FAVOURITES...

I sense the time is near. My very favourite baggy denim trousers that I've been wearing for god knows how many years are finally on their last legs ('scuse the pun). It is quite possible that the next time I wear them on a blustery day, a small gust will render me trouserless, standing in the street in my knickers, shoes and socks with wispy threads of soft denim flying into the ether around me. The trousers are now at the height of soft slubby perfection, but the moment perfection was achieved, the danger of them disintegrating increased. They have reached their peak and now must, like all things, decay. I can't even remember where I bought them - it was somewhere cheap and high streety - maybe Mango. I've looked high and low for a replacement but nothing can match them. Funny how my favourites are not expensive "special" pieces but ordinary utility clothes that just happen to fit, be useful and look exactly right.

Because I only buy things I really, really like, I expect my clothes to last forever. I get weirdly attached to items of clothing - the ones I end up wearing all the time. The Miu Miu coat I've had for ten years with the shredded lining will not be chucked out, it will be re-lined in cute printed cotton. If I can salvage something from having to be replaced then I'm happy, since there is no perfect replacement. I don't know if it's an English thing - certainly not a modern English thing but a throwback to the old make do and mend culture. I know people think I'm very strange for being like this, especially since I like clothes and fashion so much, but I hate to have an excess of stuff I don't need or like. When I make a mistake and buy something not quite right which gets left hanging unworn I get rid of it.

Looking through my wardrobe there's no clear theme, no clear criteria for what makes something perfect. It's not really a fashion thing, more to do with the fit and the cut and the quality. Which doesn't necessarily mean expensive - my favourite T - shirt is from H&M, not The Row. T-shirts aside, I lean towards the Italian way of shopping where you try stuff on and the tailor alters it so that it's just right. I get things altered or alter them myself quite often; but there's something I never knew about until A introduced me to a tailor at one of the shops in Venice. Despite having worked for big Italian fashion houses I'd never realised that the sarta (tailor) would also alter the look of something you buy to make it suit your style. Bloody hell, it's hard enough to get a pair of trousers taken up in London. And in Italy it's of course a free service.

Anyhoo all this to say that these cheapo denim trews were in fact a cornerstone of my wardrobe and now it all makes sense why I got so upset about my bag getting ruined at the dry cleaners, or why I was fully miffed at my Comptoir des Cotonniers coat only lasting one winter before it went all bobbly. Clothes that really work don't come along every day and excuse me coming over all Trinny and Susannah but it seems to me that this is the way to structure a wardrobe: forget about "Apple shapes with big boobs must wear empire line dresses" and "Are you a skittle or a brick shape?"

So, my winter cornerstones are:
Vintage military navy heavy wool trench coat (age: 60, adopted:10 years ago)..
Teal blue H&M T-shirt.. (age: 5)..
Massive Anna Corinna leather tote (will cry when it dies) (age: 1)..
APC wide leg navy corduroy worker trousers (age: 6 months)..
Stella McCartney for H&M black silk tuxedo skirt (age: 2)..
Beige cashmere APC sweater (age: 2 months)..
Stripy Marni cashmere sweater that I hardly ever wear anymore so it'll last forever (age: 6)..
1940s blouse top with little puffed 3/4 length sleeves (age: 60 ish, adopted: 6 months ago)..
Lyell 1940s style blouse top with little puffed 3/4 length sleeves (age: 1)..
Rutzou blue/grey plaid top (age: 3)..
Vintage plaid shirt (age: ?, adopted 1 year ago)..
2 pairs Miu Miu black wool trousers (age: 10)
White leather Converse (age: 4)..
Nubbly blue wrap long cardi bought in Florence (age: 12)..
Bruuns Bazaar metallic brown/bronze cardi and scarf and Naja Lauf satin kimono dress from trip to Copenhagen (age: 4)..
Soon to be R.I.P. denim trousers (age 12?)..
Long burgundy leather gloves (age 1)..
Vanessa Bruno navy wool button down dress (age 2)..

Sounds really boring, eh? Well at any one time or another I am usually wearing at least one of these items. Hmmm, lots of navy. Only one thing bought new this season (APC sweater). And that military coat goes through phases. Some winters I don't wear it at all but it's perfect for now - although it has always vaguely emitted an odour of curry powder.

What are your favourites/cornerstones and how long have you had them?

TO BALANCE PREVIOUS RANTING ...

Alternatively: Well, make me miss Paris why dontcha...

"...they're not comfortable at all and I don't wear them, but I love them..."
"When you ride a bike you use only the toes, so you can wear heels as high as you want..."

(no direct link, click on "Marais-Go-Round" to watch)

COMING UP....

The Dec/Jan issue of Paris Vogue guest edited by Charlotte Gainsbourg will be out on 29 November...

Tonight there's a FREE screening of This Is England at The Prince Charles Cinema...

The Darjeeling Limited will be released in the UK on 23 November. I've been waiting so long...have you seen the Wes Anderson short Hotel Chevalier with Jason Schwartzman and Natalie Portman? I watched it online a while ago but it looks like it's been removed. You can now only see it screened before The Darjeeling Limited or watch the 13 minute short in 4 parts on Youtube ...

On Gridskipper today (Beaujolais Nouveau Day) I encourage the drinking of wine for breakfast. Oh, you already were...

ABSOLUTE GIRLCRUSH: LOUISE BOURGEOIS...

Well, maybe girlcrush is a little flippant when discussing the idolisation of a ninety five year old woman. She is officially my heroine. But before I finally dragged my arse the short distance over to Tate Modern to see the LB exhibition I knew her mostly as an art world personage - from pictures such as the one above taken by Robert Mapplethorpe in the eighties (and used in a Helmut Lang advertisement in the nineties.)

I thought I would be telling you how I got to the Tate, was strangely underwhelmed by "The Crack" and found myself randomly standing next to Ewan McGregor for the second time in the last ten years. Poor besotted chap; he's obviously been trying to track me down all this time since our first brief encounter and just couldn't find the words once I was within reach. I understand, really I do.

Blah blah blah, everything else fell away as soon as I entered the Louise Bourgeois exhibit. Ten rooms of work, one room in particular that contained the "cells" (rooms constructed out of reclaimed doors, a wooden water tower or metal cages filled with various objects) propelled me back round it three times. I'm not going to attempt to play serious art critic so I'll just leave it at saying it was the best exhibition I can remember ever seeing. Of her sculptures, even those that deal with the most distressing themes and are made of distressed materials are resolutely beautiful.

As I walked out of the exit I felt I wanted to go to Louise Bourgeois's house and have a cup of tea with her, hang out and get a glimpse of her daily life. At just that point I noticed the large video screen just outside the exit where they were showing the 1991 (I think) Arena documentary on her. The part I walked in on was where she's in her kitchen, opens a cupboard that contains ten neatly lined up jars of marmalade, takes one down, then tells the interviewer that all spoons must be cauterised over a flame before use to remove the germs, then proceeds to iron the pages of the NY Times flat.

I love her. She certainly has a special kind of magnetism that a huge crowd of people stood or sat transfixed watching her in the full length documentary being by turns destructive, flirty, argumentative, cute, petulant, wise, funny, serious, vulnerable, tough, but always with this particular stubborn twinkle in her eyes.

{img © The Estate of Robert Mapplethorpe}

YA BETTER WATCH OUT...

Oh dear. Try watching this without pissing yourself laughing...
It's my new catchphrase.

FLICKRER...

I'm an intermittent and not very committed flickrer. Once in a while I'll put up a few photos and I like to look at those of my contacts but me commenting is rare. I just kind of dip in and out....but I'm pretty happy with it like that. Even happier when I'm contacted (as in made a contact!) by someone whose photostream is as amazing and gorgeous as Marikska's.

From Marikska's Flickr:

CLICHÉ LIKE SUNDAY MORNING...

I am being kindly picked up to go and retrieve my car from its post fireworks display/drank a vat of mulled wine resting place. I am still snoozing when the doorbell rings. I brush my teeth and pull on the cosiest clothes I can find. We go outside. I am wearing: bedhead hair, a bobbly cashmere jumper, track pants, Ugg boots (to hand because they now serve as slippers), a pashmina (I swear this is true) and Rayban Wayfarers*. I am not clutching a Starbucks Venti takeout cup or a small dog but I still look like I've just left an L.A. yoga class that started in 2001.

I have no food in the house (as usual) and wonder if I can go to the supermarket looking like this; which I never do on a Sunday as this is when everyone else goes. My entire life in London is constructed (thanks to working from home) around doing things at a different time to everyone else. Work all Friday night, late night partying on a Wednesday, go to the supermarket hardly ever, but at no other time than a week day mid morning.

I decide to brave it, fearing this will be the time I bump into the ex I never bump into. But it turns out, every other chick in Sainsbury's is wearing a variation of my "outfit". We are all wandering round like Stepford Wives played by off duty Desperate Housewives, putting organic this and fairtrade that into our trolleys.

(*Except the Wayfarers should really be Aviators.)

SMELLS LIKE...

You know how sentimental I am about my clothes. Can't bear to part with them most of the time. It's a miracle that two pairs of shoes - worn until totally destroyed to the point of being unwearable - and almost unrecognizable as footwear (one pair Marni, one pair Dries Van Noten) have at last been taken out of the wardrobe and unceremoniously chucked in the bin.

But there is method in my shoe hoarding madness sometimes. Biker boots: Proper motorcycle boots bought in a biker shop in ooh, around 1990. They were the perfect companion to dyed long black hair, holey oversize grey jumpers, a sullen expression and a nice little line in door slamming and whining, "No one understaaands meeee." I had a grungy stoner phase and thankfully it didn't last that long. It turned out that wearing kick arse heels and going to clubs was a lot more fun. But the boots, the boots...So well made, such good quality I couldn't bear to throw them away, infused though they were with that "difficult age". Each time the style came round again I'd put them on, then no, no can't do it. The echo of teenage angst was too strong, the memories of where they'd been - if I remember rightly mostly hanging around under slides in the local park having Thunderbird spilled on them. I tried to wear them last winter and could not shake the taint of teen spirit.

Now I am being told by every magazine I look at to wear biker boots. I go out and everyone is wearing biker boots. I take mine down from their dusty top shelf home and look at them. I sniff them. I consider selling them on ebay and buying another pair sans connotations. But I have yet to see another pair as perfect as these and with inflation another pair would cost me around twice as much. So I put them on, I wear them out. I do not feel the urge to kick anything, loiter outside McDonalds all day or buy a ten pack of B&H; though I did buy a My Bloody Valentine CD recently.

The key, I'm thinking, is to pair the boots with clothes that could not possibly be construed as in any way stoner-ish. So opaque black (not woolly) tights, a short dress, an APC cardi and a smile do the trick. Nubbly knits could be problematic if they have anything approaching a "smoking" hole in the cuff to put your thumb through. Unfortunately plaid (yet another renaissance of something I really like) may also have to be avoided in conjunction with the boots. (I'm looking at you, Judd Nelson.)

The look is somewhere between Parisienne slouch and my favourite phrase du jour coined by Fashionista: The '90s Fashion Editor Look - so funny, so true! And the boots are super comfortable since my own feet wore them in for me. But don't talk to me about Doc Martens. Neither Daisy Lowe in the ads or Agyness wearing them will convince me. I am not going there again. Ever.

IMAGE INFATUATION...

Fully adoring the way Le Train Bleu have shot their Karen Walker stock. There's something about it that makes me go back and look at it again and again. I would never have even noticed those pieces if I'd just looked at the catwalk pics and I actually wasn't too fussed about the collection before I saw these pictures. STOP PRESS: clothes being presented in a way that makes you want to buy them? Whatever will they think of next.

Also, when my hair looks like that I generally consider that to be a bad and shameful thing. How bourgeois of me. All I needed was a Karen Walker scarf.

(via Wiksten via Geraldine)

HOUSE OF POORLY...

The lack of bloggage is because I've been down all week with that virus that's been going round. I'm sure you probably have it, or have had it too (in which case I empathize entirely and also ask that you stay at least 5 metres away from me). I know next to nothing about this kind of thing but I thought that human flu and cat flu were not cross contaminatory. (I just invented a damn fine word.) If so, I think we have just made history.

The little one: yesterday she kept lashing out at me, which I put down to her being bored with my repetitive entertainment repertoire of sleep, vomit, wail in agony, clutch at stomach, sleep, vomit, repeat, etc etc. Then this morning she was a little bit sick. Hmmm still a bit grumpy. Then she literally stole the snuggly thick cardigan from my back by kneading at it - you know that piano playing thing cats do - reminds them of being kittens or something. So I gently took it off as she was so into massaging?! it and she climbed inside it, made herself a little nest which covered her completely and she did not emerge for six hours; sometimes emitting a little shiver or sigh which let me know she was still breathing. I wasn't too worried until I offered to put on Sex & The City series 2 and/or the free DVD I got of the first ever episode of Dallas and she wasn't interested. Poor Loly.

COVER BLOWN BY SELF...

Now I'm just GIVING away all my hard learned secrets and wealth of knowledge over at Gridskipper. This week it's How to Stay Chic on the Cheap. Freeloading blaggers get over there now. Apologies to anyone who previously thought I ever paid full price for anything in London...

*image is of the beautiful and amazing illustrator Ester Pastel...she's chic, not cheap.

STUFF I LIKE on WEDNESDAY...

*a small collection by Alyson omni-talented Fox. I really, really like the little videos...(oh and she has cool friends too)

*parkin/ginger cake and a nice cup of tea...

*gawping at Kate Moss's house (via Fashionista)

*the jewellery at this shop (in Brooklyn - a bit far)

*naps

KEY WORDS...

OK people: here is my latest piece for Gridskipper. Unfortunately it does not feature lap dancing clubs, sex, brothels or anything to do with douchebags. It's merely an informative piece on East London's darling Cheshire Street. I am learning. I should have stuck with calling my piece about shoe designers "Shoe PORN"...Oh well, popularity was never my main concern.

BERNARD...

Meet my new friend Bernard. Isn't he charming? His shop was so enchanting ~ and all his own creation might I add ~ that I asked him to make me a ring. It's very simple, which is just what I'd been looking for. But I'll treasure it even more because Bernard made it...

BLAH BLAH SOMETHING ABOUT THE NATURE OF MODERN CELEBRITY AND THE ROLE OF THE INTERNET...

In Paris I see Clemence Poesy in the 3rd and think, wow there's Clemence Poesy as I walk around the corner straight into a life size poster of her on the cover of Jalouse magazine. Then I realize I have never seen a film she's been in (I'm allergic to Harry Potter and I've no idea what she's done since except look great on Style.com wearing Balenciaga at parties).

I see the most stunning woman walking down rue de Poitou and recognise her as well. I am almost convinced I know her but when I look at her shoes: Prada sandals, it clicks that I don't know her at all. It's Giovanna Battaglia - favourite Sartorialist subject.

I guess my three month self imposed media ban didn't have any effect then.

(Eventually I buy Jalouse with Clemence on the cover and the man at the magazine kiosk who is a sweetheart straight out of Parisian magazine vendor central casting: black beret, thick round black glasses; makes me repeat Jaloooouuuse, Jalooooouuuussse, until I pronounce it correctly.)

BONJOUR FOR A SECOND...

Hello loves, just nipped off to Paris to catch the tail end of fashion week. Also - total unbloodymitigated surprise disaster - the internet is broken where I'm staying. Not that I had loads of work to do or anything...back to the computer on Thursday. Until then you can see where I've been waxing lyrical on my two Mastermind specialist subjects: shoe designers and cafes.

QUOTE ME...

Manolo Blahnik once said:

"I like experimental people." He....admires Nicolas Ghesquière's clothes for Balenciaga: "But his shoes are like furniture. They are like commodes on the feet."

Now might be a good time to eat those words...

{image}

THE GOLDEN AGE OF COUTURE...

How I'd have loved to live in a time of daysuits, afternoon dresses, cocktail dresses and evening suits. Really, I would. Minus the oppression obviously. I just mean the dresses. Freedom AND couture.

The quote that kept popping into my head going round, or rather queuing to get round (more on that later) The Golden Age of Couture exhibition at the V&A was one by Diana Vreeland who, in her memoir D.V. informs us that in those days people would have had "Three fittings for a nightgown!"

Can you imagine? Swoon.

The exhibition is subtitled Paris and London 1947- 1957; 1947 being when Christian Dior presented his New Look collection which, as we all know, radically changed the way women dressed.

One of the first things you see on entering is a row of glass cases with quarter scale mannequins wearing couture outfits from the forties. This turns out to be what they did just after the (second world) war when no one had the money or the fabric to present their collections. They enlisted people like set designer Christian Berard and Jean Cocteau to make it into a travelling fashion theatre which toured Europe raising money.

My advice to anyone would be DO NOT GO TO THIS EXHIBITION AT THE WEEKEND if at all possible. Skive off and go on a Tuesday morning. We went on Saturday and although entrance times were staggered, you literally (being English and all) had to queue to get from exhibit to exhibit. There are lots of films, one great one of two models in the fifties dressing. They're helping each other into industrial looking foundation garments: corsets, pointy bras, shoulder pads tucked under the shoulder straps and attached to the hips, then fully dressed you'd never know the amount of rigging and padding underneath. Unfortunately it was hard to see the films properly because of the crowds, and to get past you always had to walk in front of people watching. I couldn't quite understand why they'd laid it out the way they did.

It was very dark (to protect the clothes, to stop people taking pictures? They REALLY didn't want anyone taking photos - of course I sneaked a couple for you). There were tall boxes dotted around which made narrow maze like corridors. These were covered with black and white prints of Paris buildings, then on one side of a box you'd have a display of tweed suits or an evening gown. Every garment was behind glass. Built into another side was a small screen showing old couture footage or a display of Roger Vivier shoes. This was in the first room and although I was interested in the content, the layout drove me - and everyone else mad.

The second room was much calmer. To the strains of Moon River, the first section is of iconic photographs of the age. You know the ones: Dovima and the elephants, and illustrations by Rene Gruau. But by far my very favourite image was this one:

Richard Avedon
Homage to Munkacsi
For Harper's Bazaar 1957

From here on there were so many outfits that I don't quite know where to begin. After the photography section there were day suits, not encased in glass so easier to see the detail - quite sober and dark. Then we moved into the cocktail section, my spiritual home. I was transfixed by this funny looking short lace babydoll dress by Balenciaga from 1958, pre-dating the '60s babydoll look by a few years. (At this point I'd been told off for taking pics twice so didn't dare.) Obviously there was much Dior, much Balenciaga, Balmain, not much Givenchy, a bit of Chanel. Now long closed houses were represented as well, but I suppose they had to curate the exhibition in the context of what people will recognise now.

Then the evening gowns. I kept seeing gowns donated by Princess Margaret and felt for her seeing what amazing (tiny) creations she wore in her heyday, the most shining It girl of the time perhaps, then how she ended up. Sad. Another grumble is that many of the dresses were black, against a black background, in a darkened room. I know it's very difficult to light black, but even I can work that one out!

They had a Balenciaga cape that Audrey Hepburn wore one of in Funny Face (1958), which they of course showed an excerpt of: Audrey doing her shoot in Paris with Fred, this bit.

The final room of the exhibition has a "couture timeline" and three (in my opinion) hideous, completely over the top "modern" couture outfits by John Galliano for Dior. I don't mean hideous really, just that they're costumes that no one could ever wear, not clothes. There's a place for that kind of showmanship and fantasy but for me it really jarred with what I'd just seen which were actually wearable clothes. I wished they'd chosen Chanel or even Anne Valerie Hash, because it seemed they'd chosen the most outlandish Galliano pieces on purpose. To reinforce the idea that couture is now only for the spectacle of it.

I've barely glossed over the content of the exhibition here; I only went yesterday so it hasn't really sunk in. The only thing I would say is that if you know your fashion, you'll enjoy it, but will be unlikely to learn anything new.

Oh, and these are the photos I nearly got kicked out for taking! Was it worth almost being banned from the V&A?

The Golden Age of Couture: Paris and London 1947- 1957
Victoria & Albert Museum
22 September 2007 – 6 January 2008

{Avedon image}

IT'S FLY FISHING BY J.R. HARTLEY*

I think I am going to write a book, purely so that if I tell people I'm a writer and they ask me who/what I write for I can just say, "I'm writing a book." I should be able to stretch that one out for, ooh about six to seven years before people start wondering where the finished tome is. This would be far, far preferable to having to reel off a list of publications and endure the three second mental judgement consisting of whether said person has heard of said publication, (you information junkies would be surprised how ill informed most people are) then how it fares in their mental journalism ranking system and lastly, the shockingly common question of, "How much do they pay you?" Hello? I would never ask anyone that. Have I ever asked you that? In this case, a guide to etiquette might be a better book to read before delving into my imaginary one.

p.s. This is my 302nd post. And you know how I ramble on. Perhaps I could just print them out and bind them?

*J.R. Hartley

TODAY'S QUESTION:

Do Kirsten Dunst and I share the same brain? (As well as a noted upon similarity in dental structure.)

Let's look at the evidence, using the new issue of Lula magazine, guest edited by Kirsten.

Oh look, a big juicy interview with Au Revoir Simone (Kirsten apparently chose them to be featured but it was only a matter of time - for they and Lula are made for each other).

Kirsten scrawls comments on the pages using exactly the same bright pink pen I use. OK maybe she didn't really, they may have faked her handwriting and decided to make it bright pink but...

The photography of Rinko Kawauchi (printed as Kaurauchi in the magazine - owchy. Who was it that commented last time I mentioned Lula about all the errors? Yes I notice them ALL now. I still love it though. I forgive them.)

In answer to the question: What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Kirsten answers, "My laziness to learn French."

Kirsten's favourite book is The Little Prince.

Don't know if this had anything to do with Kirsten, but one of my favourite *soon to be featured here* stylists Elisa Nalin styled two of the fashion stories.

There is an accessories story using CATS, big, fluffy CATS as models.

...p.s. let's just pretend we didn't see that Knightley girl taking up way too many pages shall we? Just flick past that part.

AH, THOSE ITALIANS KNOW HOW TO LIVE...

Sofia Loren, Marcello Mastroianni and Federico Fellini taken by Tazio Secchiaroli (the original paparazzo).

Love you Italia...

THOUGHTS ON THE MARC JACOBS LV DOCUMENTARY...

*Marc smokes like a trooper, eats vile looking nutritionist prescribed bile. Looks great on it.

*Sofia Coppola owns my dream Parisian apartment. Chevron oak floors ~ swoon.

*Mail ordering stuff (the DVD) from Colette is worryingly easy and speedy.

*Elizabeth Peyton is adorable.

*Those MJ end of year theme parties really do look like fun.

*Camille Miceli is adorable.

*The atelier staff at LV had better get paid waaayyy over the odds for all those sleepless nights and blisters.

*Irina Lazareanu is adorably annoying.

*Is Bernard Arnault wearing a syrup (wig)?

*Marc is consistently endearing and yes, adorable.

*Choice MJ quotes:

"Is it so horrible that it's good? No, maybe it's so horrible that it's just horrible."

"Yeah, trash it!" (about a garment they're working on)

"As screwy as it can be the better. I like it more fucked up."

"Defects are good."

"It's really good but it's really ugly. I know that and I like that. Don't worry. Wait until I get my clothes then I'll push it even further...We'll get hams thrown at us."

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.