morning. She passes the ...
