Cream?

SAVE GABY'S, SAVE LONDON

I'm mightily pissed
off.

Once again City Hall, whoever they are, is willing the destruction of London's cultural heritage. (whats new, I know). Apparently its "Redevelopment", whatever that is.

Gaby's has stood in the same spot at 30 Charing Cross Road since 1965; now soon to be replaced by some ghastly, sterile chain restaurant development. I'm not naive or oblivious to the unfortunate fact that the gentrification of London is purely part of its evolution. But when the powers at be, sitting comfortably on their 6 figure salaries, approve the destruction of the city's heritage I can't help but think; why are we standing for this?

I'm not going to camp outside Paternoster Square or launch copies of Das Kapital at the city hall. This is not me waving a red flag. I simply want to save somewhere that I and thousands of others love.

I can't quite put my finger on exactly what it is about Gaby's. It sits almost anonymous amongst the remaining bookshops on the edge of Soho and theaterland, quietly sandwiched between the two. One can sit, almost anonymous, in the corner with some salt beef or falafel and pitta and simply blend into the crowd. Every class, colour and creed. No one more important or notable than another.

Menus are wipe-clean laminated, walls tobacco stained. The staff predate customer service. Soft drinks are served in the can. Its honest. As is the food. Nowhere, does what Gaby's do.

Gaby's is London. A London which is disappearing. Its loosing its heart, and Gaby's is as much part of that heart as Nelsons Column, if not more so. Its alive. Its the people and culture which make the city. I don't wish to see the West End turned unto some monolithic shopping precinct. And sincerely hope I'm not a minority in that opinion.

I really couldn't give a fuck if i never saw another pizza express again in my life.

There is a facebook campaign and petition to save it. Please read the details and sign the petition.
http://www.facebook.com/save.gabys.deli

http://www.thejc.com/community/community-life/56654/gabys-deli-customers-spice-fight-against-closure

L'Amour Fou

Yves Saint Lauren and Pierre Bergé

"L'Amour Fou isn't just a documentary of an artist but the story of how a shy man fell in love with art and found a unique way to communicate this to the world."

Documenting one of the largest private art collections ever sold, L'Amour Fou is at its most beautiful a love story. The 50 years of Laurent and Bergé; the man who built an empire.

A man who achieved l'art de vivre, and the empire which fell at his death; disbanded at the hands of auctioneers at the Grand Palais. A collection of objects and works of art, inanimate and in vain without their custodian.

L'Amour Fou will be Showing at the Institute of contemporary art, London from 4 November 2011 - 17 November 2011.

"If he triumphs, he may be tomorrows Dior" - As if there could have ever been any doubt.

Etiam progredieris

Ah, the post war, modest suburban semi.

Inoffensive, unassuming and as middle England British as some conservative dinner table politics over Pg Tips on a John Lewis table cloth. Reality and normality for the majority of aspiring middle class suburbanites.

Okay, they're painfully unremarkable. But at the same time are somewhat of a comfort zone; well built, large rooms, family garden. What else could the nuclear family possibly want? Its a model reflected in planned housing right across Europe.

I have a soft spot for them. They are for me, the definition of nostalgia. My affection aside however...

Britain has changed enormously since the conception and construction of this suburban staple. Economically, socially and culturally. Yet in any town or city up and down the country the same model for dormitory living remains as an inner-city staple. Just without the adornment of a tryptic of ascending geese or that puzzling concept of a serving hatch.

I don't think this is a negative ideal by any means. If anything its quite humble. But its simply not the archetype of what modern housing/ architecture should be. Its not sustainable, universally accessible or indeed visually stimulating. Perhaps what is even more fascinating is the obsession with television which illustrates what modern architecture and dwelling can be. Yet we British, on the whole, reject any forward thinking when it comes to architecture. At least when it comes to the Englishman's castle.

This attitude to architecture is dangerous. By refusing to move forward we are settling for the mediocre. We need to architecture to shape to the demands of modern living; A whole new attitude towards housing, should it be private or social. Perhaps we've been scared off by the concrete revolution of the 60's which casts its shadow over the victorian terraces of the industrial cities.

But for now, a 2 up 2 down and a cuppa will do me lovely.

Office totty

Daphne; giving Joan Holloway a lesson in doing it cooperate style.

You cant raise the dead

We all understand that fashion is largely driven by a handful of powerful conglomerates. LVMH, PPR Gucci group and Richemont to name a few. We also understand what drives these companies. Billions of dollars. The luxury goods market is one of the strongest and fasting growing in the world, with expansion into asia reflecting the thriving economic powerhouses of the Eastern world.

Bernard Arnault,CEO of LVMH, is the 7th Richest man in the world. And the wealthiest businessman in France. The couture houses and ateliers which once dressed the European social elite and now household names; with "luxury' perfumes being sold alongside groceries.

Big business has in many respects ensured the survival of these houses, whilst simultaneously tearing them of their values, heritage and identity. Its a catch 22.

Hermes, which has perhaps faired better than many houses; surviving two world wars as well licensing and outsourcing at the hands of "the men in suits", once had stores in just Paris and Cannes. Interestingly Hermes' signature orange is owed to the war. As Orange card was the only colour available. It now has over 400 Boutiques in every corner of the earth. Whilst still embodying the definition of luxury, now with a global retail and brand presence equal to the likes of Coke-cola.

The past few years has seen the resurrection of some of the most legendary of couture houses. To me, the idea of reanimating long shuttered houses seems completely redundant from the perspective of design. And of course it is, but as private equity investors mangle as much money out of fashion as possible; dead brands provide the perfect foundation as the once legendary names still linger and exude their prestige. And in many respects the greatest prestige of all, heritage.

Charles Worth puzzles me. No necessarily a household name and somewhat of a textbook name to fashion students/ enthusiasts. The House closed in 1958 long after the death of its creator. Reestablished last year, The Current collection is at the helm of Chambre Syndicale alumnus Giovanni Bedli, designing both Couture and ready to wear. I don't wish to and nor am I at a position to question or criticise the work of Bedli but the whole idea of working under a name which dressed the imperial courts of the late 19th century seems baffling.

These conglomerates should be creating the Lanvin's and Vionette's of tomorrow. Not attempting to breath life into once great houses.

Some of the worlds greatest young talent will be showcased at Somerset House in just a few weeks time and the world will flock to fashion week once again. This incredible concentration of talent needs to be nurtured. They are the Vionettes and Lanvin's of the future... if the right financial support is there.

After all, you can't raise the dead.

The Buckle Dynasty

Some are born great, others have Butchers shops thrust upon them...

Papa and Grandpapa. Service with a, false, smile

When Jackie Kennedy married Aristotle Onassis she received $3 million for the privileged. When he died she was entitled to $150,000 a year for the rest of her life. Better than that? She married into the Onassis empire.

As I member of the Buckle Dynasty, I receive the occasional pork pie and eventual crippling death duty.

I'm of the opinion she faired up slightly better. 

Who said the age of empire was dead? 

Diana Vreeland

Do it like Diana, do it like a dude.

"You've gotta have style. It helps you get down the stairs. It helps you get up in the morning. It's a way of life." 

So right yet so...

On the subject of taste, sometimes what we know is bad, only makes us enjoy it more for that exact reason.

In the same way that cigarettes are bad for your health; arguably as is musical theatre for your cultural wellbeing. But then who doesn't love dancing nuns? And where else can you find that brand of tits and feathers glamour that we pretend not to love for the sake of our own intellectual vanity?

For you, Bette Midler.

                                  

So I admit...

I'm singing Broadway and I love it.
I'm singing Broadway and I'm proud.
You can keep your Springsteen.
Shove your Chaka.
I really don't care for that kind of kaka.
Ethel, Liza, Chita, that's my crowd, my crowd!

Go Western

Bruce Webber for Harpers Bazaar

RRL ranch Colorado: L'art de vivre.
Ralph, Ricky, David, Andrew and Dylan...
As well as various Racoons and other mammals. 

Rudolph Nureyev

"A pas de deux is a dialogue of love. How can there be conversation if one partner is dumb?" 

"I’m Peggy Olson and I want to smoke some marijuana"

There may be good and bad design. But it eventually all comes down to taste and how we interpret and express it through the products we buy. 

If we "like" something is because we associate with the concept or idea it expresses. Whether design is good or bad or distasteful is judged by this. The most obvious and universally accepted examples of bad taste are manifestations of the rude, crude or "tacky". E.g. brazen or suggestive display of flesh. "Cheap" is perhaps the most dangerous adjective when it comes to design. However where it gets interesting is what different individuals interpret as cheap.

As perhaps the cheapest and most distasteful specimens of design in fashion, architecture and product, are those that overtly propose wealth through garish branding or implied quality and heritage. Anyway, the definition of taste aside for now... and to move on to my "object of desire" for the moment.

I long for a lost age. Well several lost ages actually. But 1950's  America in particular. New York was the centre of the universe, smoking was guilt free and glamour was still a way of life. 

The beauty of "good" design is how it can enhance your life by connecting you with its ideology through its particular aesthetic. Often these are the most everyday, domestic items.

The below glass dates from the Early 50's and is by American artist and designer Dorothy Thorpe. By no means an expensive product, sold through Marshall Field and other US Department stores, its a good  example of mass produced American design.  

Dorothy Thorpe, Roly Poly glassware.

For me, the roly poly collection is the essence of 1950's modernism. Simple elegance. No leaded crystal, or heavy engraving. Just a mass produced yet quality bowl and a basic, almost industrial raw metal rim. 

A bourbon in one of these and a lucky strike and I'll be transported to Sterling Cooper. Well, not quite. But I close I can can get anyway.

Saucy bastard

August 1812

My dearest Caroline,

If tears, which you saw & know I am not apt to shed, if the agitation in which I parted from you, agitation which you must have perceived through the whole of this most nervous nervous affair, did not commence till the moment of leaving you approached, if all that I have said & done, & am still but too ready to say & do, have not sufficiently proved what my real feelings are & must be ever towards you, my love, I have no other proof to offer.

God knows I wish you happy, & when I quit you, or rather when you from a sense of duty to your husband & mother quit me, you shall acknowledge the truth of what I again promise & vow, that no other in word or deed shall ever hold the place in my affection which is & shall be most sacred to you, till I am nothing.

I never knew till that moment, the madness of -- my dearest & most beloved friend -- I cannot express myself -- this is no time for words -- but I shall have a pride, a melancholy pleasure, in suffering what you yourself can hardly conceive -- for you don not know me. -- I am now about to go out with a heavy heart, because -- my appearing this Evening will stop any absurd story which the events of today might give rise to -- do you think now that I am cold & stern, & artful -- will even others think so, will your mother even -- that mother to whom we must indeed sacrifice much, more much more on my part, than she shall ever know or can imagine.

"Promises not to love you" ah Caroline it is past promising -- but shall attribute all concessions to the proper motive -- & never cease to feel all that you have already witnessed -- & more than can ever be known but to my own heart -- perhaps to yours -- May God protect forgive & bless you -- ever & even more than ever.

yr. most attached
BYRON

Verbally incontinent spinster

Aloof. Unavailable. Ice queen. – Aloof. Unavailable. Ice queen. – Aloof. Unavailable. Ice queen. – quite fancy a snog though...

So once again I fine myself sitting here with my glass bottle of cabernet sauvignon, my M&S dressing gown and ancient Barbour wool hiking socks pulled high wondering where my 14 cats are. I don't have 14 cats, or even one for that matter, but it would be nice to have the full set to complete my downwardly spiralling life. Okay its not that bad. But its moments like this where you realise you are in fact Bridget Jones.
 

          ------------------------------------
"At times like this, continuing with one's life seems impossible... and eating the entire contents of one's fridge seems inevitable. I have two choices: to give up and accept permanent state of spinsterhood and eventual eating by alsatians, or not. And this time I choose not. I will not be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect! Instead, I choose vodka. And Chaka Khan."
          -------------------------------------

I drink/ smoke/ eat too much, I'm hopelessly clumsy and "I'll always be just a little bit fat". Geoffrey probably wouldn't call me, and I'd turn up to Una's garden party dressed as a common prostitute. I've no sex life "I'm like Germain sodding Greer". Worst of all there not even a Mr Fitzherbert in my life to stare freely at my breasts whilst calling me Brenda.

But fuck it, I've fulfilled what I thought was unattainable. I managed to get myself into Central St. Martins. So hopefully I'm not just some borish bint in a bikini.

And maybe I'll avoid the alcoholics, workaholics, emotional fuckwicks and megalomaniacs and find Mr Darcy. But for now, I quite enjoy my relationship with a bottle of wine. After all, who wants to be dumped for a Naked American? Bridget Jones, you're fucking fabulous.

Now that I've bored you senseless with my pitiful life; "I am off, to bedfordshire."

God bless.

Dame Barbara Cartland

After forty a woman has to choose between losing her figure or her face. My advice is to keep your face, and stay sitting down.

Urban shoe myth

Strolling through the shoe department of a notable London department store which may or may not sell fridges and I fell in love. McQueen velvet slippers. A cigar, brandy, smoking jacket and these and my life is complete.   

I mean what thoroughly modern gentleman's wardrobe is complete without a pair of McQueen velvet slippers? And to illustrate my reaction, Carrie Bradshaw...

Abercrombie-isation

I in advance warn you that this is somewhat of a rant.

I have worked on an intern basis for a large American luxury "lifestyle" company for just over a year; the name of which will remain explicitly anonymous as I still maintain a large respect for the horseback mounted sport inspired company. 


The company is due to open an "exciting" new brand store in Central London this autumn. The brand is completely new to the UK and Europe. Hence the "excitement". Without giving too much away the brand follows the trend for vaguely aristocratic, East Coast American, public school style which seems to dominate British teenagers wardrobes. (which brings up another point; what's happened to youth style? Since when did it consist entirely of branded hoodies?).

After being suggested to do so by a colleague I applied for a retail position. Which I was then invited to interview for. First a face to face interview, followed by a group assessment.

The first interview was more or less your bog standard Q&A carried out by the newly appointed store manager who was clearly equally new to *anonymous* as a brand; trying to pull off that signature ivy coast look with a violent two coloured (practically fluorescent pink and yellow) high street shirt and black polyester bow tie ensemble. Now that I'm done with picking him apart I shall digress. Before the interview was concluded with the obligatory shaking of hands, Mr X asked to take my picture so that the team could "put names to faces". Yeah alright. Regardless I sheepishly agreed, went on my way and thought nothing more of it. Obviously being fully aware of the actual purpose of his stint as Mario Testino.

The second interview came and I arrived in the required loafers-no-socks type garb along with the other 20 or so applicants. The interview consisted of three parts; an AA style personal introduction followed by group effort riddle solving with such christmas cracker classics as "what does a butcher weigh" and ultimately a styling activity. It was well organised and interesting I give them that. However, the interview was again wrapped up with a portrait photograph.

We all know how stores such as Abercrombie and the like operate so this was of no surprise to me. Although this, for me, did not represent the sensibilities of the *anonymous* I knew.

Of course I was rejected. Needless to say on the grounds of my not quite Mens health cover physique and general non chiseled-ness. It didn't and still doesn't bother me. I happen to have the ability to distinguish my arse from my elbow which gives me a certain satisfaction in not getting the job over the chiseled types.

Today, whilst sitting in the *anonymous* buying office, behind the team from the new store I overheard/ earwigged them bitching like old tarts in a Yates' over the prospective staff and remarking how stupid we all are for agreeing to have our photo's taken and how cunning HE was for his "name to face" justification. I certainly am not that daft and naive. At least not enough to believe people bought into that twaddle.

I later found out that the team had been grabbing those who they considered ascetically suitable off the street. I'm not bitter about not being chosen. I just think its sad that brands feel the need to move in this direction.

I will finish by adding that today a member of that buying team was wearing a scrunchy. Enough said. Rant over. 




    

l'apathie de la bougeoisie; Baroness Helene de Ludinghausen

For 31 years the directrice of Yves Saint Laurent Couture. The last surviving Stroganoff and a Rothschild. She also has a Parrot. He likes mascara.   

Mad for Plaid

Okay, maybe I wouldn't pull off a giant crushed velvet dicky bow. Along with everyone else for that matter, (Alber Elbaz being the exception to disprove the rule). But whats happened to giant plaids and checks? Sure you get your self appointed Shoreditch style maverick doing the whole "am I a lumberjack, am I an unemployed media student?" look. But checks seem to be completely absent from the gentleman's sartorial wardrobe. 
I want to see giant Prince of Wales checks head to toe! In the manner of the Duke of Windsor...

A small selection from the wardrobe of the Duke of Windsor

Best thing since sliced brioche.

At long last...

 Patisserie with pomp. Coffee the French way; Don your couture, light yourself a Gauloise and get down to Ladurée. Oh how wonderful. Sorry, I mean "hideous". 

Ballet Russes

Anna Pavlova...

And I ain't talking posh desserts. 

Next proper post subject: Diaghilev.

1000 words.

Sometimes a photograph can tell you more about a person than words. Especially when you know them well. 

And sometimes stumbling across a photograph of your Grandfather, pseudo molesting the Wall Street bull in a rather fetching pink jumper, is enough to keep you happy all day. Grandfather Buckle: in a nutshell. For me anyway. 

F**k I'm feeling humble. 

We are family

The Mitford sisters

Baron & Baroness Redesdale, Thomas and the six sisters

Probably the most influential aristocratic family of the 20th century. 

Ben Macintyre of the Times condensed the sisters characters effectively in one sentence: "Diana the Fascist, Jessica the Communist, Unity the Hitler-lover; Nancy the Novelist; Deborah the Duchess and Pamela the unobtrusive poultry connoisseur". Who would you invite round for tea first?

The sisters epitomised the high society glamour of the 1930's, brushing off the dowdy, tweedy image of the landed gentry; bringing an element of hollywood exoticism to a grey Britain in the midst of a financial crisis.

Each had their own attraction. Although I'm not sure whether Fascism or indeed a passion for poultry are classified as attractions?

Place one's hand on one's hip. Makes
for a more flattering photograph Diana.

Regardless of the sisters themselves, the family have produced a few of the biggest names in fashion today. Daphne Guinness is the great granddaughter of Diana, wife to British union of fascists leader Sir Oswald Mosley. Stella Tennant, "discovered" by Isabella blow, the best friend of Ms Guinness, is the great granddaughter of Deborah, Duchess of Devonshire.

The girls are collectively and individually fascinating. Hitler and all. Even if they were effectively on giant PR disaster. Oh Unity why did you choose Nazism over poultry!?  

Via ducere

Victorian engineering so good it makes me weak at the knees...

Around Brighton/ hove. Can't exactly remember.

I love viaducts. I'm not entirely sure why. Again I think its because they are built entirely for function and yet are so beautiful and almost elegant in an odd industrial way. 
*Sorry for the awful picture, through a windscreen at 30mph.

Now Voyager

Lauren, Katherine, Lana too

Bette Davis, We love you.

Swiss made

 I love objects that have a sense of utility. I find them the most beautiful.  I think this is what I find so attractive about watches. Jewellery is dead. It merely adorns the body as a status symbol or object of beauty. Of course there is a certain amount of sentiment one can attach to jewellery but for me it'll always be stagnant. 

Longines Trench watch, 1918

Watches manage to embody first of all my love of utility and secondly my love for the mechanical. Winding my manual watch is one of my great simple pleasures; possibly the finest example of micro engineering in history. Batteries die, my watch is over 50 years old and works as well as the day is was made. And there isn't much now that you'll be able to say the same of in a few years time. Let alone 5 decades. 


The above is an example of a trench watch. Yes thats right, these were worn on the fields of the Somme in the great war. The actual casing hasn't changed much from the pocket watch. The idea of adding a strap was purely out of convenience; Much easier to glaze over your wrist than pull out your cumbersome pocket watch from 3 layers of tweed and risk suffering a shot to the head. So actually more necessity than convenience.

l'apathie de la bougeoisie, Henrietta Tiarks

Henrietta Tiarks, Dowager Duchess of Bedford

I don't know the exact date of this photograph, or the whereabouts of its setting. I'd imagine its around 1958 and appears to be by the photographer Mark Shaw, although I'm not certain. There are very few pictures of HT as a model. Most of which are also taken by Shaw. 

Henrietta Tiarks, Duchess of Bedford

Angelica Houston was once told; "you'll never be pretty but you'll always be magnificent." This is perhaps the secret of Ms Tiarks. Imagine her drifting into a smokey cocktail bar. Now imagine Kate Moss stumbling out of Boujis, nipples to the wind at 3.15 in the morning. 

"I still have some beautiful ball dresses, but they live in a cupboard — nobody gives balls any more. I haven’t worn a tiara in 25 years. Times have changed. The aristocracy has no point any more."  

Indifferent taste

Marcel Duchamp 

In between signing urinals and cross-dressing he spoke a lot of sense.