How Millennials Learned To Love Old-Money Aesthetics
Younger generations are giving the penny-loafered, chintz-upholstered old-money vibe a 21st-century reboot.
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On any given midsummer Saturday night, New York’s Upper East Side is a social wasteland. The neighbourhood’s wealthy habitués flee the city for breezier country homes, leaving their tony stomping ground deserted. Aside from the hum of taxis passing by and the random Pomeranian bark, the streets are all but silent. On a recent July evening, however, rumblings can be heard from a crowd lingering in front of the stately Carlyle hotel. Inside, an earpiece-wearing security guard politely organizes a line snaking through the lobby—a scene more often found outside clubs below 14th Street. They aren’t waiting to hear some mononymous DJ or even to dance; they’re just hoping to snag a table at Bemelmans Bar—the circa 1947 boîte known for piano standards and stiff martinis.
Named after Ludwig Bemelmans, the Madeline author whose whimsical murals adorn the 672-square-foot canteen, the bar is a vestige of Old New York seemingly frozen in time. Waiters in white dinner jackets and bow ties ferry silver bowls of potato chips to every table while a jazz trio plays tunes from the Great American Songbook, just as they have for 75 years. Bemelmans’s consistently gracious service and genteel environs have made it a favourite neighbourhood watering hole for generations of Upper East Siders, from Jackie O and Brooke Astor to the average Park Avenue prince.
The line of this Sunday night, however, isn’t composed of locals roughing it in town for the weekend, though some of them can be found among the bar’s candlelit banquettes. Along with the expected patrons in their Van Cleef & Arpels jewellery and Tom Ford suits, there are Gen Z women taking selfies, a man-bun-sporting dude slipping the pianist a twenty and a hipster carrying a Machado de Assis paperback. They’re all part of a new demographic, coming from downtown, Brooklyn and beyond, that defines such throwback civility as an ideal night out.
Since Bemelmans reopened post-lockdown, there has been a surge of younger clients coming for a taste of bygone Manhattan (and the highly Instagrammable setting). “We never had lines prior to the pandemic,” says Tony Mosca, the Carlyle’s food and beverage director. “Now there are lines out to Madison Avenue on a nightly basis.” The crowds start arriving as early as 3 pm and keep going strong until last call.
“People are able to connect with each other a lot more in this environment than, say, a nightclub,” Mosca observes of the bar’s popularity after months of social distancing. And while Bemelmans has emerged as the city’s hottest new (old) spot, similar influxes have been reported at the St. Regis’s King Cole Bar and the Plaza’s Palm Court, two other haunts of the Social Register set.
Despite the threat of recession and all the talk of inflation’s havoc, wealth—or at least the look of it—is on the rise. And not just any kind of wealth: blue-blooded, Ivy-educated, Newport-summering affluence. Sneakers are being swapped for penny loafers, modernist interiors are being swaddled in chintz and chinoiserie, Hamptons vets are decamping to Palm Beach. All the traditional trappings of WASP-dom, a sensibility that has been upheld by generations of the one percent of the one percent, are striking a chord with many who don’t know Andover from Exeter and couldn’t care less. It’s about the image of affluence, not the cultural baggage.
The Gen Z influencers of TikTok have dubbed it #oldmoneyaesthetic, a term that began trending last spring and that, together with the hashtag #oldmoney, has garnered over 1.8 billion views as of writing. These digital arbiters have devoted countless videos to the topic—primarily stock-photo montages of boiserie-clad châteaux, manicured tennis lawns, models in crisp white shirts and so on—celebrating it as the ultimate lifestyle goal. Often, this world is contrasted with what has been deemed “California rich”: a version of affluence quickly amassed and oft associated with Hollywood glamour. “Why be California rich,” @eileen_darling asks, “when you could be Connecticut rich?”
This strain of discreet wealth has never really been out of fashion—it’s not like Ralph Lauren was ever hurting—but since the pandemic, it has entered the zeitgeist anew. As the adage goes, everything comes back around eventually. So if you’d written yourself off as a fuddy-duddy, we have good news: Your time is now.
The concept of “old money” has been around far longer than polo matches and prep schools, but the phrase really entered the conversation during the late 19th century. The industrial revolution saw merchants and tradesmen attain wealth with unprecedented speed, amassing fortunes to rival those that had been built, and handed down, over generations. Particularly in America, the Puritan tastes of prominent Mayflower descendants were starkly contrasted by the baroque excesses of arrivistes—a conflict central to HBO’s The Gilded Age, which, uncoincidentally, has brought this cosseted class war to prime time.
Illustration of golf-course style Illustration by Marcos Montiel
In Mrs. Astor’s day, the line between old and new money was as clear as an Edison bulb. Now, however, things are considerably murkier. The Gilded Age’s gatecrashers—Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, Morgans—are today’s gatekeepers, not to mention that cryptocurrency can make even tech fortunes look quaint. (The very concept of this article, it should be noted, is decidedly not old money. Such wealth is a bit like Fight Club—the first rule is you don’t talk about it.)
“Those times are gone,” says Nick Mele, a Palm Beach–based photographer and lifelong Newport summer-er who documents the modern beau monde in the tradition of Slim Aarons. “When we talk about old money, we’re not talking about where your money comes from or how old it actually is. We’re talking about a mindset.” Where you went to school or what clubs you belong to may still have cachet, but they’re not the price of entry. “We’re in a meritocracy for the most part,” he continues. “It’s about an appreciation for traditional values.”
That phrase may often be thrown out as a dog whistle by conservative politicians, but when it comes to this new embrace of old aesthetics, it’s used in a literal sense. “Old money” now has less to do with the origins of one’s bank account and more to do with what its contents are spent on. There are countless TikToks devoted specifically to this concept; many are apt (Brunello Cucinelli, Hermès, horses) while some have a questionable definition of what constitutes sophistication (Banana Republic, reading, continental breakfasts).
“Some people think it’s just about one thing: the money or the brands or the look,” says DW, a self-described European teen behind @oldmoneyaddicted who declined to provide his name, exact age or geographic location. He claims to have been born into a family with a long, well-documented history, which inspired him to share his insights on old money with his 68,900 TikTok followers. “It’s a lot more: your education, how you behave, how you may go unnoticed with a Patek Philippe on your wrist… Being a gentleman has meaning.” At least as far as style goes, the internet’s general consensus is: Old money is unaffected understatement.
Edith Wharton, who could be considered the Robin Leach of her day, spells out this idea in 1897’s The Decoration of Houses, a kind of Victorian equivalent of “how to get the look” TikToks. Written as a riposte to “the vulgarity of current decoration” employed by parvenus, the book traces interiors of the wealthy back to the Renaissance making a case that good taste is about certain timeless principles: proportion, practicality, quality.
“The simplest and most cheaply furnished room (provided the furniture be good of its kind, and the walls and carpet unobjectionable in color),” she writes, “will be more pleasing to the fastidious eye than one in which gilded consoles and cabinets of buhl stand side by side with cheap machine-made furniture, and delicate old marquetry tables are covered with trashy china ornaments.”
Mimi McMakin, an interior designer and fourth-generation Palm Beach native, sums up the look as “clean, very simple and looks good with a tan.” McMakin, who along with her daughter Celerie Kemble, recently renovated the Colony Hotel—a much Instagrammed rhapsody of wicker, de Gournay palms and flamingo pink that has become the Floridian answer to Bemelmans—seconds Wharton in that old-money decor isn’t so much a specific style as it is an ideology.
“Most important of all is comfort,” she says. Rattling off a list of quintessential elements—tailored slipcovers, Portuguese floor tiles, lacquered coffee tables—she stops herself mid-sentence. “Did I mention down? Down! Down! We are known for the sound when you sit in one of our pieces: oomph. That’s luxury.” Face it: A plush armchair will always be more inviting than some mid-mod design in plywood and polycarbonate.
Which brings us back to the aesthetic’s governing principle: Wealth whispers. In fashion, this rule translates to relatively simple designs—oxford-cloth button-downs, blue blazers, Shetland-wool sweaters—that, more or less, have remained unchanged since they first turned up on Ivy League greens a century ago. “It’s always going to be classic,” says Zachary Weiss, a 30-year-old branding consultant and bon vivant whose 38,100 Instagram followers tune in to see his patchwork madras and “go to hell” pants living the good life from Antibes to Aspen. “You’re not going to look back at a photo and regret putting on this outfit,” he continues, describing the style’s enduring appeal. “There’s this idea of quiet luxury that is emerging with a younger set.”
Even fashion’s cool kids have taken to tinkering with the staid codes of preppy style. For spring 2022, Miuccia Prada’s Miu Miu collection went viral with low-slung chinos, pleated skirts and cable knits slashed to dangerously short lengths. For fall, Gucci’s Alessandro Michele riffed on tweedy balmacaans and sweater-vests, while Celine’s Hedi Slimane gave polo coats and Fair Isle sweaters a dose of punk-rock irreverence. Thom Browne, fashion’s most dedicated preppy, took subversion to the extreme in his most recent collection, with boys in repp ties, grosgrain jockstraps and ladies-who-lunch bouclé skirt suits—a look that one imagines wouldn’t fly at any country club, except maybe one on Fire Island.
“We’re seeing a resurgence of what I would call neo-preppy,” says Justin Berkowitz, menswear director at Bloomingdale’s. “It’s not the classic you would have read about in The Preppy Handbook.” He points to designers Mike Amiri and Rhude’s Rhuigi Villaseñor, who are cross-pollinating canonical designs such as rugby shirts and varsity jackets with the swagger of streetwear. While preppy style makes a comeback almost every 10 years, Berkowitz notes that “what’s more interesting about this iteration is that we’re seeing a more diverse ideology incorporated into [the classics].”
As a result, people who once dismissed Ivy style as a white-bread uniform for upper-crust bores are reappraising it. Against all odds, old-school might actually be cool. One of New York nightlife’s buzziest recent openings was the Nines, a downtown approximation of Bemelmans (complete with baby grand and martini sidecars) that replaced a former see-and-be-seen spot frequented by the fashion pack. Even if the gilt ceiling is wallpaper and the red-velvet upholstery skews bordello, the Nines has proven that scenesters can get into Cole Porter. Paradoxically, Weiss says this shift has been most apparent at nightclubs of the disco-ball and DJ variety. “An ‘old money’ look will get you in much faster than, you know, a bunch of Balenciaga,” he says of the most discriminating door policies. “At one point in my life, if I showed up in my normal look, they would be like, ‘No way, nerd.’ Now, it works.”
Casual style illustration Illustration by Marcos Montiel
Lockdown’s closures and social distancing provided prime conditions for old money’s preferred hobbies to find a new audience. Research firm NPD found that last year’s sales of golf-club sets in the US—a good indicator of new players taking up the sport—increased 37 percent year-over-year, and a study of golfers with an average age of 30 showed that the number of rounds played by younger people reached a record high. Similar upticks have been reported in tennis and in sailing, which for the only year in over a decade saw an increase in first-time boat buyers.
Accordingly, the popularity of yacht and country clubs has boomed. The National Club Association, a lobbying group representing 420 private clubs, including such pedigreed institutions as the Everglades and Winged Foot, has found that the number operating at full membership more than doubled since the pandemic’s onset. In moneyed locales across the country, there are tales of couples who, two years ago, would’ve been a shoo-in at any club but now have been wait-listed everywhere. Although the NCA doesn’t track the age of club members, the group’s president, Joe Trauger, reports that at his own Washington, D.C., club, “demographics have definitely been getting younger, and that’s something we’re seeing emerges as a trend in quite a few places.”
The life of leisure speaks to many who took the pandemic as an opportunity to reconsider their relationship with the office. As Weiss observes, “these clothes, this imagery show that you live beyond the workplace.” The Great Resignation’s mass exodus from conventional careers—a recent McKinsey survey estimates that 40 percent of workers are considering quitting their jobs—makes conspicuous enjoyment of the finer things, or what the kids call self-care, less taboo. Hustle culture has given way to pleasure culture.
A similar reassessment happened at home. Lockdown life made people realize they want their interiors to be a sanctuary, but not one so monastic that they can’t actually live in it. “If you have an all-white room, you cannot put a picture of your dog out. Heaven forbid that there’s a magazine or book on a table,” says Bunny Williams, a Sister Parish protégé revered for translating “traditional” to today. Unlike the Scandi-minimalist style that has dominated popular design in recent years, old-money decor accommodates life’s messiness.
“People think that it’s stuffy,” says Miles Redd, a designer who marries WASP-ish taste with a punchy colour sense that would make Wharton blush. “It is all comfort- and practicality-driven: Persian rugs hold up and don’t show dirt, as does chintz; canopied beds keep out a draft and are cozy to sleep in.”
Such pragmatism is a side effect of generational wealth’s dirty little secret: “The WASP world, it was old money,” Williams reflects. “But, a lot of the time, that money didn’t last.” Houses and furniture were often inherited; the spare funds to redecorate, however, were not. So Granny’s sofa got a slipcover instead of being replaced, the old oak floors were painted rather than refinished—layers were added, but nothing got tossed.
Old money’s thriftiness makes the style surprisingly democratic and, particularly for a generation that has inherited only a planet in decline, sustainable. Williams says that antiques dealers she knows have had their best year ever, noting that younger people are now a fixture when she goes antiquing in Connecticut or Atlanta. Redd, too, reports that his younger clients are getting into serious collecting, buying at auction or at Masterpiece, TEFAF and other fairs. “The bottom line is: Things made in the 18th century have craftsmanship you don’t see today,” he says. “And, if you are clever, you can get it for a lot less than something new.”
“In Newport, a beat-up old beach car is appreciated more than a shiny new Porsche or Range Rover,” says Mele, the photographer. To him, the difference between old and new money is embracing cracks in the walls and chips in the china. “There has been a real trend for everything to appear perfect, especially with Instagram. Everybody wants to put forth this idea that their lives are pristine and there isn’t a pillow out of place. That really wasn’t the old-money aesthetic.”
Richard Thompson Ford, a Stanford University law professor and author of Dress Codes: How the Laws of Fashion Made History, suspects that this embrace of the old school is partly a reaction to the fast fashion and influencers that have proliferated online.
“On the one hand, there’s snobbery involved,” he says of the patrician concept of a “proper” way of appearing. “On the other hand, there’s arguably a critique of the crass overconsumption that we might associate with the Kardashians—that is maybe not so bad.”
Casual was the status quo even before the pandemic, but, especially after the forced sweats-and-sofa routine, formality has novelty. “Menswear was dominated by streetwear for the past, say, 10 years; we’re starting to see that idea change,” says Berkowitz of Bloomingdale’s, noting that customers are increasingly spending more on polish, figuratively and literally. “We’ve seen a huge resurgence of dress shoes… loafers are becoming cool.” Even among hoodie devotees, there’s an urge to get spiffed up and go out on the town.
“There are so many places in New York where you can eat, but there are very few where you can actually dine,” says Angie Mar, chef and owner of Les Trois Chevaux, an intimate West Village restaurant that tips its toque to Lutèce, Le Cirque and others of that ilk, places celebrated as much for their well-heeled clientele as for their haute cuisine. Though Mar rose to fame with burgers and chops at the Beatrice Inn, when it came time to reopen post-lockdown, she decided to change tack and “bring a bit of glamour back to the city.”
Despite its quintessentially downtown location, Les Trois Chevaux is distinctly uptown in spirit. A chandelier salvaged from the old Waldorf Astoria, a discreet Picasso lithograph and arrangements by one of Anna Wintour’s preferred florists set the stage for prix fixe menus, starting at around $380, showcasing frog’s legs mousseline and hen-and-lobster ballotine—the kind of exceptionally complex French cooking that even French chefs have mostly ditched for more egalitarian fare.
Similarly, the Grill, occupying the old Four Seasons space at the Seagram Building, has brought back such midcentury indulgences as prime rib carved tableside, lobster Newberg and baked Alaska. In Los Angeles, Horses has reinvigorated a nearly century-old Sunset Boulevard staple with the clubby, put-it-on-my-tab ethos of socialite favourites Swifty’s and 21. At a recent meal there, a server described one diner’s fish as “a 1980s country club revived.”
It’s not just the food that’s gussying up: Les Trois Chevaux is one of numerous restaurants nationwide that have reinstated dress codes. Where jacket requirements could be perceived as an effort to keep the riff-raff out, Mar sees it as a way of reminding diners that a great meal isn’t just about eating. “It’s an experience,” she says. “Dining should not be any different than going to the opera.”
In interviews for this story, manners repeatedly came up as the utmost defining feature of old money. While politesse is certainly an admirable quality—and, yes, it would be nice if everyone still dressed for the opera—who decides what is impolite? Mele recounts a memory of his grandmother, Newport grande dame Oatsie Charles, at dinner one evening, lecturing his brother on the importance of manners while snatching food from his plate and eating it with her hands: “My brother looks at her and says, ‘Granny, what the hell?’ and she goes, ‘Not table manners!’” The rules aren’t so straightforward.
An illustrated dish Illustration by Marcos Montiel
Jason Jules, co-author of Black Ivy: A Revolt in Style, which traces the evolution of preppy style among Black Americans, observes: “We all use these words like ‘elegant,’ ‘sophisticated’… In the wrong hands, those words are used to judge us, classify us and divide us.” Given that this world has, historically, been the purview of white Anglo-Saxon Protestants, it’s a slippery slope from the “right” shoes or shirt to, as Jules says, “you need to have straight hair, to have perfect teeth, to have light skin, to be beach blond.”
“The old-money aesthetic occupies a powerful, symbolic place in American culture,” Ford says of the tendency to romanticize the look. “There’s a nostalgia for a more innocent past…[to] imagine what it would be like to live as a privileged person at a period of time when America’s influence and moral authority were unquestioned—that’s not right now.” Of course, that idealistic picture was just a veneer even then. Today, in light of social-justice movements such as Black Lives Matter, it can be hard to reconcile the resurgence of old-money aesthetics with the moment in which we’re living. It’s especially surprising that Gen Z—the most politically correct generation yet—is so enthusiastically teeing up for croquet.
While one suspects that very few (if any) #oldmoney TikToks are created as conscious political commentary, there’s an implicit statement in virtually storming this rarefied club. That the club has, historically, been open exclusively to straight white conservative elites isn’t a deterrent—adapters aren’t trying to emulate the Mayflower Society, just taking their look and running with it. “We all know it’s the language of the establishment,” says Jules. “But we all want to be able to access that on our own terms.”
In some respects, this return to the traditional can feel like a product of “woke” fatigue. It’s not that old-money aesthetics fly in the face of political correctness; it’s rather that we’re all too tired—from the pandemic, from politics, from the pressure not to offend—to get hung up on whether tennis sweaters or delftware are problematic. Woke culture can, in its own way, be as restrictive as Emily Post. “I’m speaking as a Democratic, Asian American woman, single business owner who has no backing, and I’m into this,” Mar says of her decidedly expensive taste. “Why feel guilty about it?”
People just want to enjoy the pleasures that old money affords, and who can fault them? There’s a reason why this look has stuck around for so long: It’s pretty objectively nice. “Maybe it’s just fun to raid Granny’s wardrobe,” says Jules, dismissing concerns about the politics of it all. Regardless of race or class, he says, “there is only one right way to eat an oyster.” Mrs. Astor surely would agree.
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Home is Where the Art Is
Six standout Australian galleries to know now.
Australia’s gallery scene is booming. More galleries than ever before are going on the road to participate in art fairs in scene that is rapidly maturing. Meet the passionate local owners from around Australia who are energising the creative milieu with the abstract, the edgy, the Indigenous and the generally astounding.
Hugo Michell Gallery
The district may not roll off the artistic tongue like Paris’s Montmartre or London’s Shoreditch, and yet the prim hedges of Adelaide’s Beulah Park suburb provide cover to a stealth powerhouse of the Australian contemporary art movement, tucked away in a charming, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it converted Victorian workers’ cottage. Since 2008, the Hugo Michell Gallery has unflappably carried the torch for established and emerging acts with equal fidelity, across a broad sweep of mediums from photography to printmaking, textile to ceramic. “We try not to get caught up in the hype and handle each artist we represent with the nuance required for promoting their work,” says Michell, currently counting 28 artists on his books. One notable on this year’s busy docket is Melbourne-based Richard Lewer, a social realist—already snapped up by the National Galleries of Australia and Victoria, no less—who for a month from April 10th will probe the uneasy relationship between crime, sport and religion. While comfortable in the skin of his homely suburban bolthole, Michell is not averse to braving the rigours of the Australian art fair circuit (“They’re a bit of a circus, but who doesn’t love a circus?) and often undertakes house visits to acquaint himself with the whims of new customers. “One of the things that gives me the most joy is building a collection for a client,” he says. “We have worked with for 16 years, tailoring and sourcing works for them.” More proof that you don’t need a headline location to generate the biggest stories.
hugomichellgallery.com
Cassandra Bird Gallery
The art sphere often challenges the myth that married partners should not become gallerists—see Iwan and Manuela Wirth of Hauser & Wirth fame, among other examples. And so it is that Cassandra Bird and husband Fabian Jentsch are rapidly cementing a reputation as one the Australian art scene’s supercouples with their 2023-acquired Potts Point space, an expansive four-level heritage terrace fizzing with congeniality, making visitors feel like they have popped to a friend’s (expertly curated) home for elevenses. Which is no great shock: the property doubles as the duo’s own home. Bird brings a wealth of experience, and a hefty contacts book, thanks to long, respected stints in the Big Apple and Berlin, and nine years at Sydney’s RoslynOxley9 Gallery; Jentsch, meanwhile, is an experienced artist, exhibition maker and set designer. “We try to enthuse people, get them excited as we are about those we work with,” says Bird. Meander across the property’s wooden floorboards—perhaps diverting for a chat in the communal courtyard that doubles as a social hub and ideas-exchange forum—and you will enter the realm of Perth-born graphic painter Jedda Daisy-Culley, who has a hallway and wall dedicated to her work; venture upstairs and deep dive into locally based experimental photographer Laura Moore; head into the basement and peruse the collective works the Tennant Creek Brio, out of Warumungu Country in the Northern Territory. All 24 of the gallery’s artists unite under the theme of timelessness. “We are into investigating quality and showing transformational and breakout work from artists,” says Jentsch. “The work we choose must have something that is strong value for us.” Here’s to the sanctity of marriage.
D’lan Contemporary
It speaks volumes for the international reach of Indigenous art that D’lan Contemporary opened an outpost in New York long before expanding the gallery beyond its Melbourne roots to set up shop in Sydney. Then again, founder and director D’lan Davidson is not afraid of expanding his frontiers as a means of hawking Australia’s most vital cultural outpourings; in 2016, he left the Sotheby’s Australia auction house, where he was ensconced as head of aboriginal art, to launch D’lan Contemporary as the go-to gallery for secondary market First Nations art; and he recently travelled to Maastricht in the Netherlands for the prestigious European Fine Arts Foundation Art Fair, promoting a series of Western Arnhem bark paintings and works by Paddy Bedford, Emily Kame Kngwarreye, Rover Thomas and other. Closer to home, Davidson has surrounded himself with a team brimming with the requisite Indigenous art smarts, including chief curator and gallery director Luke Scholes. From May 8th-July 4th, the Significant exhibition, a mainstay of the Melbourne gallery for the past ten years, will show across all three of D’lan Contemporary’s locations. “Our exhibitions and all our advocacy work seek to further support and develop the burgeoning global interest in Australian First Nations art and artists,” says Scholes. As if further proof were needed of its commitment, the gallery donates 30 percent of its profit back to artists and their communities. Bravo.
N.Smith Gallery
Enter Nick Smith’s compact office and you notice how the walls are studded by the artworks of those he represents; this is a man, you feel, who has a more intimate connection to his stable than the average gallery chief—an instinct confirmed upon discovering that he has invested his entire life savings into the Surry Hills space. When we meet, Smith’s whiteboard is teeming with collaborative projects, hinting heavily at the kind of edgy, thought-provoking artists that his outfit—comprised of five full-time staff—is renowned for nurturing. “It’s constant, but amazing,” says Smith in his typically reserved manner, more studious scientist than reengage gallerist. “I wanted to contribute to culture in my own way.” The gallery’s current ascension allays any empathetic fears of impending financial doom. This past February, Smith—who cut his teeth at Philip Bacon Galleries in Brisbane and Sydney’s Sullivan+Strumpf—collaborated with the Australian High Commission in India to represent Darrell Sibosado at India Art Fair ’25, and throughout the year will be partnering with the Sydney chapter of Soho House to host a series of private viewings and artist studio visits. Even so, he now splits his time equally between private and public projects, often mentoring artists at all stages of their creative journeys. “It’s that forward momentum. It’s that feeling of progressions and going somewhere that I love,” says Smith. Indeed, the only way is up.
Palas
It is hard—nay, almost impossible—to imagine Palas founders Tania Doropoulos and Matt Glenn frantically trying to scoop up whoever is flavour of the month on Sydney’s perennially shifting art circuit. Here are young gallery partners prone to a slower, more considered approach, instead recruiting a tight roster of internationally famed artists, and choosing to nurture relationships that have been years, sometime decades, in the making. Case in point: video performance maestro Shaun Gladwell, who represented Australia at the 2007 Venice Biennale (a 20-year affiliate), and Melbourne-based artist and noise-musician Marco Fusinato (15 years), who also flew the artistic green and gold at the same festival in 2022. Add to that list Canadian multi-media artist Tamara Henderson and Irish sculptor Eva Rothschild, currently working out of London, and it is clear Palas have a formidable roll call to lean on. “We’re investing a huge amount of time into their processes as art makers,” says Doropoulos. “And I think by extension, we’ve got really good working relationships with other galleries throughout the world.” For its founders, the Palas gallery—which opened in Sydney’s resolutely hipster Waterloo suburb just over a year ago with a silkscreen painting medley by the aforementioned Fusinato—is somewhat of a flag-planting endeavour on home soil: both earned a certain amount of their stripes overseas—Doropoulos as former artistic director of Frieze London and Frieze Studios, and Glenn at Sadie Coles HQ, also in the British capital. Australian art disciples will no doubt be praying for a long domestic residency.
Coma
If Sotiris Sotiriou’s consciously balanced ensemble of black Saint Laurent suit, single gold chain and flash of bare chest are anything to go by, the Coma gallery founder wields a sharp eye—a handy attribute to have when your career depends on identifying aesthetic clout, what hits and what doesn’t. From humble beginnings in 2016 in a subterranean road space next to Elvis Pizza on Sydney’s New South Head Road, his enterprise gradually flowered, first to East Sydney, then Chippendale, before fully blooming at his current space in up-and-coming Marrickville, in what was once a coffee factory. The predominantly light-industrial area has witnessed around half a dozen new gallery debuts in recent years, and Coma’s door-fling, filled as it was with hip young Inner West couples sourcing bold, ambitious art for their homes and offices, suggests Sotiriou has timed his arrival to perfection. February’s opening exhibition was hosted by Australian (but Santa Fe based) figurative painter Justin Williams, whose approach riffs on the folkloric traditions of Russian and Polish art, rich with symbolism and psychological details; this work forms a striking counterpoint to the abstract expressionism of other Sotiriou recruits, such as Zara June Williams and her partner Jack Lanagan Dunbar. The Coma head honcho, who had a spell selling to wealthy clients at Nanda Hobbs, says that private clients now make up most of his customer base. This year, as he prepares to attend three international art fairs, he estimates his artistic head count to increase by 30 percent. He can, no doubt, also point you in the direction of a fine tailor.
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Car of the Year
Always an unmissable highlight of the automotive calendar, Robb Report ANZ’s annual motoring awards set a new benchmark among glorious Gold Coast tarmac.
Over two unforgettable days, our motoring sages and VIP guests embarked on an exhilarating journey from Surfers Paradise to Brisbane and back again—traversing an irresistible selection of terrain in our exotic rides, from deserted rainforest-lined b-roads to testing mountain switchbacks with dizzying—sometimes heart-in-mouth—views over the southern Queensland peninsula. And as befitting an event starring the crème de la crème of auto marques, we did so while savouring the best in luxury and gastronomy—capped off with an extraordinary superyacht experience at Sanctuary Cove.
The ten contenders for the Car of the Year were not the only dream machines on show. The first day’s adventure kicked off at the Langham Hotel and included a midday pit stop at the glorious Beechmont Estate, where our fleet of drivers were greeted by a stunning array of vintage cars exhibited in a concours d’elegance-style display.
The sumptuous feast for the eyes on offer at Beechmont, a quaint country village located between the Lamington Plateau and Tamborine Mountain, was followed by a meal for the ages prepared by executive chefs Chris and Alex Norman at the property’s hatted restaurant, The Paddock.
Then, itching to remount our steeds, it was time to hit the road again, with our drivers—all sporting Onitsuka Tiger’s new driving shoes—hightailing it to Brisbane and The Calile Hotel, a property which has been scooping accolades like Jay Leno collects supercars.
After some much needed relaxation by the pool, that evening the drivers and press were joined by local luminaries in the hotel’s private dining room. Over an extravagant banquet they got to compare notes on marvels of engineering and design that they’d had the chance to pilot all day. They were also treated to a showcase of spectacular Jacob & Co. timepieces and Hardy Brothers jewellery and an elegant sufficiency of 40-year Glenfiddich whiskey served in gold cups worth $60,000 a pop. It made for animated discussions and more than a little impromptu shopping.
And did we mention the luxury yacht experience? After a full itinerary of adventures on the road, the day ended with an invigorating late-afternoon of luxuriating aboard two new Riviera Yacht releases—the 6800 Sport Yacht and the 585 SUV—where our intrepid drivers and assorted press got to literally and figuratively take their hands off the wheel and make a case for their car of the year. As the forthcoming pages attest, they were more than spoiled for choice. But who would take centre stage on the winners’ podium?
OVERALL WINNER
BEST SPORTS CAR
BEST LUXURY HYBRID
BEST PERFORMANCE SUPERCAR
BEST ROADSTER
BEST CAR DESIGN
BEST ELECTRIC PERFORMANCE CAR
BEST SUV
Cruise along to robbreport.com.au/events for more supercars and luxury motoring.
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Cool as Ice
Mercedes-Benz’s CEO Ola Källenius is expert at racing a nearly four-tonne truck across a frozen lake. Can he steer the marque’s EV-focused future as adeptly?
Ola Källenius is standing in a cold, bare workshop just south of the Arctic Circle in his native Sweden. A heavily disguised prototype of the new electric G-Class SUV—not yet launched when we meet—has just returned from high-speed, low-grip testing on tracks cut into the frozen lakes nearby and is being hoisted into the air on a hydraulic lift for inspection. As it drips meltwater onto the concrete floor, Källenius, CEO of the Mercedes-Benz Group, eats his lunch (today, a premade sandwich and a carton of juice) and speaks in fluent German to the mostly Austrian engineers who spend months in this bleak locale ensuring that the company’s new models can cope with the types of conditions in which vanishingly few customers will ever actually drive. They discuss the truck’s handling on ice and the progress of its test program. Källenius compliments them on the car’s dynamics—how stable it remained even at speed, how safe he felt driving it—and asks them how long they’re here.
“There are some harsh realities to this job, and to the car industry,” he tells me later. “But this is what I love doing: spending time with our designers, or driving with you on an ice-lake in Sweden, or talking to these engineers. I wanted to congratulate them on what they’ve achieved. We get to enjoy a nice couple of days here, but they’re here for a long time.”
At 193 cm, Källenius might tower over most of them physically, but there’s nothing in his demeanor that hints at the disparity in their corporate statuses. Nor is this the kind of place you’d expect to find the head of one of the world’s great luxury brands: a man paid roughly $22 million last year to lead the 166,000 employees of a company valued at around $75 billion, whose founder, Carl Benz, invented the motor car and whose genuinely iconic logo has graced the nose of everything from popemobiles and Lewis Hamilton’s Formula 1 racer to the most expensive automobile ever sold at auction. In a recent report, investment analysts Bernstein described Mercedes-Benz under Källenius’s reign as a “four-wheeled cash-generation machine”.
Courtesy of Mercedes-Benz
But the celebrated car marques are not like luxury brands that make watches or couture or accessories or Champagne. Look beyond the alluring badge and bodywork for a moment: the objects Mercedes-Benz and its rivals produce are insanely complex, ever-changing and hugely capital-intensive—and must succeed in an utterly cutthroat market. Their impact on the environment and the economy has always made them perennial hot-button issues politically. But the electrification of the automobile has put these companies in the geopolitical crosshairs like never before, as governments swap tariffs and risk a global trade war to ensure that they keep their respective shares of the car industry, even as it undergoes an unprecedented transformation.
And of course, the cars need to be remade, too. Add the impact of electrification to Källenius’s own manifesto for Mercedes-Benz, and this storied marque is likely to change more in the next decade than it did in the previous 138 years. “It’s a once-in-a-century transformation,” he says. “We are reinventing our original invention.”
So who is the guy steering Mercedes through this tumult? What’s his plan? And what cars will he give us? Källenius has sat for plenty of interviews in his five years as CEO (his second five-year term is set to conclude in 2029), but this is the first time that he has offered anything more. Robb Report was invited to spend the weekend with him in Arjeplog, the tiny northern-Swedish town whose population swells fourfold each winter as the global car industry descends to test its secret new models on the area’s frozen lakes. Spy photographers abound, but to reduce the chance of its future lineup being scooped, Mercedes rents its own private expanse of sheet ice from a local landowner. I watch Källenius as he test-drives the electric G at his empire’s oddest and most northerly outpost, meets local staff and records social-media footage. He drives some other, more secret new electric AMGs that I am definitely not allowed to see, whose debuts are much further off and which, when not on the ice, remain hidden beneath their heavy covers outside the workshop.
Courtesy of Mercedes-Benz
Källenius has a reputation for being fearsomely intelligent, rational and efficient, but also not the type of hyper-alpha asshole who too often comes to lead a carmaker. Over the weekend, I see that sharpness not just in the logic of his answers, but in the nuance of the English prose, as perfect as his German, in which he delivers them.
I’m not sure I’d want those piercing blue eyes and that high-wattage intellect turned on me in a meeting if I didn’t have my numbers straight, but his non-asshole character dominates. It comes through in the easy egalitarianism he displays with the engineers in the workshop, or how he notices and thanks waitstaff, or the way he’s enjoying a casual dinner and a beer with a long table of employees of all stripes when I first arrive at the unglamorous Silverhatten hotel where he’s staying—a glorified bunkhouse for the United Nations of engineers and test-drivers who flock here. This is clearly a leader who sees the obligations of his office as clearly as its privileges: an attitude underpinned by a natural Nordic modesty and reserve.
Courtesy of Mercedes-Benz
“I guess your personality is something that forms in younger years, and I’m not sure you can fundamentally change it,” he tells me over coffee one morning. “There is a Swedish core in the way I act, and maybe most Swedes are not kick-the-door-down types. I believe this should be true for anybody who is at Mercedes or has the privilege to lead Mercedes: We are custodians of that star for a brief moment. It’s my job to hand it over safe and in better condition. The person is not the brand.”
Perhaps not, but the brand will look very different by the time this person is done with it in 2029. And you can add loyalty to that list of his qualities: Källenius has never worked anywhere else, having joined Mercedes-Benz in 1993 straight out of the Stockholm School of Economics, where he founded an American football team called the Traders, for which he was captain of the offense. True to form, he studied tapes of the Chicago Bears and New England Patriots in order to write the team playbooks. At Mercedes, he was a finance guy at first; an early posting took him to Alabama, to help set up the Mercedes factory in Tuscaloosa, where he became—and remains—a Crimson Tide fan.
In 2003, at the age of just 34, he was put in charge of the Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren supercar project; two years later, he was given control of Mercedes-Benz High Performance Powertrains, the firm’s in-house Formula 1 engine-maker. After a year as vice president and CEO of Mercedes-Benz US International back in Tuscaloosa, he was recalled to Germany in 2010 to become vice president and managing director of AMG, Mercedes’s high-performance road-car division. Then came two board positions to prove his breadth of ability—sales and marketing, followed by research and development—before he ascended to the top job in 2019 at the age of 50.
The electric G-Class we’re about to drive together (now officially if awkwardly named the “G580 with EQ Technology”) is a neat encapsulation of many of the things Källenius has tried to do at Mercedes. First, it’s an EV, which fits his initial plan to make everything electric—“where market conditions allow”—by 2030. Second, it’s expensive, with a starting price in the US of $161,500 (around $257,000, though likely to cost more in Australia). Another critical if controversial part of his manifesto is to shift Mercedes upmarket; he spun off the truck business early and is currently in the process of dropping high-volume, low-margin models including the A- and B-Classes. And lastly, he wants new models to still feel like Mercedes vehicles, even if the design that underpins them is radically different from what came before. And the G-Wagen—with its gloriously anachronistic overengineering that you can feel and hear every time you clunk a door shut—epitomises the Mercedes ethos whether the vehicle is gas or electric.
Other new Mercedes EVs go much further in their innovation, gaining greater advantage from their electric drivetrains given that they were designed as EVs from the outset. They use Mercedes’s new MB.OS operating system with built-in AI and receive fresh design cues inside and out—not least the mad, vast, almost full-width hyperscreen user interface—rather than the same upright, rectilinear lines first sketched out to suit the needs of farmers and soldiers when the G-Class was introduced 45 years ago.
But as shorthand for old Merc meeting new, the electric G is perfect, and it’s pleasing to be driven in it by the CEO on whose watch it was conceived and executed. “Yes, this is an electric G,” he says as he drifts it across the glassy frozen lake, “but it’s 100 percent G. The most important box for any G-Class to tick is the Schöckl mountain in Austria, to earn that Schöckl-proven plaque they all have. I did five trips up and down it in the electric G in the autumn, and not only can it do the Schöckl, I felt it could do the Schöckl best of all.”
His stints at AMG, in Formula 1, and with McLaren have turned this “spreadsheet guy” into a skilled driver, though most Swedes seem to have the ability to safely slide a car on ice coded into their DNA. Even with the G sideways at around 110 km/h, a plume of snow and ice billowing high behind it, Källenius has enough spare mental-processing capacity to adjust the screen settings while telling a funny story about the very first time an electric G even crossed his mind.
He was at the Detroit Auto Show in 2018, when the company was first showing the revised G-Class. Arnold Schwarzenegger came to the unveiling and asked Källenius’s predecessor, Dieter Zetsche, if an electric version was in the cards. “Dr. Zetsche said, ‘Yes, of course,’ Källenius recalls. “I was head of R & D at the time, and one of my colleagues turned to me and said, ‘Do we even have an electric G in the plan?’ I said that I guessed we did now.”
Those less keen on electric cars than Arnie and Ola might be pleased by the fact that the ambition to be battery-only by 2030 has fizzled fast. Mercedes now predicts that EVs and plug-in hybrids will account for only half of its sales by the late 2020s, and the company is refreshing its range of gas engines to keep them relevant and selling deep into the 2030s. This is a systemic issue and no reflection on Mercedes products; Källenius has always averred “where market conditions allow”, and market conditions currently don’t. But the retreat is still slightly awkward.
Courtesy of Mercedes-Benz
“The early adopter phase is over,” he tells me. “Now we need to convince every customer. I think it would be a mistake to say, ‘Okay, electric is growing a bit slower, let’s sit back, wait, and not do anything.’ Because if you put product into the market that is so convincing that most customers go, ‘Yeah, maybe I didn’t have iPhone 1, but iPhone 4 looks pretty good,’ you can get very quick, even exponential growth. And if you were the one that said, ‘I’m not going to set sail here; let’s wait and see what the weather does,’ all the other boats would be out on the ocean, and you’d miss the race.”
But if buyers are going to be sold on EVs by the technology rather than by brand power, what does Mercedes’ 138 years of history count for? With customers attracted to new EV marques that are able to innovate unconstrained by precedent—and one of those brands having a market cap 7.5 times that of Mercedes, despite selling a few hundred thousand fewer cars per year—does heritage become a liability rather than an asset?
“We also do unconventional things,” Källenius insists. “With blow-your-mind–type features like the crazy hyperscreen in the EQS and the EQE, a lot of people are looking at Mercedes who perhaps didn’t look before. We are one of the biggest automotive sponsors in e-sports. Formula 1 is off the charts; 53 percent of F1 fans are between 15 and 35, and 37 percent are women. When we do crazy things like the G-Class collaborations with Moncler or the late Virgil Abloh, you go beyond the traditional auto crowd to one that buys from other luxury brands. My test is if one of my kids sends me a picture and goes, like, ‘Dad, what is this?’ I got their attention.”
I wonder how the former finance guy now handles running one of the world’s great luxury brands and to whom he looks for inspiration. He acknowledges that he meets with Bernard Arnault at LVMH and Jean- Frédéric Dufour at Rolex but is coy about the nature of their discussions.
“We also reach out to people in other luxury businesses to understand how they think,” Källenius notes. “I had the good fortune to meet Brunello Cucinelli, and he invited me down to Solomeo, the hamlet which he has helped to restore. It’s one of the most beautiful villages I’ve ever seen. I learned a lot about fabrics, quality, stealth luxury, sometimes not emphasising the brand so much. A fine gentleman like that has a very clear understanding of what luxury means in his business. We brought some secret new-vehicle designs to show him and to get his input.”
Courtesy of Mercedes-Benz
“Maybe you can’t compare a high-intensity, high-engineering, high-capital-investment good like a car to a piece of clothing,” he adds. “They are different businesses. But good chefs eat in each other’s restaurants even though they have a totally different style of cooking, just to see what the others are doing. But when you go back into your kitchen, you’re still the chef, and you put together the recipe.”
I sense a slight frustration from the hyperrational Swede—perhaps that he believes he has gotten the recipe right but has to wait a bit longer for diners’ tastes to catch up. In many cases, judged on any objective criteria, the new Mercedes EVs will be the best cars the company has ever made, including the electric G. The customers, though, are as busy trying to get their heads around this brave new world as the automotive CEOs are.
“This is definitely the most transformative decade since the inception of the company,” Källenius agrees. “But we’ve always done this. The Swabian engineers who founded Mercedes didn’t look at the horseshoe and think, ‘How do we make this lighter to make the horse run faster?’ They wanted to get the horse out of the equation and do something new. That attitude hasn’t changed. We’ve always looked through the windscreen, not in the mirror.”
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Men at Play
Two restless entrepreneurs build a Belizean island paradise especially for those “aha! moments”.
Though he’s supposed to be in what he calls his “play years” now, Knoxville-based real-estate entrepreneur Steve Hall still finds himself working on vacation. After a trip to Belize, he got the itch to build something new and started meeting with developers. Hall hit it off with David Keener, CEO and owner of Vision Properties, and together they acquired an isolated tract on Placencia Caye, a private island just five minutes by boat from the mainland.
After two and a half years of work, they’ve recently started welcoming guests to Prana Maya, a secluded, wellness-focused retreat that enjoys expansive views of the Caribbean Sea, the island’s lagoon and the Maya Mountains. “We designed everything to inspire people,” Hall says of the property. “Every aspect of the resort is intentional. Every service we offer is designed to create that ‘aha! moment’ that will rock someone’s world.”
The property includes seven three- and four-bedroom villas featuring locally carved wooden doors. The breezy, secluded structures are sited to prioritise views of the water, and each has its own plunge pool. Rooms at the Inn—a collection of 10 airy, light-filled suites—face the ocean. Each guest has an assigned butler, and every bed at the resort is fitted with a custom grounding mat, designed to replicate a connection with nature; some studies suggest they promote mental and physical well-being.
Belize’s tropical landscape is the catalyst for getting outdoors. Its unique saltwater flats give sport-fishing aficionados a bucket-list opportunity: catching what the International Game Fishing Association calls the Grand Slam—permit, tarpon and bonefish—all in one day. So Hall and Keener recruited High Adventure Company, a global outfitter with 30 years of guiding expertise, to take guests on exclusive angling excursions. The resort will also offer cave-tubing, jungle-trekking, zip-lining and diving trips.
Courtesy of Prana Maya
If you’re in search of less rugged activities, head to the spa and wellness centre. The design team placed it on prime real estate: the Inn’s top floor, which has 360-degree water views and 5 m ceilings. Here, you’ll find a yoga studio, five private treatment rooms and a sound-therapy space. You can also enjoy Prana Maya’s private beach, the only sandy stretch on the island that isn’t shared with another property.
At The Grill, the open-air restaurant, executive chef Liesel Kirste cooks with indigenous ingredients—many sourced from the resort’s four-hectare farm. The menu includes elevated fare such as locally caught lobster, grilled and served over fresh pasta. Even components of more casual dishes are made from scratch: at the Island Club—with its outdoor kitchen, lawn games and forthcoming palapa-shaded pickleball court—the ketchup and mayonnaise are made in-house. That gives the culinary team the flexibility to design a bespoke menu, upon request, to suit your nutritional needs.
Ultimately, Prana Maya is the expression of a million small details (down to the reef-safe spa products, curated by a Belizean supplier) and the location’s natural majesty. “When you get out to the island site, see the spectacular views of the Caribbean, turn another direction and see the beauty of the Maya Mountains, it is such an awesome and almost overwhelming feeling,” Hall says. One he is determined to share with everyone who visits.
Top image: Benedict Kim/Courtesy of Prana Maya
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How to Use Your Dress Watch to Nail Casual Style This Autumn
The dress watch is back and more laid-back than ever. Here’s how to rock your Cartier and Piaget pieces with casual looks
After the seemingly never-ending hype around steel sports watches, dress watches have been making a comeback. But it’s not just the average 42 mm dress watch that’s sparking interest (although, those too, are in the running), but also funky vintage diamond-accented timepieces or small-sized, almost feminine pieces are trending. Recently, actor Paul Mescal was spotted on the red carpet of the Annual Academy Museum Gala wearing a Cartier Tank Mini with his tux, while sports legend Dwyane Wade wore a 28 mm diamond Tiffany & Co. Eternity watch with his black tie ensemble to the same event. While these guys were wearing dress watches in their intended setting, here we show you how to make a dress watch work for casual weekend wear too.
Try dabbling in unexpected pairings like an army green Ghiaia safari jacket with a vintage Chopard Happy Diamonds timepiece or Breguet Classique Ref. 7147 (the ultimate dressy timekeeper) with a Louis Vuitton sweatsuit and a Brioni overcoat. Anything goes these days and the more unexpected the timepiece, the stronger the statement. It’s good news all around—for your wardrobe and your investments in the vault.
Above: Blancpain 39.7 mm Villeret Ultraplate in 18-karat red gold, $69,675; Tod’s faux-shearling and denim jacket, $5,6859; Tom Ford cashmere and silk turtleneck, $2,535.
PHOTOGRAPHED BY MATALLINA. WATCH EDITOR, PAIGE REDDINGER. FASHION DIRECTOR, ALEX BADIA. STYLE EDITOR, NAOMI ROUGEAU.
Jaeger-LeCoultre 40 mm Reverso One Duetto Jewellery in 18-karat pink gold and diamonds, $79,560. Right: Chopard 32 mm vintage Happy Diamonds in 18-karat white gold and diamonds, $19,930, analogshift.com; Ghiaia cotton safari jacket, $1,426; Eton cotton T-shirt, 358; Hermès denim trousers, $1,674.
Audemars Piguet 34 mm vintage automatic ultrathin watch in 18-karat white gold and diamonds, $9,300, classicwatchny.com. Right: Cartier 41.4 mm Tortue in platinum, $35,600, limited to 200; Gabriela Hearst hand-knit cashmere sweater, $2,500; Officine Générale cotton-poplin shirt, $315.
Breguet 40 mm Classique Ref. 7147 in 18-karat white gold, $37,468; Brioni wool and cashmere overcoat, $12,233, and silk knit crewneck sweater, $2,224; Louis Vuitton wool track pants, $2,120, and wool hooded jacket, $5,002. Right: Patek Philippe 39 mm Calatrava Ref. 6119R-001 in 18-karat rose gold, $52,791.
Piaget 45 mm Andy Warhol in 18-karat rose gold, $69,198. Right: Rolex 29 mm vintage King Midas Ref. 4342 in 18-karat yellow gold, $28,301, classicwatchny.com; Brunello Cucinelli denim shirt, $1,586; Tom Ford cotton chinos, $1,259; Berluti leather belt, $1,132.
Model: Arthur Sales
Grooming: Amanda Wilson
Senior market editor and casting: Luis Campuzano
Photo director: Irene Opezzo
Photo assistant: Alejandro Suarez
Prop stylist: Elizabeth Derwin
