internal monologue externalised & mispelt: ramblings on high fashion, food, art & other filth from a Londoner with a thing for cake, couture & cock-tails.
"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every 6 months"
Back in August, the little hidden treasure of East London that is Whitecross Street held a street party entitled "The Rise of the Non-Conformist" - which saw the street transformed into an urban sprawl of creativity. Here's a pick of some of my favourite snaps from the day... really hope they have another one next year...
Also i can not recommend Fix nearly enough - probably one of the best independent coffee shops in london and thus the world and thus the universe...
The concept behind the Museum of Broken Relationships is truly inspired: "unlike ‘destructive’ self-help instructions for recovery from failed loves, the Museum offers a chance to overcome an emotional collapse through creation - by contributing to the Museum's collection".
Conceptualized in Croatia by Olinka Vištica and Dražen Grubišić, the Museum is full of donated 'relationship ruins' that have toured internationally. The result is an amazingly voyearistic collection of objects - objects which in themselves mean nothing - but when accompanied with the stories, all of which you know are doomed, create a touching and strangely optimistic exhibition. It's been in London as a pop-up for the last few weeks, based at the Tristam Bates Theatre and at 38 Earlham Street in Covent Garden.
I have to say i found it fascinating, incredibly poignant, often funny and pretty damn odd all at the same time. Everything shown was like a little tomb of intricately personal anguish which was at one point in time not a tomb, but a beacon of personal happiness - from teddy's, to letters, to clothes, to sim cards, to a piano, to a frisbee, to a brain scan and even to an axe that one guy had used to smash a former girlfriends furniture #mentalmuch. All donations are anonymous and all the stories thrilling - even the most mundane - ranging from accounts of one time weekend flings to one time real life loves. Many stories had a caustic bitterness - and indeed many of the people seemed pretty scarred - ok i'm being polite - fucked up. But what united them all was the owners desire to publically declare this one object - an object that represented so much once - and put it behind them. Giving this object up to the Museum is in this respect a cathartic way for the objects owner to mourn post-dump and by being surrounded by the present bizarreness of other peoples relationship tombs, it gives the owner a comfort in not being alone.
But what struck me was that at the same time, there is a massive irony when seeing all of these hundreds of items together - rather than cleanse, rid and give closure to these past relationships, the Museum by it's very existence actually preserves them and everything that they represent forever. A truly brilliant, strangely uplifting and fascinating experience. Go, just go. Hell, why not take an ex!
Having spent a day hunting out art squats in Berlin recently, we returned to our ridonkulously cool hotel to beautify for the evening and were greeted with this little wedding scene. It was so so so so wonderful that i snapped like a mad man. Here you go:
Wisconsin born Barbie Millicent Roberts, daughter of George and Margaret Roberts, is a woman of some mystery. Depending on which accounts of her you read, she attended either the Willow High School or Manhattan International High School in New York
She is a woman with many pets, many friends, a plethora of siblings and many many houses. She has been a princess. A model. Dressed in couture. Dressed in rags. Ridden horses. Ridden every car imaginable. Surfed. Been a spy. And even a hairdresser in her time.
Despite not having a fanny, Barbie is highly sexual and has been in a turbulent relationship with Ken, who also has no fanny and no penis for that matter. The two met on a beach in 1961, when Barbie was a blonde and Ken a brunette.
Barbie and Ken split up in 2004. Rumours, which have absolutely no grounding what so ever, are that Ken was caught repeatedly being on Grindr in his car outside a Chelsea gym, picking up hot young twinks, fresh from their workouts. Barbie found out because she downloaded Grindr, having a suspicion after finding poppers in Kens glove box. She busted Ken. The dream was over.
To get over the cunt, Barbie got it on with Blaine, a surfer dude who also had no fanny or penis. Ken was not happy - and also realised that he was not a gay but a curious straight - and so vowed to get Barbie back. After advertising all over New York including with billboards in Times Square, Ken succeeded and Barbie ran back into his arms on Valentines Day 2011.
No one knows quite what's happened to Blaine since, but again totally unfounded rumours are that he's been spotted in that same gym that Ken was cruising outside of. It's surely only a matter of time before Ken and Blaine get together. Curiousity killed the cat after all.
Photos all taken at a Sunday a flea market in Berlin. In-cre-di-ble!
Graffiti doesn’t necessarily have to exist on a wall near Old Street - it can indeed exist in many different mediums - sculpture, human protest, neon sign etc etc etc... But somewhat modestly, for Japanese graphic artist Shin Tanaka, his medium for graffiti is the paper origami model toy. He started making these when at college, originally crafting paper models of the sneakers that he couldn’t afford to buy (thou shalt covet indeed!). But this expanded to paper creatures and he now has an almost cultish following amongst the world of design in which is even considered a sort of demi-god. So much so in fact, that there was recently an exhibition in the Truman Gallery where artists from 26 countries around the world were asked to emulate the master for the ‘Colours Attack Contest’.
All of the models were offered for sale with proceeds going to UNESCO's Craft and Design programme, which will help creative’s in developing countries access international markets.
These are a selection of some of my faves from the exhibition – I especially loved the whimsical way they were displayed as if on a sushi conveyabelt.
Oh and yes I did have a go, but mine was shit. These fat fingers were not designed for origami... i can only just use chopsticks!
T’was Pride in London recently – an event that I’ve never really known what I think about. On the one hand it’s a wonderful celebration of diversity in this country celebrated on the streets of London in a colorful and emancipating way - but equally it can also be viewed as basically a big fat soho k-fest of a marketing exercise, devised to extract as much pink poundage as Adam Smith can shake a stick at. It gives gay people a platform with which to publically continue the dialogue about sexual inequality - but is also a parade where all stereotype expected from those who are prejudice are fully ‘minced-out’ to extremity.
It is a contradiction of an event in many ways – but there were two things that I saw this year at Pride which completely changed my thinking about Pride – and even made me feel quite an affinity to it:
The first was the UK AIDS Memorial Quilts which were on display in a pop-up gallery in Soho. In short, it’s this is memorial project started in San Francisco in 1985 for which friends and loved ones have created quilted panels for those they’ve lost.
The quilts aim to educate people about HIV prevention, fighting stigma and raising awareness. But what’s most striking about it is the variance of people being remembered - men and women, gay and straight, babies and adults. It challenges conventional stigmas around AIDs, showing the world how universal it can be in a wonderfully moving and personal way.
On a similarly personal note, the 2nd thing that pulled my heartstrings this Pride was this woman’s t-shirt during the parade. In amongst the thousands of dragged up glitter queens, leather clad bears, football wielding sport lesbians and vest clad muscle-Mary’s, this woman stuck out for the simplicity, eloquence and beauty of her message…
…so yes, I admit that did spend most of Pride stumbling around in a drunken haze, kissing homs as if I was at a 6th form disco and gyrating my toushee to Beyonce in the sunshine, but I also came away from it uplifted, moved and, I must admit, pretty damn proud.