Founder

— A note from Cozette

My childhood home in Malibu sat over the ocean. No heating, just a small space heater and the sound of waves hitting the structure beneath my feet. I would press my tiny feet against the enormous glass windows and watch them fog around my toes, cold glass, warm body, the Pacific on the other side. I drew tiny picture books before I could spell, already understanding that images carry what words sometimes cannot.

I had watched Coy type for as long as I could remember, papers drafted and stacked beneath her typewriter, a candle burning beside them. A small faded photograph of her in Paris with my father as a small child sat framed on the windowsill overlooking Benedict Canyon. I was mimicking something without knowing it yet.

I found myself in Paris years later, enriching and formative in equal measure. As though I had been pointed there long before I arrived.