A fourth-floor walk-up in a cast-iron building. White walls. North light. The view, a fire escape.

Emme was twelve when she dreamed up Warren. She wanted a lip treatment that did one thing well: soften the lips, look like nothing, feel like everything. She had tried nearly every one on the market. None of them were quite right. So she decided to make her own. It took a year.

Every shade is named for a street within four blocks of our door. Every tube carries the zip code we share with our neighbors — the restaurants we watch open and close, the galleries we cut through on Sundays, the corner that knows our order.

Made in New York. In small batches. On Warren Street.