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