Lindsay lives in a princess room in a loft that is nothing short of Brooklyn’s version of a castle. It was designed by her best friend and fellow mom, 1990s model Sibyl Buck, and is like wandering around in a funhouse for artistic bohemians. There is magic in the cracked and decayed elegance of Lindsay’s boudoir, where broken vases sit in bowls as decoration and she holes up reading Russian writers, love letters, and romantic fables about female Turkish Tatars and Mongolians soldiers on horseback. There is an almost tangible, enchanted New York twilight that fills the space. Across the long and cavernous corridors, up stairs and across ramps (Harry Potter-style, filled with fantasy nooks and crannies along the way that make you want crawl into them and never leave) is her design room. It is here where she brings all of her novels to life, creating royal, kimono-inspired hooded coats, dresses, with handweaving and a chunky, folkloric vibe that screams one-of-a-kind. Lindsay is Anna Karenina-meets-fifteenth-century Siberian warrior-meets-Navajo prairie girl, with her long blonde locks streaked in powder blues, her white moccasin booties with long skirts and Shetland sweaters, and her worn Victorian dresses, one tied on top of another as a shawl for a unique and ancient mix of fabrics. Her unabandoned creative energy began in second grade in Utah, where she wore bikini bottoms on top of leggings, a la Cyndi Lauper. Lindsay says that she is a junkie for the personal style of others (“the visual thinkers”), but I am obsessed with hers. Each time I see Lindsay, I am inspired to try something with something else that I hadn’t thought of before.