Text by Yuna Kim.
They say you’re only seven degrees from knowing all eight billion people on Earth but I’m convinced in New York, it’s even less.
There’s something about New York that makes the city function on a wholly different plane. It’s a place where you constantly end up in situations that seem stranger than fiction.
It’s in the way you’ll randomly meet eyes in the subway car on a random Tuesday with your childhood friend from when you were nine and haven’t seen or spoken to in 15 years. Or how following your drunken impulse to play beer pong in a dingy underground bar in K-Town leads to 1v1ing your favorite K-Pop star from your youth.
New York is a series of fortuitous moments that always begs the question, “How did I get here?”
And sometimes, these little moments are the highlights that remind us that, in a city of eight million people, no one is ever truly a stranger.
Early last year, I had set my heart on redecorating my entire one-bedroom apartment in Murray Hill. Maybe to atone for Murray Hill’s reputation for being a soulless, finance bro haven, I was determined to have my home be anything but. No navy blue sheets, no grey millennial floors, no flimsy IKEA shelving that falls apart if you screw one part wrong.
I spent the summer researching. And like all 30-something year olds who attempt to showboat their attempt to graduate from cheap, mass-produced commercial furniture, I fell in love with the Wassily Chair.
Developed by Marcel Breur in 1925, the Wassily Chair is constructed from sleek steel with a chrome finish all held together by a leather sling. It’s minimalist, chic and screams art hoe. I loved it. But what I didn’t love was the price – a little over $4,000 for a single chair.
“Who is buying $4,000 chairs other than celebrities with millions of dollars to burn for their Architectural Digest feature? Who would want an overpriced chair so obviously upcharging on its designer name and history rather than its simple functionality as a piece of leather with four steel bars to hold your ass? It doesn’t even look comfortable,” is what I should have said and pivoted elsewhere.
Instead, I went straight to Facebook Marketplace.
I browsed for hours. Surprisingly, everyone in Manhattan seemed to have owned this chair at one point or another. And if not this chair then a dupe of it. The search results were endless, with Wassily chairs in every color, age and material popping up with every refresh. But none of it seemed to quite satisfy what I was looking for.
I wanted it in black. Basic, I know but I was just starting out on my interior design journey, okay? I wanted minimal wear and tear, with a vintage dating pre-1990s – all the TikTok design gurus touted the best furniture was built pre-1990s. Can you tell I’m easily influenced? Also, it had to be relatively affordable.
If I was going to be pretentious about my furniture, I wanted it to at least be good furniture.
I scoured Facebook Marketplace every day. Checking every two hours or so to make sure I didn’t miss out on a new listing. This continued for three months and during that time I had made this fixation everyone’s business. My fiance knew, my siblings knew, my coworkers knew, my neighbors whom we occasionally dog-sit their Maltipoo knew.
Just when I was beginning to lose hope after searching what seemed to be every corner of the internet to ever exist, I found it.
“Modern Bauhaus-Style Leather Accent Chair — $300. Good vintage condition with minor signs of wear consistent with age. Perfect for a stylish home, office or studio. Pick up in Hell’s Kitchen.”
Posted three minutes ago on Facebook Marketplace with only one accompanying photo.
From what I could tell, it was perfect.
I sent a message immediately.
“Hi Steven, is this still available?”
Five minutes later, a bubble with the seller’s profile picture popped up at the bottom of my message. He had seen it.
I waited. No reply. I refreshed. No reply. I stared at our chat box trying to energetically, telepathically, spiritually will a response. No reply.
It took everything within me to stop myself from double-texting with another “Hello?” And a subsequent, “You don’t understand how badly I need this chair.”
I was devastated. It’s not uncommon for Facebook Marketplace sellers to go ghost. It was just unfortunate that this was the one time they did.
I went to bed sincerely believing that the universe was against me having this chair. And for good reason. I wanted it for all the wrong reasons. Vain reasons. I was trying to be someone I was not. Decorating my home in a way curated by an algorithm, inauthentic to building my own taste and style. I didn’t need this overpriced, flimsy-looking chair. I could take my time and research a bit more, find something I liked that was …
“Yes, are you interested?”
And just like a sinner after church, I was back on my bullshit.
“Yes! Do you know the brand that you purchased it from??”
“I don’t. I’ve had it since 1985.”
Vintage, pre-1990s. Check.
“Okay, no problem. I’d love to buy it. When is your earliest availability for pick up? :)”
“I’ll be at my apartment tonight at 630. I’m coming back in to the city on train. $300 cash. Let me know if that works. I’m in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Sounds good! I will be coming with my fiance who will be helping me take the chair. We’ll be there around 6:30pm – 7pm.”
Six hours later, at promptly 6:30 p.m., I was outside his building. At 6:31 p.m., I sent a text letting him know we were in the lobby.
“Ok. I’ll be right down w the chair,” he responded.
My heart was racing. This was it. The end of my harrowing, three-month search for the Wassily chair. I had done it — albeit a bit neurotically — but I had done it.
A tall man with silver, grey hair and thick rimmed glasses walked through the doors, and gently placed the chair on the lobby rug. He explained that the chair had been in his ex-boyfriend’s storage since 1985 when he first bought it, and had not been touched or used since. Forty years later during a recent move, his ex-boyfriend realized the chair was still in storage and called Steven to return it. Steven didn’t know what to do with it considering the limited space in his current apartment, so he promptly listed it on Facebook Marketplace to get rid of it as soon as possible when a tenacious, desperate Korean-American girl decided to buy it off of him three minutes after his initial posting.
I handed Steven the $300 in cash, thanked him for selling me the chair then lugged it back home.
Finally, my chair saga was finished. Or so I thought. Like all New York stories, it never truly just ends as simply as that.
Soon after I secured the Wassily chair, I was given the opportunity to profile, feature and interview Ashlyn Park for my work at Instagram. Now, she’s a celebrity in her own right. She dressed Rama Duwaji for her debut feature as First Lady of New York in The Cut, and she fitted the legendary Korean actress Yuh Jung Youn for Vogue. But at the time, Ashlyn was an upcoming fashion designer and candidate for the Council of Fashion Designers of America/Vogue Fashion Fund Award.
This is all to say that I knew her first.
For the feature, we were producing a behind-the-scenes look into Ashlyn’s creative process for her upcoming New York Fashion Week show. This was my third New York Fashion Week I was attending, so by now, I had my routine down. I’d spend the morning meticulously picking out an outfit that conveyed the impression that, for a girl that worked in tech, I could put together something decent that wasn’t just some blazer and slacks. I’d spend the rest of the afternoon jumping from one show to another – checking in, interviewing models, designers and celebrities, watching the show through my iPhone’s screen as I shot the looks that came down the runway, and attending the after parties to yet again gather more content while drinking as much free champagne as possible.
It was glamorous, absolutely. But by the end of the week, I was a soulless, exhausted shell of myself.
For Ashlyn’s show, we arrived promptly at 1 p.m. at the International Center of Photography, where the show was happening. It was another typical day at NYFW. I interviewed some models who gave us half-baked answers during hair and makeup. Secretly, I ate the snacks at the crafties table. I chit chatted with producers and the editorial staff from other various outlets also there to churn content on the next hottest designer in the city. The show didn’t start until 3 p.m., so after all interviews and content were completed, I decided to take a breather downstairs and grab a matcha in the lobby’s coffee shop.
No sooner had I reached the cafe did I notice a tall man with silver, grey hair and thick rimmed glasses waiting for his coffee while looking intently at his phone.
“It couldn’t be…?” I thought to myself.
Was I just being incredibly ignorant and mistaking this random white man in this coffee shop for my Facebook Marketplace white man? Or was it actually him?
I ordered my matcha and waited next to him, sneaking in glances when I could. It definitely was him. There was no mistake about it. But my nosy self had to confirm.
“Hi, excuse me. Sorry to bother you but are you Steven?
He looked up from his phone.
“Why yes I am. And where do I know you from?”
“Not sure if you’ll remember but I’m Yuna. I bought the Wassily chair off of you from Facebook Marketplace last month.”
“Ohhhh! Yuna. Yes, yes, I remember. I was so happy the chair found a home.”
I told him the chair was one of the best purchases I’ve made this year and that I couldn’t thank him enough. Then, I suddenly remembered we were at a fashion show, closed to the public. Invite only. Why was my Facebook Marketplace guy here? I knew why I was here. I was working. But why on earth would my Facebook Marketplace guy be here?
“How have you been since? But more importantly, and excuse me if I’m prying too much, why are you here?”
Steven nodded slowly leaned down, seemingly readying himself to speak.
“Well, I’m here because I’m the CEO of the CFDA.” If jaws could physically drop to the floor, mine would have. I wasn’t sure if I was more shocked that I was casually meeting the CEO of the Council of Fashion Designers of America — the most powerful man in American fashion, or that I had bought furniture off of him on Facebook Marketplace of all places.
He registered the shock on my face and chuckled.
“Yes! I’m not just a Facebook Marketplace guy! I’m here for Ashlyn’s show. We go to all of the New York Fashion Week shows, as you know.”
Yes, I know! I knew almost too well. I knew that without the CFDA, America’s Fashion Week wouldn’t exist.
I was gobsmacked to say the least.
“It makes sense you’re here though,” he said. “I was so excited the chair was bought by someone so stylish. I’m sure it’s doing well in your home.”
I could have died right then and there.
Just then, I received a text from my team asking me to return as the show was gearing up to start.
“Sorry, Steven. I think I need to go but I’ll text you!”
I could’t believe I just told the CEO of the CFDA that I’d text him.
“See you at the show!”
The show went without a hitch (?), and with me in a slight daze. I wasn’t sure how to proceed afterwards. Would it even be appropriate to text him afterwards? Was I being weird? Did he like my outfit? My mind was racing with questions. I hadn’t overthought like this since my last situation, which ended up in a ghosting war that started because I psychically found out he was cheating on me in my dream. But that’s a story for another time.
I gathered up the courage and texted him the next day. I didn’t want to come off needy. And I needed a day or two to, again, process the question, “How did I get here?”
“Hi Steven!! It’s Yuna! It was so serendipitous meeting you yesterday. So happy to have run into you and I hope you have a wonderful rest of NYFW.”
Four minutes later, he responded.
“Its a small world.”
I then sent him a photo of the Wassily chair. And of course, I had to style it before snapping the photo.
“Here’s the chair at home! Forgot to text it to you afterwards.”
“Chic. Lol. I ♥️sofias book!”
What I didn’t have the heart to tell him was that after about two weeks, the chair had lost its appeal. Everything that I was so close to realizing when I was faced with the prospects of failing to procure this chair — about the shallow vanity of consumerism and the TikTokification of interior design — finally dawned on me.
It’s not to say that I hated the chair. I just didn’t like it anymore. It was just a popular chair that I believed I wanted because I thought buying it would mean I had taste. I was a phony, and I was $300 down because of it.
But I still kept the chair. Mainly because when people come over, it’s one hell of a story to tell. The chair has lore now.
So, in a way, it’s overcome its try-hard, basicness as a staple of any poser trying to showboat their “taste.”
It’s also a great way to tell people the CEO of the CFDA thinks I’m stylish and chic.
Dreams Are Made Of 
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