EXCUSE US WHILE WE MORPH INTO A FOOD BLOG FOR A MOMENT...

So, first things first I think. There's this place where my friend A goes for lunch almost EVERY DAY (you'll see). It's sort of near the Rialto bridge but as with most places in Venice, just around the corner from swathes of tourists it's lovely and quiet. It's a small place, a bar really. You go in to see people milling around standing up, then behind the bar there's a father and son and another guy, a grill, various wines and a load of fresh ingredients. (No kitchen.) You (well, not me, I just grin inanely - this is where it pays to be either with locals or fluent in Venetian) have a bit of banter with them while they're doing five other things simultaneously - and after a bit of discussion they make you something for lunch. Like this:

This actually belonged to another customer but it was so pretty I had to take a picture...

How do you say raw prawns in a nice way in English? Natural super fresh prawns simply with olive oil and the teensiest bit of lemon juice. Also some other kind of deconstructed flobbedy (what, spellcheck doesn't know flobbedy?) prawn type sea creature (bottom left) the name of which I don't know but it was all delicious...

Octopus? Squid? ink spaghetti...We also had tuna tartare which was gorge, but apparently my fork was faster than my camera...

Porcini mushroom and prosciutto little appetiser. They took it upon themselves to knock this up for us to have while we were waiting for our sandwiches. Love those guys.

Sorry if this is a really obvious thing to say, but lunch there is cheaper than Starbucks or Pret A Manger. I can't help but make that comparison, daft though it may be. Or maybe it's not daft since people go there every day on their lunch breaks. Waaah. I have no doubt in my mind that the guys at this place are artists. The way they put ingredients together, all day long without a break, always thinking about the taste, the colour, the texture. Mind sufficiently blown. Oh, and it's about four minutes walk from the little Cipriani ice cream outlet so you can go there for dessert afterwards.

Oh, and this is only the coolest thing in the entire world. You pull up to the window in your boat, shout whoo hoo, ciao! through the window, order your pizza, beers, whatever. They cook it and pass it to you through the window and off you go down the canal again. It's the Venetian version of a drive-thru. Don't ask me where it is. It's on a canal. Next to a bridge. Somewhere in Venice.

BACK...

Am back. Am alive. Venice was wonderful. Despite my belief that it's almost impossible to take a photo in Venice that doesn't look like a postcard, I took 127 photos.
I will be back with a proper post once I've dealt with the avalanche of post, emails and mundane yet important things I must attend to. Tax return! Rusty car! Builder gone AWOL! It's not all glamour at Maison Lola you know.

But I'd rather be sitting in a friend's boat on the grand canal eating pizza...

WAIT FOR ME, GEORGE!

I anticipated that I would be waxing lyrical about tomatoes and arias wafting from open windows. I did not however, anticipate that I would need to bring my Depp Stalker Hat (don't worry I also have the Keira Repelling Spray).

Also, they say he's already gone, but between you and me, that's just to throw the paps off the scent so they don't discover our secret love...

Peggy Guggenheim pic by David Seymour
George pic from msn

GIRL IN ITALY...

American Girl in Italy. Florence, 1951 by Ruth Orkin.

"Gli Italiani Si Voltano" (Italians turn their heads), was taken in Milan in 1954 by Mario de Biasi.

And the third is a postcard I'd had on my wall all these years, until I took it down because people kept asking if it was me (yeah, me and my bazookas often wandered through Florence wearing a semi transparent dress) taken in 1991 by Max Perissi.

In American Girl in Italy, the (top) famous original picture the girl looks like a rather bluestocking'd student, uncomfortable with the male attention, as if she's trying to get past them as fast as possible. In the second picture, we don't see the woman's face so it's hard to know her thoughts, though from her sexy outfit and '50s wiggle straight towards the men you get the impression she doesn't have a problem with all eyes being on her - she looks powerful. To me, even if this second picture was inspired by Ruth Orkin's photo, it has a different intention and evokes different feelings. The third picture, if seen without the other two, is acceptable, funny even. It must have said something to me that I bought the postcard and kept it all this time. But seen in the context of the other images, the third photo becomes just an outright set up imitation of Ruth Orkin's original work - even down to being taken in Piazza della Repubblica as hers is. It also has an added dubious element of the girl in the photo's expression being that same one of shyness and intimidation at being leered at, though she's been made to wear a practically see through lace/crochet what the hell is that? dress.

It's something I've been pondering lately, the nature of ideas and creativity. Who can be said to own an idea? There have been a few major instances where I've had an idea, maybe not executed it fully but talked about it, or not been fast enough to act on it, then seen someone else execute "my" idea.

I think that the difference lies between copying something and that very modern word, referencing. Sometimes it seems that our age is nothing but continual referencing of other eras, which in turn referenced another. With all the information we see and hear all the time, it's not surprising we can't even tell sometimes when we've been influenced by someone else's work. A creative person will internalize all the references and turn them into something unique to them. Others may think that's what they're doing.

Maybe we can't hope for originality, only individuality.

“Originality is the art of concealing your sources” ~ Benjamin Franklin.
"Originality is undetected plagiarism" ~ M.C Escher.

YOU SHOULD GO HERE...AND BRING ME BACK AN ALMOND & PEAR SLICE...

Peyton & Byrne.

*Yes, I am recommending somewhere that happens to be in London, why are you lying on the floor looking all twisted and glazed like that? Look, I've been here thirty odd years, it's not very often somewhere grabs my attention enough to mention it. But when I spy a gorgeous, supercool pastel cubby hole of a bakery that also includes yummy cakes and has the best packaging; then I might mention it.

(Of course it had to be something to do with this Peyton.

IF...

If I was in Paris right about now I would be drinking coffee but I am drinking tea.
If I was in Paris I would be going to this exhibition.
If I was in Paris I would be trying to make a reservation here.
If I was in Paris I would have bought Loic Prigent's Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton documentary DVD from Colette. If I had been in Paris I would have seen it on the telly for free.

But I am not. So I order, I wait for the postman. Sigh.

A WALL OF TEXT FOR YOU TO DIGEST...

I've been enjoying a self imposed magazine, television, well all mainstream media break for ooh, about the past three months. The only magazine I bought was A Magazine because it was curated by my risen again fashion rock and roll queen Martine Sitbon.

As someone who's been thoroughly obsessed with fashion magazines for most of their life it was a bit odd to realize that I found them all a bit boring. Oh, I still went through the motions for quite some time: Need a little escape from grim British reality? Grab a glossy. But it wasn't working anymore. I was reading so much stuff online anyway I felt like if there's anything really good, I'll see it because someone will post it somewhere and people will be talking about it.

I was really starting to think that magazines were perhaps not even relevant now; they take so long to produce an issue and you can just switch on your computer and see what's actually bubbling under and happening NOW this very second all over the world.

In the end I went out and bought UK Harper's Bazaar and French Vogue with Claudia Schiffer on the cover which - ughh worst.cover.ever - but anyway they had been out already for a few weeks and that was all that was left on the shelves.

I forgot to mention I had been avoiding central London as well, because well, I just find it really unpleasant at the moment. I think I need to go to an Ashram or something. So, my point being...that after months of "starvation" I went out and all the shops had all their winter stock in, all nice and merchandised, no dribby drabby sale rails...even Zara looked like paradise with this wonderful pewter/camel/coral/ colour palette display and then when I opened UK Harper's Bazaar it was like bam, bam, bam - just a big caffeine like shot of gorgeousness - that is how it was. I was completely cured of being jaded and I excused them for putting diamante on the cover as it was just the new art director trying to do something different in his first issue.

And oh my God THE FUNNIEST piece by Simon Doonan about ex-pat Brits living in New York. I can't find a link to it anywhere so I might even type it out and post it here because it's TOOO good. Or maybe it's only funny if you've lived abroad and experienced a sudden desperation for Cadbury's Creme eggs and bribed visitors to smuggle Marmite in their luggage even though you didn't like it before.

So the bloody point is that I highly recommend a little magazine/shopping holiday, if only because when you jump back in the effect is all the more potent, especially if you time it right just at the start of a new season. And I guess, though I now don't feel the need to buy every single magazine in existence, I do see the point of keeping an eye on it all. Blogs, zines, glossies, newspapers. It can all co-exist.

I LIKE VERY MUCH...

Lipstick Queen lippy in Rouge Sinner. Most of all I like the art nouveau packaging and that it's made by the lady who used to make Poppy lipsticks long ago...

I'm thinking of getting a Holga...

This dress by Lizette Snorgaard is supercute...

And I really, really love Lina's photos...

Yikes, I'm exhausted today. Have a happy weekend, I'll be back after a long rainy bank holiday nap...

HUH?

Details I do not quite understand...

*My re-designed blog looks lovely on my screen, but not so lovely when I've viewed it on others. The title looks HORRENDOUSLY ugly on a larger screen. I don't really understand why it looks different but I shall try and make it palatable for all. In the meantime, I advise viewing in Firefox...

*Swimming in the English sea (in August) is warmer than standing on the beach wearing full winter clothing and two extra jumpers...

*I have suddenly begun to covet a pair of boots I thought were ugly for ages, from a company whose products I don't like...but the need for the boots remains...

BICYCLE: NO!

Sometimes I mention things here that I like or I don't like, then completely change my mind. The exceptions to this are usually anything to do with APC (I swear I'm not on commission) or Lola (again, not on commission).

So, in the name of fairness for anyone who's been reading awhile, I shall re-visit a few of my former opinions. The first and most important for my conscience is the whole Bicycle! thing.

On trips to Paris I kept noticing all these chic young things cycling around wearing dresses and heels and looking all relaxed. It seemed like such a good idea. On my return to London I bought a bike. Really, I should have known when I wrote the words:

"So, my new bike is fine. It's fine. It's got two wheels and handlebars, it's not the love of my life..."

I know that I need things to be practical, function perfectly, but also look absolutely amazing; to the point where I have needed but not bought a new cafetiere for three years because I can't find one aesthetically pleasing enough. I need to love it in some way.

So then I got on my bike and quickly found that negotiating buses and lorries trying to mow you down in three merging lanes of traffic whilst avoiding opening car doors and pot holes, pedaling furiously and red faced, wearing a dorky helmet and seriously considering the need for a yellow reflective vest was er, not quite what I'd imagined. Also noticing other cyclists' aggressive kamikaze antics was enough to make me want to take to the pavement, which you can actually be arrested for. (Idea for TfL: Instead of fancy ads and expensive bike lanes that peter out after a few meters, why not paint a line down the middle of the pavement and have one half for cyclists, half for pedestrians in quiet areas where there's not much foot traffic?)

Then there was a news item about the agency responsible for those charming "You're better off by bike" adverts that were so obviously filmed at four o' clock in the morning, where cycle symbols painted on the road everywhere in London (oh, so that's where they all went!) peel themselves up off the road and cycle around 'cos it's all so lovely, lalala. Well the people who work at that agency were advised not to cycle to work because CYCLING IN LONDON IS TOO DANGEROUS.

Then, my friend saw a dead cyclist who'd met the bonnet of a car in Greenwich Great Park, which has only one road with a low speed limit running through it. Oh, and then I broke my foot so couldn't cycle anyway, so my ordinary, average bike just clutters up the hallway and gets knocked over every time someone walks past it. The moral of the story is: I'm selling it and no one who lives in London is allowed to buy it.

AND GOD CREATED...

The YSL Tilbury lace up. Hello lover. Heels are on my mind as last night was the first time since I broke my foot (3 months ago) that I was able to successfully (bravely!) wear high heels.

(I know I keep posting wintery clothing type things, but if, like me you have woken up one day in mid August to discover it's autumn already, the one consolation (I assure you) is the pulling on of a brand new cashmere sweater and thoughts of winter wardrobe building blocks.)

So, the shoe. Named after (heel teetering make up artist) Charlotte Tilbury?

I felt a glimmer of recognition on seeing this shoe and thought it was that first flush of knowing it would be mine. Then I realised its similarity to this YSL shoe I own (who it was named after I couldn't tell you) from a few years ago...lets call it the spiky heel Mary Jane T-bar broguey shoe...

The heel is deceptive. That heel is at least two inches higher than it looks. I just measured it and it's four and a half inches high. The construction of the shoe is such that the heel meets the sole only an inch and a half before the top of the shoe. That'd be a good trick if you were shorter, which I'm not. So that means the Tilbury must be like walking on stilts. But from my experience with the SHMJT-BB shoes I would give them a try. I have been able to stand all day and night in those babies, albeit tottering slightly and holding onto tables, people and bannisters at wobbly moments.

I doubt very much that anything other than, "Are you on the waiting list?" would be the response to enqiries about the Tilbury in London, but I'm tentatively confident that I'll be able to find them in Italy - and YSL's a bit cheaper there too.

Ooh my mind is filling with images of what I'll wear them with...

Aaaaand I've got to have one of those cocktail rings (in turquoise preferably) maybe in the sale...woooohoooo.

Top image from

STILL...

I still love Burfitt.

I love the continuation from season to season, the choice of the same models and Julia Hetta's photography. Burfitt has such a strong identity that makes me want to live in it.

Even though it's now stocked in (gasp) Urban Outfitters which I feel conflicted about. On the one hand it makes it far more likely that I'll actually be able to OWN a piece of elusive Burfitt clothing, instead of haunting the boutiques of Paris and TwoSee here in London to find it all sold out. Course, it's also good for Lovisa Burfitt financially and she'll be able to do more with that injection of cash but...love/hate Urban Outfitters. You know.

It's like when your favourite song gets used in a car commercial.

*Also, it's an oldie but since it's Lola's birthday today I thought I'd let her post a link to her favourite band who'll be playing at her party tonight...

TODAY IS THE DAY...

.
..that I dream of Italy. Mostly, rather unimaginatively (considering all the Italy related things I could be dreaming of) it's of not having to wear woolly socks, (I seem to be down on woolly socks this summer) or indeed, a hoodie with my bikini.

...that I wish my APC order, which includes many warm, snuggly winter type things was here and not at a Fedex depot where I have just discovered it has been languishing for three weeks.

...that I realised no, actually I do not have raging hayfever. I have a streaming cold.

p.s.

I like the photographs by Sarah Maingot for the Toast late summer/early autumn catalogue.

*The correct equipment in unfavourable weather conditions is imperative.*

SUMMER LOVIN'

I must post this quickly, as we seem to be having something that resembles a summer. I hope I don't tempt fate and scupper it all. Fate's always reading my blog, never comments though. Remember what happened when I took my woolly socks and winter wardrobe to the coast last weekend? Brilliant hot sunshine. So I'm hoping this won't be the opposite of that. Anyway.

The Summer Lovin' List:

Wafting around in my white APC/Jessica Ogden Madras dress all the live long day and night

Cold pear cider with ice

Prawn summer rolls

Lemon infused Olive Oil on everything

Mismatched bikini bottoms with AA bandeau

New white cotton Muji bedlinen

Swapping some of my blueberry crop for my neighbour's home grown potatoes

Going to the beach!

Hooray, enjoy the weekend...

I LEFT MY HEART THERE SOMEWHERE...

OK, I did it, I did it, like I promised. I stayed in London for the whole of July and will not be using my passport the whole of August. So I'm due some kind of compensation, obviously.

I just booked a ticket to go to Italy, my first love, for a few days next month. Paris, my second love and Spain (sneakily encroaching) have dominated for the past few years now, so I'm long due a return to the country I called home a decade ago. I'm very excited to visit this very talented friend in Venice, then a quick jaunt to my former home in Florence to see this very talented friend...

The reason for going back is simply to catch up with friends, drink wine, eat ravioli, watch the world go by, drink coffee, catch up with friends...

In fact, thinking about it, I met more interesting people during one year in Italy than I have in my entire life. It was a steady stream of artists and anthropologists, philosophers and philanthropists; writers, photographers, students, fashion royalty, poets, wine makers and art historians. I mostly remember those who were acquaintances like characters in a film: The taxi driver who'd come from an old Florentine family and had a part in Room with a View, the guy who was a jockey in the Palio, a friend of a friend who lived in Argentina and rolled up the rug in the living room at cocktail time to teach us how to tango. No idea who that was now, but just the thought that I once had a cocktail time rather tickles me.

Top Venice tip: Harry's Dolci. Oh, so, quiet and preferable to sharing Harry's Bar with all the other tourists writing postcards telling their friends that they're in Harry's Bar having a bellini. And hello, it's dessert.
Don't tell everyone!

DON'T YOU JUST LOVE IT WHEN THAT HAPPENS...

Oh, coincidence, luck, synchronicity, whatever. Love it.

In my unrelenting quest to read more books than I've had hot dinners, I kept being attracted to the cover of Throw Like a Girl glinting at me in Lauren's sidebar.
I admit, it was the hair at first. I didn't mention the book to her because I knew, the love, she'd probably send me a copy if I asked, but I didn't want to be a freeloading book ho.

So I was getting along fine with David Sedaris when I received my prize of the A Fine Frenzy C.D. that I won (I won! I won!) from Lauren's competition. But the package also contained.....the book! She psychic lady. And hello, if David Sedaris himself isn't right there on the cover, saying:

"If there are Jean Thompson characters, they're us, and never have we been so articulate and worthy of compassion."

I read it over the weekend at the beach - the perfectly formed short stories were the perfectly formed beach companion. I always get "stuck" in a good book, so if I can finish a story before having to interact with other humans at dinner, say, that's a good thing and avoids questions like, "Why are you moping around?" and "Jesus, I said pass the salt, why are you so spaced out?" when all I can think of is what's going to happen next in my book. The title story in Throw Like a Girl, which is the last one, almost broke my heart with its tale of a disjointed friendship. And I think what David (above) means - if I may be so presumptuous, is that the characters in her stories may live in suburbia, or have seemingly ordinary, even mundane lives; but their choices and actions are brave, sometimes misguided and fuelled by complex desires and needs they may not even be aware of. Amongst all this Jean Thompson manages to weave in major issues like the invasion of Iraq as she creates a vision of how life is in America.

In my competition entry I had gone on about the glasses they drink wine out of in Spain, really short half height tumblers - of course I couldn't find them anywhere here. Until I found them yesterday at Zara Home for 50p each. FIFTY PENCE.

All I needed then was a magazine to read when I got home. My eyes glazed over as I scanned the thousands of titles in Borders and nothing appealed. They've stopped stocking both Blueprint and Bust for some reason, so I left empty handed and it was too late to go to Franks. When I got home there was a package on my doorstep. The lovely Sheila had sent me a copy of Bust, with Chloe Sevigny on the cover and a review of, yes, Throw Like a Girl inside.

It's all connected, see...

THIS BLOG NEEDS A HAIRCUT...

An overhaul of this blog's design is long overdue...Today, with the added handicap of a hangover I shall attempt to move my old template into "new improved" layout mode (Blogger's new template thingy). I may lose some bits and bobs on the way and it might all look a bit odd for a while...

BURN, BURN, BURN, YASS, YASS, YASS...

I re-read On the Road recently and - unlike the author of this (very good) article in yesterday's Observer, found it more thrilling than the first reading in my teens.

I hadn't even been anywhere much in my teens except suburban greater London, Belgium and family holidays to Greece, so it's not surprising I loved the book more the second time around. It's by no means perfect but I still felt the crackling, magnetic energy.

As I read it again I couldn't help wondering why a film hadn't been made of it. It could really be dangerous territory in the wrong hands, but with the right minds it could be amazing. Could no one do it justice? Almost instantly my prayers were answered:

Fifty years on, the book is being turned into a Hollywood film, scripted by Roman Coppola, son of Francis Ford, and directed by Walter Salles who made The Motorcyle Diaries, the story of Che Guevara's road trip across South America. Kirsten Dunst will star as Carolyn Cassady.

Speaking of whom: Women of the Beat Generation and Girls Who Wore Black.
Easy to forget with such strong male figures like Neal Cassady that the women were on the road too, not left at home in the kitchen.

Neal/Dean was clearly a bit nuts and not a man you'd ever want your daughter to get involved with; while Jack/Sal being the more sensitive type was a much better bet. And yet, and yet...I realised with a slight feeling of unease, that in the imaginary world where I inhabit the book, Neal/Dean would have been able to get me in 7581 kinds of trouble and Jack/Sal would have been the sweet platonic friend. So I guess it's a good thing I wasn't there but, sigh, you know, that's a disturbing revelation to have.

image

*EDIT* Francis Ford Coppola has owned the film rights to On the Road since 1968. He will executive produce and the book is being adapted by Jose Riviera and Walter Salles, not Roman who had written a previous screenplay of it. Billy Crudup will play either Sal or Dean and *shudder* the name Colin Farrell has been whispered. No, please, no!

OFF!...

I'm off to the seaside for the weekend (to a place where woolly socks and a fleece are advisable and a bikini is wishful thinking. So don't feel jealous - it's only England.)

DO entertain yourselves with these links while I'm gone...

I don't know why but this song keeps popping into my head...

I prefer The Shins sound playing on the street in Montmartre on Blogotheque...

I love these by lilacmoon on flickr...

If you are feeling bored you should go to the cinema and watch this. If when you have peeled your whitened knuckles from the cinema seat and gone home you are still bored, I would advise reading this, (especially the first story) or this unless you have been recently bereaved. Well, that was supposed to be all happy and sparky, how did I end with bereaved?

Okay, one more. I like wiksten-made. She makes things that I would make if I wasn't so lazy.

TWO YEARS, AND STILL NOT ONE CUP OF TEA...

Hello. Today is the second anniversary of Lola Is Beauty. I've never even had a job that lasted two years so this, I think, is a milestone worth mentioning.

It's funny, because for one, the title Lola Is Beauty makes no sense to anyone but Lola and I, is grammatically incorrect and really, anyone looking here would think this is a blog about my cat, Lola, or that I was called Lola and was interested in beauty products or something.

Well, Lola is beauty is just one of those phrases that came into usage around here due to the fact that Lola is not just A beauty, she is not just beautiful: She IS beauty. So there. And of course in the official language of Cat this statement makes perfect sense. I used to say it to her all the time, though now the phrase has entirely different connotations and I type it about twenty times a day. I now say different things to her in cat language and there is absolutely no way I am going to relay those phrases to you here.

And then there's the tagline. It should probably read, "This is not really a cat blog" or, "I like clothes and Paris". It's true though, she has not even mastered the simple act of paw to kettle switch, paw to kettle switch. I tell her and she just looks up at me and goes "Mi". And then I feed her. Today she has special anniversary Sheba which, in her excitement at not having to munch her usual diet food she has just gobbled down in one go and will possibly now be sick. I heard a burp.

Anyway most blogs have funny names and you've still managed to find it haven't you? Oh, I wasn't going to make it that easy by calling it something obviously to do with style or fashion or anything (hehe good one, if I can only make it sound like I did this on purpose instead of just randomly naming it when I first started and didn't have any idea that people might ever read it.)

The one thing that's changed in the last two years is Mademoiselle Lola herself. I don't think I've mentioned the whole rescue home trauma, get the violins out sob story of how I came to have her, but when I started this blog she was a borderline psychotic, completely neurotic cantankerous tyrant who could turn from cute to murderous in about quarter of a second. Now she has mellowed, she's just my little furry companion, following me round everywhere purring. No one believes me, her reputation precedes her but she hasn't scratched or bitten anyone for about a year.

So there, I wrote a cat post. Phew, breathe, don't be embarrassed. Hey - I'm allowed to, it's our birthday. (Disclaimer: our house does not smell of cat pee and I do speak to other people besides my cat.)

We are very happy to still be here in our little corner of blogland and hope you'll continue to enjoy reading - for as long as Lola can be bothered to dictate the posts.

If you'll excuse us now we have some butterflies to chase and some sunny patches in the grass to stretch out in.

DEAR GRAZIA MAGAZINE...

You have copy editors, fact checkers and interns galore, yes? You are paid to produce a magazine which is apparently Britain's No.1 glossy and which retails at £1.80.

I have held my tongue all this time, not wanting to come across as a fact/spelling Nazi. I mean, I'm not so perfect - I don't even use spellcheck when I'm bashing out the ol' blog posts and my grammar is based upon what sounds right.

I do, however, know that the name of the fashion designer you're dropping in Grazia is Isabel Marant, not Isabella Marant.

I also know, as most people with even the vaguest interest in fashion would, that Anna Piaggi is not an Italian fashion designer but has worked for Italian Vogue for many years as creative consultant, creating the Doppie Pagine she is famous for.

Lastly, iconic photographer Herb Ritts did not spell his surname "Ritz" which is how you repeatedly spelled it in a double page spread about an exhibition devoted to him after his death.

All I want from you Grazia, is to be able to eat a Kitkat and drink a cup of tea whilst flicking through your pages - without wanting to circle all the mistakes in red pen and post the torn out pages to you.

That's all. Can you manage that?
Thanks, just needed to get that off my chest.

P.S. Laura Craik and Paul Flynn, this does not include you. You are both geniuses.

VIVE LA REVOLUTION...

EDIT* RE: the gorgeous shoes which were used in the A/W 07 show, which I and others loved; news from Phillip Lim is not hopeful. They say: "Our shoes were a collaboration with the UK shoe designer Nicholas Kirkwood. Our specific shoes were runway only, and aren't for sale." Aah, Nicholas Kirkwood. That makes sense - all his shoes are like lil works of art/engineering. But still, can't have those exact ones. Poo.
...

Thank you Amy Larocca for this piece on Phillip Lim in New York Magazine.

As far as I'm concerned, Phillip Lim has completely usurped Marc Jacobs in the role of He Who Plugs Into The Psyche Of Women Who Love Fashion And Designs The Clothes They Were Just About To Dream Of.

In the article, the provenance of the 3.1 is explained as the age of both Lim and his business partner Wen Zhou when they started the label just two years ago. Auspicious. 31 also happens to be my age, so, really I should just buy the entire winter collection, or at least as much of it as I can get my hands on. (Yes, my thoughts have turned to winter - I give up on the hope of summer ever appearing.)

How is it that I want every single look, exactly the way it's styled in the lookbook? (Bloody flash player - click on "womens" at the bottom left, then fall p.1 and fall p.2)
Wouldn't change a thing to wear it myself. That has never happened to me before. I'm obsessed with the shoes and I can't.find.out.who.made.them. Anyone know?

My favourite quote from the article is when Phillip says: “I would direct my mother when she made my clothes,” he says. He liked khakis and denim work shirts, everything simple and clean. “I look at pictures of myself when I was 5 years old and I think that, yes, that is exactly what I like.”

A man with that kind of vision is a man you can trust to design Birkenstocks, (well Tatami/same thing) unlike someone whose name rhymes with Snidey Gloom.

And with a brand spanking new store in New York's Soho (and apparently scouting store locations in London) and another CFDA/Vogue nomination, I think we can safely say that auspicious 3.1 is doing its work.

IS IT JUST ME WHO MISSED THIS?...

When I went to Cannes a couple of years ago I sat on the beach and watched paparazzi patrolling up and down (they didn't spot me as I was incognito - the old Posh Spice disguise always works). It cost something like 20 euros to have a plate of frites delivered to your sunlounger by a handsome waiter. I took the ubiquitous photo of the facade of the Carlton Hotel which actually includes other people taking a photo of the Carlton Hotel - and generally walked along La Croisette feeling a bit shortchanged. Not that I expected to see Gregory Peck emerging from the sea and jumping into a convertible with Grace Kelly or anything. I would have been just as disappointed if I'd seen Puffy or Diddy or whatever his name is today.

Born in the wrong era...sigh.

If only I'd just watched Riviera Cocktail. It's a funny little film, since it's full of stills photos, taken by Edward Quinn, who basically hung around on the Cote d'Azur subtly charming all the major stars of the silver screen of the '50s and '60s into being photographed by him. It all sounds so civilised: in the days when stars were able to function without an entourage of agents, PRs, stylists, make up artists and handlers, that he was able to pop up to Sofia Loren's room at the Carlton, tap on the door, introduce himself and ask her if she fancied doing a few pictures. And she said yes. Can you imagine anything like that happening today? His name actually didn't immediately ring a bell at first but his pictures are certainly iconic.

Love this one of Kim Novak.

It's testament to Edward "Ted" Quinn's subtle charm and integrity that he was able to have such unrestricted access to people and as a result, his pictures look almost like snapshots of friends, at dinner, laughing, dancing, being themselves. They are comfortable with him being around with a camera. He also took the only photos that exist of Grace Kelly meeting Prince Rainier for the first time. Quinn also became close to Pablo Picasso and took all those famous pictures of him at work in his studio and at home.

Grace Kelly - I've obviously got a thing about sunglasses indoors.

The film is a very personal one and at times, a little odd; mostly due to the jazz band that kind of jams along to the pictures as they're shown. Edward Quinn was a musician before he was a photographer so I don't know if they were guys he knew or what, but I didn't quite get that. The music was great, but to have the band actually discussing the photos? Odd.

Anyway, what was lovely was Gret Quinn, Edward's widow who had spent most of her life sorting and archiving his work. She talked about how he started photographing pin-ups on the beach, how he approached people and got to know them. When he first photographed Brigitte Bardot she was very young, an ingenue and more than happy that he wanted to shoot her. A young Audrey Hepburn was ecstatic as she was finding it hard to get press interest at the time.

It's these little bits of info that make Riviera Cocktail such a gem and makes me wonder why it seems to have quietly been released last year and I just chanced upon it, as with the name of Edward Quinn - I wonder why, judging by this amazing body of work, his name isn't instantly recognisable (maybe just to me)?

The film was made after he died, although there was some footage of an earlier interview with him, where he seemed quite lovely. The kind of honourable chap who sadly, like the era he captured is pretty much extinct.

Photos are all (c) Edward Quinn from the Edward Quinn archive.

ODE TO JEAN...

Further to my previous post:

Oh, Mr. Touitou,
What would I do without you,

Just when I was contemplating,
A mad return to dating,

Just so that I could nick,
The trousers off some prick,

Your new catalogue dropped on my mat,
And saved me from all that,

I don't need to raid the bespoke,
Wardrobe of some bloke,

And really anyway,
If he dressed that well he'd be gay,

But you've come along and saved me,
From the need to flirt,
With the perfect alpaca trousers and pinstriped shirt,

So thanks to you A.P.C,
Once again I'm free,

From dirty socks and farting in bed,
I'll just stay home with my cat instead.

{The winter collection is online now for your clicky fingered enjoyment}

DRESS LIKE THE BOYS...

At the moment, all I want to wear is a thin white cotton mens' shirt, sleeves rolled up, roughly tucked into mannish trousers, no jewellery, no make up except polished fingers and toes (back into rouge noir). I'd wear my old petrol blue Prada Oxfords on my feet but I somehow managed to separate the uppers from the soles (my shoe guy assures me they'll be fine) - Although the look I'm veering towards owes a lot to the photos of people during the Depression by Walker Evans, I don't actually want to look that much like a poverty stricken depression era farmer. By way of the strange osmosis that often happens, recent posts from both The Sartorialist and Jen at Simply Photo are on the influence of the FSA photo project that documented those years.

Maybe it's the lack of summer here, the way that a cheery dress just doesn't feel right when the sky is uniformly grey, the sun never shines, it drizzles intermittently and can't decide whether it's cold or unpleasantly humid. I just feel like wearing the very perfect stripped back basic of everything. So I've adopted this kind of androgynous uniform, not that I've really noticed anyone else doing a similar thing. It's a jumble of references, but I know what it isn't: It's not Annie Hall and it's not really as glamorous as Katharine Hepburn. I'm reliving the Helmut Lang years in a way, and god do I wish I'd bought more H.L. back in the day (as in actually designed by him) when I had the chance, but alas, not the bank balance.

Maybe it's not something that would appeal if you worked in an office where business dress is compulsory, (thank you, thank you, thank you, much gratitude, oh, thank you Universe that I don't work in an office) to then spend the weekend wearing what is basically what most men wear to work. I believe that without a good manicure, perfume and carrying a smallish bag (not the enormous Anna Corinna tote I usually lug around) this style could be almost indistinguishable from that of a male office worker. I was quite enjoying the slouchy crumpledness of it all, then looked around at about 5pm last Friday to see a load of blokes standing outside the pub holding pints (outside is the new inside since the smoking ban) dressed pretty much the same as me. My concept of slouchy crumpledness was hastily re-defined and refined.

So, since I'm not in much of a shopping mood - there may be a forthcoming post about the merits of different brands of mannish trousers - I've decided the only thing to do is get a boyfriend so I can nick his clothes. Only he'd have to have a lot of Comme des Garcons shirts/Raf Simons trousers for me to steal. And how is such a boy going to be interested in a girl wearing no make up, and deliberately asexual clothing on a Saturday night? I'll let you know.

*EDIT: Later that evening...Ahem, in the course of walking down the street from my flat to the off-licence dressed in this way I received an, "Allo....gorgeous." Then after exiting the offy with a bottle of wine - from across the street outside the pub I heard, "You shoulda come in 'ere, I woulda bought you a drink."

Walking back up the street a VW camper van passed by and emitted a huge wolf whistle which I swear was made by some kind of siren rigged up to it, which is really rather sad.

However, it is unlikely that either of these charming young mens' wardrobes would be of much use to me but, hey, the androgyny thing seems to be a hit with the fellas.

I'm just sayin'.

Or maybe it's the humidity making them crazed.

{Image 1 from old Italian Vogue, image 2 from old Paris Vogue.}

POP ON OVER AND SAY HI...

I'm hanging out over at the stylish abode of Miss Lauren today. We're sitting in virtual deckchairs on her balcony, slurping frozen margaritas and painting our toenails hot pink.

In between talking about boys, I told her all about my recent trip to Madrid.

How often do you get a prize for going on holiday?

THANK YOU LAUREN!

THE CONTAGIOUS ENNUI...

Oh, you were so right about the ennui. Even though I dozed off countless times during Les Amants Reguliers I still have a major hair crush on Clotilde Hesme and an unexplained hankering to wear a rumpled white shirt at all times. And that Louis Garrel is quite fit too.

I am, as noted the other week when I attended the opera, both shallow and entirely unrefined. At the opera my seat had been made for a Victorian child and was WAY, WAY, up in the balcony thingy whatever you call it, where I had my first experience of vertigo.

I did not know how I was going to make it through to the interval, whereupon I would be able to collect another exhorbitant (£6.75) glass of below average wine, drink it in the dullsville corporate carpeted surroundings of the ENO and retain the will to live. I thought opera was supposed to be glamorous. My not knowing how I was going to make it through had nothing to do with the seat or the wine, it was because the opera was so, so BORING and it was impossible to find a comfortable sleeping position in those tiny seats. I have been to the opera twice before - once in Italy - and fell asleep both times. There, I am a philistine. I can't say which opera I went to see this time because I know someone who was in it, hence my being there to see the tiny little speck that was apparently she flounce across the stage for 3.2 seconds going, "aaahhohoholalalalahahahahaaaaa". At the end the man next to us started clapping like a circus seal and bellowing "Bravo! Bravo!" at which point my companion and I could not take it any more, burst into giggles, bypassed the stage door luvvie fest and went to the pub.

(Of course all this "Oh, but the opera was simply hideous" business was before the bomb scare agogo game we like to play when attempting to travel anywhere in London at the moment. Get on any form of transportation and see if you ever arrive at your chosen destination. Saturday night we were feeling all hardcore. It was pissing with rain, freezing cold, there was a small chance of being blown up, but still we attempted to Carry On As Normal and Go Out. We were forced back by police with news of An Incident which of course was probably someone leaving their McDonalds wrapper on the tube platform or something. Seriously, thank you police, good job and all that, has to be done. A wild card yesterday was the addition of giant hailstones and freak flooding right in the middle of rush hour. So this is how I end up at home watching black and white modern French films that are a response to other modern European films that are both in homage to the atmosphere of the student demonstrations of 1968 Paris and have the same lead actor. And that I only wanted to watch in the first place because I liked Clotilde Hesme's hair on the cover of the DVD.)

I know I said I was taking a break but I'm bored and it's raining.

CE SOIR...

I'm going to watch this tonight and stay away from the computer for a couple of days. Apologies for the last 3 lacklustre filler posts below, I think I need a little break in the real world. Oh - I just had one in a beautiful hot country. Back when fully recharged. X X X

HOW COULD I NOT KNOW?...

I really need to start paying more attention to what's going on here in London, instead of moaning about it all the time.

There was an *intimate* White Stripes gig at the Rivoli Ballroom, erm, about a ten minute walk from my house a couple of weeks ago. And funnily enough, no I didn't find out about it beforehand. Youtube is no consolation.

WISHING FOR...

For any Lyell lovers in Paris:

WAITING FOR...

...these Tsumori Chisato dresses to be reduced by 50%, preferably 70% in the summer sales. Eyes peeled, elbows sharpened, overdraft facility extended, go.

image source

AN IRRETRIEVABLE FLAW...

I was flicking through my French dictionary last night, as one might when one has just returned from France and has no idea when they might next go. Why does it always open on the page where the first word I see is redhibitoire? Always. According to my dictionary which I've had since GCSE French days, the translation of this is irretrievable flaw - the internet would beg to differ. One of my irretrievable flaws (who has ever used that phrase in English I'd like to know) may be that I never use the dictionary; another might be the frequent times I enter a restaurant alone in Paris and ask for a table for just myself, careful to construct an entire sentence, when in English I would probably just say "one" or even "table for one". "Une table pour une personne!" Why do I not say this?
According to good old Collins Gem, the phrase I have been using actually means:

I am lonely.

Hello. I am lonely. Yes, for lunch. Thank you.

Oh.My.God.

Well you know what? Nobody ever came over to keep me company in all that time, but they do always ask if I want an aperatif. Booze: my trusty companion.

As far as I can tell, "je suis seule" could also be construed as "I am alone". So, after the waiter does that wincing head turning thing and I have to repeat myself loudly - carefully enunciating each syllable and rolling my eyes, I might as well be saying, "It is I, Michelle of ze resistance. I am alone. Listen very carefully I shall say zis only once."

Help me.

It's still not as bad as when my Italian friend thought the English word for ashtray was hamster.

TRAGIC...

If anyone ever asked me what I would absolutely never, ever be seen dead wearing I always said shorts or dungarees.

I can see that shorts could look good if you have amazing legs. When shorts are continually proposed/rammed down the consumer's throat for two summers running I have no problem with the people who look good in them, known as models, wearing them occasionally. Dungarees I find heinous without exception.

People with legs like mine should never ever wear shorts, mini skirts or even a skirt/dress just above the knee unless thick black tights are provided. This makes shopping at the moment a teensy bit tricky. I apologise for having boobs, a small waist, curvy hips and not very nice legs. Apparently there are no clothes available for freaks like me this summer. It is the summer for those with spindly legs, flat chests and pot bellies to rejoice.

Even though French style can be a little conservative, some say boring, there's one thing I wholeheartedly agree with and that's that if a trend doesn't suit you or enhance your best features, avoid it. I saw no one in Paris wearing white or red Rayban Wayfarers recently, but plenty wearing black ones. I don't think that's boring, I think it's always a good idea to veer away from the Timmy Mallett look. I generally manage to take my own advice on such matters.

But today hell froze over and I purchased this pair of dungaree shorts.
But they're really cute!
But they don't suit me.
But they're so cute!

I succumbed to the I Want It Too Why Can't I Have It Too school of dressing, last seen during summer 2006 of the smock dress. I rationalised this purchase thus so: I will not subject Londoners to my legs, I will only wear the dungaree shorts when visiting my father (who, in a cruel twist of genetic fate, has fabulous legs at the age of 65) on the south coast, in a small seaside town where frankly, if you're not morbidly obese and are under the age of 85 then you are pretty hot stuff.

MEH. GRR. ETC...

We (by which I mean Lola and I) are most perturbed - disturbed even. Since 7.30am there has been a Polish plumber and his mate ripping pipes out from under the floor in the flat upstairs, which was supposed to happen at the weekend when . I . will . not . be . here. How, I ask you, are you supposed to eat the VERY LAST of your eurostar smuggled Pierre Herme macarons with all that racket going on? (If you want to see what all the fuss is about re: PH there are some good pics here.)
And I was saving the Abricot Pistache until last.

This week we have been mostly: 1: Hating London. 2: Doing that annoying and completely futile comparison thing where you compare everything in London to the way it would be in Paris. 3: Blaming all ills, petty annoyances and problems on London/England. 4: Not helping: Walking (yes walking! Being in Paris cured my foot somehow) through the city at lunchtime watching investment bankers rush in droves clutching sad plastic bags with plastic sandwiches in, talking on mobiles saying, "re-mortgaging's the only option..blah blah...terms of contract..blah...shall be instructing my solicitor.." and realising with absolute certainty that I have nothing in common with these people, and even if they earn 100 times more than I do, their quality of life sucks and I think they are all insane.

We, well I (since Loly has never been to Paris and is only grumpy if you try to pick her up) have been very busy with the above - moaning, complaining, being generally grumpy and so have not lavished this space with the attention it deserves. For this we apologise and make amends with this picture of cuteness.

BRIGITTE...

It was annoying me that the first thing you saw when you clicked on this page was a photo of A.A. So here's B.B. instead (in the window of Les Archives de la Presse). Something about it made me think instantly of Kate Moss and the media's obsession with her. Nothing much changes does it? Except the camera isn't right in her face/up her skirt.

And p.s: I admit it, I bought a vest in A.A. - and a bandeau top. Grr.

CHARMED...

And so, the gentrification of the north Marais is complete.
The End.

But! Where to now?
Northwards friends, ever northwards...and er, left a bit...

Ooh, that looks more like it. Where's that?
The haut haut Marais I believe some estate agents are referring to it as. Well, it's Temple really. Behind the Carreau du Temple (often used for shows at fashion week) is a very lovely area, and one that I wouldn't really know well if it weren't for the rumour I heard that there was a Lyell shop up there. It's the kind of place people really live and work - go down the cobbled Cite dupetit Thouars and you'll find children on bicycles, homes with windowboxes spilling geraniums, arty looking offices with doors open to let in the breeze and a sleepy dog lying on the mat. Wander round a bit in the quiet, quiet streets - once in a while you get spewed out into the crazy crazy of rue or boulevard du Temple then back in to the cool quiet streets.

In rue Charles Francois Dupuis there is this charming shop opened by a charming Australian girl. It is the Lyell shop but it's actually even better than that. Marie Louise de Monterey is a vintage clothes shop as well. Shoes line the floor around the entire shop, bags hang on one wall and vintage sundresses, white broderie slips and evening dresses hang on the rails. There are (I'm not typing the word vintage again) bakelite belt buckles and jewellery and such and there's a children's (oh bugger it) vintage clothing section. Then one half of the shop is given over to Lyell - their only Paris stockist as far as I know.

I'm really quite obsessed with those tiles.

After much dithering, I bought a snakeskin bag.

It did not cost ninety euros and no one felt the need to have a hissy fit.

{EDIT: Marie Louise de Monterey closed down after about a year, sadly. AA is, at the time of writing, still there, still selling neon headbands.}

DEJA VU...

Home.

Over tired. Extenuated would be a perfect English word too.

Feeling like why have we made London so ugly, harsh, crazy, expensive and almost impossible for anyone to live well in? But it contains my little Loly, lovely friends and neighbours, my just the way I want it flat. It's home. My own bed - heaven.

So why do I always feel like crying when I get off the Eurostar at Waterloo? It's not just the length of the taxi queue.

Why is Paris so wonderful, soul nourishing and designed in every sense for living? But what are the people there so pissed off about?

Round and round I go again...

Now . must . sleep.

YOU GO...

What do you call that little wire where you put one end in your camera and one end in the computer, thus allowing you to upload photos? It doesn't really matter does it, since I forgot to bring it with me. So: Words now, pictures later...

The latest in the series of Parisian shopkeeper vs. me hostilities was really the pinnacle - one hopes anyway. I had hobbled down to the K.Jacques shop, which is tiny, late in the afternoon. It was jumping with customers and I couldn't even get in the door, so I resolved to go back early the next morning. Wandering along to rue Malher I was looking at this shop I've often passed but never felt compelled to go in, called Gavilane. There are gothic looking lycra clothes and skull pendants in the window - sort of Ozzy Osbourne meets Flashdance. Could be someone's cup of tea but not mine. Incongruously there were some really lovely vintage handbags in the window, and never one to pass up a possible shopping coup, I decided to have a look. You could drop me off in the most unappealing retail location ever and I will always unearth something worth buying.

Anyway in I went to the shop - first commiting the unforgivable sin of forgetting to say bonjour. I was only interested in the bags and what a choice - I could've bought them all and immediately saw the one I wanted. A burgundy leather frame bag with a cool stainless steel clasp and a really thin shoulder strap - it had been re lined at some point and there was no label. The man in the shop said it was "good leather." I would say it was Spanish leather and had not been an expensive bag when new. Then I noticed there was a water stain on one side. If it had been 15 or twenty euros I would've bought it in a second. Fifty and I would have thought twice. In fact I've never paid more than fifteen pounds for a vintage bag so that would have been stretching it. But it - and all the other bags were ninety euros. Ninety! I could've bought it but why pay such a hefty commission to someone for their good luck in finding it? It's the thrill of the hunt and the bargain that makes it all the more satisfying.

Since in Paris I feel I must always give a reason for not buying something, I said quite honestly that I thought it was lovely but it was too expensive. The man started saying, "Yes you can go out there and buy lots of bad cheap bags. You go! You go and buy bad bags out there! You will find many bad bags for ten euros. Me, I have good bags!" I had to agree with him and said so, again praising the loveliness of his bags. I kind of thought we were having a bit of light hearted banter but before I knew what was happening I was being physically ejected from the shop and found myself standing confused on the pavement outside. Then - did he just slam the door and lock it behind me? Yes he did. I looked down at the floor for answers and saw only a dead pigeon in the gutter - possibly the only previous customer that day. This only heightened the sense of surrealness.

How curious, I thought. Then I thought actually that's quite sweet that he cares so much about his bags. It's absolutely true that you could rifle through the depots ventes of Paris all day and find loads of faux leather '80s clutch bags for ten euros, but never a really nice one. I almost thought of going back in the next day but when I walked past on my way to K.Jacques my man must've seen me approaching because - again - he closed and locked the door! I mean whatever next? Customers wanting to spend money in your shop? Disgraceful. Anyway I had a little chuckle to myself then went on my way to buy sandals, or as I now say: Tropeziennes.

The girls working in the K.Jacques shop were SUPER NICE, even cooing in sympathy and I think a little admiration over the impressive bluey purpleness of my broken foot. They patiently let me try on every sandal in the shop and I ended up buying the Orion ones and being seriously tempted to get another pair as well. Oh yes, I do believe I have a new obsession.

THIS IS WHY I NEVER HAVE A PLAN: PART 348...

In the parallel universe where my right foot would not win first prize in a special effects make up competition for Most Gruesome Looking Toe Tagged Corpse Foot Sticking Out Of Sheet In Morgue, I would buy some K.Jacques sandals in Paris. Or should I say I was planning to buy some K.Jacques sandals in Paris. I was planning to trot down to rue Pavee and quite simply, buy some K.Jacques sandals. (Please don't hold their website against them.) And then I was going to buy a falafel sandwich. It seemed so simple. And this - again! is why I hate planning anything. Unforseen freak wedding accidents aside, I can still dream. It's between these:

 Maybe I should still go and horrify the shop assistants when I take my sock off.

WHERE ARE ALL THE VEGETABLES?...

Now, I don't want this to sound as if I'm complaining.....but I want to know, how do they do it, these Parisians. I mean how do they have enough energy to last the day? Do they secretly mainline cocktails of vitamins in the privacy of their homes, sprinkle Greens + over their morning coffee and linseeds on top of their tarte aux poires?
Yes I've read that book.
When I'm in Paris I treat my body like an engine that needs no fuel. I start my day with a cafe creme and a croissant, walk for three to four hours, stopping maybe for another coffee. At lunchtime I might treat myself to a selection of cheese and some bread, washed down with a glass of red wine. Then I walk non stop for another five to six hours, maybe stopping for a Berthillon ice at some point. Later, a coffee, then an apero, then a proper dinner, usually some kind of meat with perhaps some gratin dauphinoise masquerading as a vegetable. To bed still digesting that creme brulee. Then at some point I go, "Oh my god, I'm so exhausted, I just don't understand it." Yes it's fantastic to eat all that yummy food, but I'm not three. If I was three I'd sit here all day eating nothing but gummy bears. I'd never eat that way at home but I have the When in Rome mentality - trying to get my fill of decent pastries while I'm there, knowing I won't even be tempted by the greasy examples back home. It's worse if you eat out a lot, as I do. I can tell you that it's entirely possible to go for three weeks in Paris without eating any vegetables and not even realise. (I did it.) The dauphinoise potatoes don't count. I sometimes wonder if there's a secret menu I'm not being given that has all the veg on it. Of course there are lovely seasonal veggies at the market, but apart from tasting the new season's asparagus or whatever, which most likely will get made into a 75% cream soup, it's kind of tricky to eat anything apart from bread products, meat, cheese, caffeine and alcohol. Then there was that time when I tried to eat - and cook macrobiotically - in Paris. Ha! That's why I end up going to LPQ, even though I swore I'd never go there again since they've gone all Starbucks and after they put up a sign - in English - with a diagram of how to eat a tartine. They do salads, that's why I go - and rye bread. But that sign, and the cup at the till with "Tips" written on it in English is inexcusable and makes you feel like you're at a theme cafe at the Epcot Centre.

So, maybe it's just me - maybe you get bored of all the tasty naughtiness after a while, or your digestive system implodes/explodes and you get punished for not being hardcore enough by having to shop in the grim macrobiotic shop and eat millet for the rest of your days.