About Us
There’s a place where old money reclines in moonlight and glamour never fades with time. A city that murmurs with the clink of champagne flutes, the slip of leather and silk gloves from poised wrists, and secrets traded beneath crystal chandeliers.
Welcome to Harlem Carter.
The collections at Harlem Carter draw from the smoky silhouettes of 1950s screen legends, the ones who never walked, only swayed. Inspired by the high drama of acrylic clutches and leather arm candy once gripped by rebels in satin, each piece is sculpted in a palette as rich and rhythmic as jazz drifting across the Riviera.
Here, bags are not mere accessories; they're heirlooms in motion. Think sharp silhouettes with the bold irreverence of a Brigitte Bardot strut and the narrative depth of a Bette Davis stare.
At the heart of Harlem Carter is “Freddie the Flamingo”, the mascot of The Carter Club. Playful, poised, and just a little provocative. As a brooch, he says: You can take the girl out of Hollywood, but not the drama out of her wardrobe. A wink. A nod. A secret handshake for those in the know.
Each design carries the whisper of the night’s softest sins: hidden affairs behind shutters, midnight escapes in convertibles, and that breathless pause between the final toast and the first light of day.
And for the day after, the casual glamour of The Carter Club—there’s the Clubhouse Collection. Made for the woman who lets her presence speak volumes while she barely says a word.
Welcome to Harlem Carter. Where the past is draped in pearls, and the future slips on tortoise frames without looking back.
Welcome to Harlem Carter
To most, Harlem Carter is a name stitched into the linings of luxury. To those who truly know, she's the lining itself.
Raised between Monte Carlo penthouses and Manhattan ballrooms, Harlem learned early that power dresses in silk, and whispers carry farther than speeches. She inherited her father's eye for elegance and her mother's ability to end a conversation with a look. The result? A woman who speaks fluent couture and doesn't do things halfway. Not marriages. Not handbags. Not takeovers.
As the CEO of the Harlem Carter Maison, she built a fashion empire for the haves and the have mores. The brand's DNA? Drama, decadence and a faint trace of scandal. If it doesn't stop traffic or a board meeting, she's not interested.
She believes in:
• Clutch bags that could start a war
• Sunglasses that double as armour
• Turbans that hide bed-tumbled tresses
• Statements made in silence
• And women who own the room before they enter it
Her mantra?
"If you don’t know my name, darling, you're not invited."
Now with rumours swirling of a capsule comeback, Harlem Carter is poised to do what she does best: redefine glamour, disrupt the game, and look divine while doing it.
Because when Harlem returns, it's not a revival.
It's a reckoning.
And yet… down at the poolside and among the well-oiled whispers of the Carter Club, a delicious rumour persists. That Josephine Smith-Mands, the elusive Creative Director, and Harlem Carter, the CEO. The Visionary. The Grand Dame of Desire. They are, in fact, the same. Two personas. One woman. One empire.
Of course, one should never trust gossip, only revel in it. But after a glass (or two) of champagne, you might just start seeing the resemblance.