She Sells Sea Shells

When I was very little, long before I’d ever set foot on a tropical island, I would lament the end of summer as though it were a dying friend, stealing even the coldest, rainiest days to run along the beach and brave the frigid Atlantic Ocean.

Not much has changed all these years later. I am still stealing every hour the beach has to offer, along with its greatest natural treasures.

The earliest hours are my favorites, and if I had my wares, I’d be up with the sun. This is my favorite time because it is often the calmest. The perfect opportunity for a private stroll, where I always stop to collect sea shells.




The shells themselves of course vary by indigenous location. Some of my favorites are these very perfect and tiny clam-like shells.

Shell jewelry is beyond a doubt the most perfect beach accessory. I have a strong of the most remarkable shells which, despite their varied sizes and shapes, create the ideal bikini co-conspirator.

For centuries, certain cultures believes that shells were gods and embodied mystical powers. I love shells of all colors, but these are the ideal iridescent white, and go with just about everything. Because they’re shell, I never worry about maintenance, sun exposure, perfume, or suntan lotion – nothing is going to penetrate these sturdy suckers! Sea or sand, my shells go where I go.

I recently fell in love with these olive, round shells which nearly, at first glance, look like freshwater pearls. While most shells often signify summer, these weather the seasons, and look as great in a business meeting as they do with a bright summer cocktail.

When I first arrived in NYC 12 years ago, a friend gave me the most beautifully perfect shell. It was a delicate, pure white conch-shaped shell, the kind which, when the mood struck, I could hold up to my ear and attempt to hear the ocean’s mysterious hum. At that time the shell was the most meaningful gift as throughout each and every city move (and there were a lot of them) I carefully packed the paper thin mollusk and carried it from place to place. Apropos, as shells have to make a similar weathered journey of survival before they land on shore.

For so long that shell made a valiant pilgrimage from box to bedside, borough to borough, until it met an untimely domestic demise 10 years after its purchase. While nothing can take its place, I continue to search for shells wherever there’s a water’s edge. And no matter how old I get, whenever I see a conch, I hold it up to my ear, close my eyes, and listen to the sounds of the sea.