Just AnOther Questionnaire...

...Just thought I'd share with you guys my responses to the 'AnOther Magazine Questionnaire' from the Spring/Summer 2011 issue :) hope you're all having a lovely summer!

Central Saint Maarten's?

60s Dragshow-Tropical Vacation-Comme Des Garcons/Junya Watanabe-Jean Paul Gaultier (Prada SS2011 shirtsleeves) vibes? yeah I'm down on that. Maarten Van Der Horst~watch this space~Coming Soon!

                                             
CHARLOTTE CORDAY hot sugar THE GIRLS SAY groove armada GIRLS the prodigy WATERS OF NAZARETH justice CONGRATULATIONS mgmt SEE YOU SO pixel fix NEW JACK the prodigy BECAUSE I GOT HIGH afroman

THE PCP DRESS

A design from my last project

Givenchy Resort 2012

...and the Sky was made of Amethyst

(paintings by Francis Bacon along with some photos of his studio-by ogden?-, 90s Comme Des Garcons photo from Italian Vogue, random shiny room photo and VIOLET which rules.)

I'm really feeling Francis Bacon right now; for me his work deals with composed and constricted conflictions over guilt and fear which is kind of where I am right now. I think that his message is best conveyed with his series of paintings known to the general art community as the 'screaming popes' because the figurehead of the catholic faith stands as basically the world leader in bigoted superstition and hatred; despite (supposedly) only wanting to be a positive influence. So I think he's conveying this internal confliction over naive 'good intentions' and evil ulterior motivation.

Basically he's illustrating these popes as naive characters whom, in their candid blindness to the truth have become the evil that they beheld and sought to erradicate - they've become villains in their misdirection and 'incidental' malintent.

It's not so much of a direct attack on Catholicism as many people believe, in my interpretation, so much as it is a personification of the 'bad guy' in detest of his own status; and all he's done.

HELLA deep.

I have a new favourite thing...

besides drinking vodka shots home alone at 10am and screaming Stevie Nicks songs until the neighbours call the national guard (or whatever the british equivalent is)

and that my friend, is agreeing with everything that Courtney Love says

so much love for THE LOVE

muh ruhturn tuh blugging

I never really left you, blogspot, you know that. I was tempted away by a fantasy life of hard work and top-notch fornication with the perfect man - however while we both learnt that we are perfect for eachother, it simply came at the wrong time... so here I am. I'm sorry I left you all for ages and I won't leave you again, I promise.

Even his name sets me off, seriously. We broke up only yesterday and while part of me feels like I'm already over him; I'm mourning. Because we spent over a month apart before we officiated upon our separation I'm not hysterical anymore, but when we started to break up about a month ago I felt like I was going to die and I've never cried so much in my life; and when I thought we'd never speak again I nearly drank myself to alcohol poisoning (drinking on my own has become my new favourite thing... more about that later.) But we're still friends (not just friendLY, actual friends) so I'm not dead or hooked up to a stomach pump.

I've been singing this song backwards for days now

I'm the accused here, this song is against me

expect bullet-posts of random crap in the future - I'm emotional and desperate for an outlet... I ALMOST STARTED A TumblR! PEAPLE!!! :O

--------------------------------------------------------------------^CherryBomb

Sketches from '30 Years of Japanese Fashion' - Exhibition at the Barbican ArtGallery in London

That 'Non-Conformatist' Malarky

Once upon a time there was a young primary school teacher who lived with her husband and child in Harrow. Day after day she would teach children how to read and write, add and draw and then she would come home and cook dinner for her husband, Derek. The two would chat about their days and feed their young son. They would tuck him in and go to bed just as the ten ‘o’ clock news ended and turn off their bedside lamps at the same time; and in the mornings the cycle would simply begin again. She never questioned her life, she was happy, she had everything she’d ever dreamed of. A nice house, a nice job, a nice husband and the beginnings of a nice family; her life was a common fairytale.

Then one day she met the dark prince. He was tall, handsome, tattooed, pierced and totally wrong for her. Her type was conservative, caring men with stable jobs at banks or something to that effect; she should not have fallen for the guy with leather trousers and wild hair.

Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren were an awkward item, a myth, ‘The Primary School Teacher and The Punk.’ It sounds like one of those dating fairytales; like the one about the one night stand that turned into a lifetime, or the guy who couldn’t commit suddenly turning up at your doorstep with a ring and a wedding planner.

Vivienne Westwood as we know her emerged from the chrysalis of her mousy primary-school teacher job, leaving her quiet life in Harrow behind her she moved to Clapham with Malcolm and set up shop on Kings Road selling leather fetish gear as casual apparel. “If we could get the girls on the corner and outside the bank to wear dog-collars it would mean something.” The response from the rest of the world was disgust, parents disowned their punk children; people actually protested against it, Westwood was condemned by Vogue and the government for being ‘poisonous to society; inciting anarchy through offensive clothing.’

Back in time fifty years and the exact same thing was happening to another woman. Gabrielle, then in her late 30s, had just closed a painful chapter in her life. After years of happiness the one man she loved evaporated from her life, engulfed in the twisted metal and burnt rubber of a car accident outside Paris, where they had lived together. Weeks later, when she had finally finished mourning the last nine years, she reviewed her life. She was the aristocratic mistress to the heir of a fortune in the textile industry, the man had never been faithful–even marrying another woman–and now he was dead. She still had her Millinary shop, but he had financed it – the outlook was bleak.

 A lesser woman would’ve given up and accepted a permanent state of shameful solitude, being unmarried in your 30s back then was considered detestably dishonourable. Gabrielle hated the idea that everything that she had gone through might simply be overlooked by everyone she met. She hated the fact that people simply assumed that her life would wilt into a state of recluse and thought that the most dignified way for her to exist henceforth would be as a ashamed spinster. It was here, in this sinking situation, that she decided to swim; Gabrielle became Coco Chanel.

Few people ever get the chance to be inspirations, but both Vivienne Westwood and Chanel chose to lead by example, they didn’t want to disappear into nothingness. Chanel could’ve sold her shop and moved to Normandy to live as a hermitic unmarried wretch, secluded by society for her marital status and died a scary old lady. Westwood could’ve simply sat tight in her job as a teacher, she would hold PTA meetings, break up fights on the playground and mark spelling books until she keeled over. They chose not to, They chose to rise above mediocrity and became two of the most powerful forces in fashion.

Chanel made clothes that didn't hurt or require a team of people to tie you into them, she cut self harm out of fashion entirely; favoring the elegance of drapery instead of the life-threatening pitfalls of corsetry. Chanel's designs joined the tidal wave social movement of the time edging ever closer to sex equality; no longer did you  have to be in pain in order to be attractive, you could dance, get drunk and have sex without incurring injury or damaging their over-done clothes, all of a sudden women could just dress as comfortable as they favoured and look amazing. Men didn’t like this so much. Women, like their clothes, were getting ‘looser.’ They were starting to realise that they possessed the same integrity that men boasted, they were learning how to use their sexual power to their advantage, they were looking at their lives objectively; women were choosing to get married later, not to have children yet, to get divorces, to have real careers of their own. A woman was no longer a baby-machine; she was a force to be reckoned with - she wore a suit to work.

Where Chanel had fundamentally changed the landscape of women in society; Westwood created the look of an entirely new subculture: Punk. But spearheading social movements, as history has illustrated, is no mean feat, they needed a catalyst, something to get the word out - a vehicle to recruit new followers. Music. McLaren set up rock bands to transmit their style around the globe; most famously, ‘The Sex Pistols.’

It was an ingenious and groundbreaking business model, combining fashion and music. In hindsight there really was no way that they wouldn’t have reached their level of success. Every time Vivienne came out with a new ‘look’ Malcolm would set up a band to support their image, people would follow the band and find that Vivienne Westwood designed the look of every new act in the Punk World and every punk would want to look like them... the scheme always worked flawlessly, But what made it even better was that it wasn’t a business plan, it was simply the way they operated, and it worked beautifully for them.

Vivienne Westwood’s use of tartan will probably last as one of her most recognised marks on the entire punk world, no one punk can call themselves as such until they are privy to a pair of tight red tartan trousers. She was the person who brought tartan into that world; that was all her, and it’s weird to think that one particular person could have that much of an effect on an entire genre of social outcast but she did, she made it

These two designers carry with them two different eras, Chanel brought sexual and social emancipation to women through respecting the female form–instead of butchering it with corsets–and Westwood emancipated the kids who didn’t want to look like everyone else, those who were looking for a look that was all their own and that they could fully express themselves with. She gave them weird clothes that freed them of conformatism and gave them something that was fundamentally lacking in society at the time, individual identity.

Chanel passed away in august 1971, she had been the fountain of style and taste for sixty years. She died at the age of 87 having worked right up to the last day. Two months later, Vivienne and her dark prince opened ‘SEX,’ their very first boutique together at 430 King’s Road.

I LV U

For about a year now I and countless other silly people across the world have kept a digital obsession. To me, it’s superficial, light-hearted and fun; to everyone else it’s self-indulgent, annoying and distasteful.

I do not speak of those annoying 'likes' on facebook (those ambiguous jokes that dumb friend of yours keeps clicking on); I speak of Louis Vuitton; and since discovering louisvuitton.com I haven’t been able to give up my obsession with a particular 'Keepall 45 with adjustable shoulder-strap in Monogram Canvas’ I jump back to that page every few minutes some times, just checking that it’s still there, that they haven’t lowered the price nor have they sold out permanently. I stare at all £815 of that bag for hours at a time; always with the seasoned conviction of a meth addict at an Iggy fest circa ’73.

There is something about the label that means the best, whenever Louis Vuitton is flashed in front of us we end up in total awe at it, we demand to check the lining, see the proof card, hold it, grab it, squeeze it, cuddle it. But why? Essentially it’s no different from the bags you see anywhere else, my mother furtively reminds me whenever I muse about owning one. The most in-demand ones are essentially lacquered canvas with some leather stitched over it, unlike the incredibly unique look of the colourfully woven Damier Geant Canvas which was originally fabricated exclusively by Louis for the Empress of Montijo alone back in 1888. However, next to an LV monogram the Damier variant might as well be from New Look.

Everybody wants a slice of Vuitton, owning it means that you can, somehow spare to shell out hundreds of pounds simply to boast your own ability to shell out hundreds of pounds. People will do almost anything to get their hands on Vuitton, meaning that often shipping their product demands an armed convoy for its protection; unable then to procure the genuine article by force the next best thing is to resort to making their own, but for fakes they’re really good.

It was a few weeks ago when I found myself at a friend’s ‘Return from Holiday in Hong Kong’ dinner and after the second course came the knock off show-and-tell. “You’d never know, not even if you looked at the lining!” “It was only £30!” “It even got through counterfeit customs!” I was astounded, it was this season’s Boétie bag, and it was completely convincing, down to the polished LOUIS VUITTON chrome badge on the front, the buckle, the stitching, the entire thing was mind-blowingly perfect. It felt like real Vuitton, the smell of the leather, the whole bag was real, immaculate. I guess it was genuinely fake.

“You literally find shops in the shopping centre selling them” She explained loudly, her phony sitting proudly in the centre of the table. “They’ll ask you if you’re interested then they’ll usher you into a little room and show you around, or they’ll give you this catalogue and tell you I get you anything for twenty minutes, yes? And sometimes they simply stand on the side of the road yelling LOUIS VUITTON FORTY DOLLARS! FAKE DESIGNER! FAKE DESIGNER!” The last remark eliciting pealing laughter from the dinner guests.

It’s not a stretch to imagine that with the entire world screaming for Vuitton in any shape or form that LV monogrammed fakes account for nearly a fifth of all counterfeit accessories seizures in the EU alone, and some even claim that fakes could represent almost 60% of Louis Vuitton items currently in circulation right now.

I decided to chime in, when the laughter died down, and fly the flag for the real deal. “I wouldn’t ever buy a fake” A look of revulsion met me on the faces of everyone else there. “Even if no-one else ever found out, I would know. I would always know that my bag started its life in a sweatshop somewhere in China. It would never have seen the inside of a Louis Vuitton store. It would mean nothing. Having the real thing would mean that I would walk out the doors of Louis Vuitton carrying it in a Louis Vuitton carrier bag (everybody on Oxford Street would be staring at me carrying it around and think you lucky bastard.) I don’t want the bag for its iconography; I want to have earned it.” They all shut up.

I have recently given up my Vuitton-crazed habit. After months of mindless indulgence I have begun to realize that no matter how much I gawk at it I will never be able to reach into the screen and pull one out. I will never open my closet to magically find one waiting in the corner. Sadly, I really will have to earn it. Damn.

independent

Italian Vogue, Feb 2003

Steven Meisel/Linda Evangelista

BLEURGH!

Basically I'm feeling like BLEURGHBLEURGHBLEURGH because a certain BLEURGHBLEURGHBLEURGH of a person has been a BLEURGHBLEURGHBLEURGH to me in the manner of....

So I decided to ditch this BLEURGHBLEURGHBLEURGH in manner of Elizabeth Bennett and Mr Collins, however my vernaculaic powers paled in comparison to the fact that I myself felt like a BLEURGHBLEURGHBLEURGH because for some raisin I put too much gunk in my hair and because this particular BLEURGHBLEURGHBLEURGH had found some way of tricking me into taking him back despite his BLEURGHBLEURGHBLEURGH manner of treating me last time. 

And now we are...

And even though this particular BLEURGHBLEURGHBLEURGH was such a pedantic little BLEURGHBLEURGHBLEURGH to me that I should feel relieved that I no longer have to put up with him; I feel really un-evolved for having to go through the whole fiasco twice. So basically, I'm so Un-evolved that I'm a human appendix.

But this being a fashion blog (NAY! I say to blowing one's brains out all over a blog post just to relieve the malignant itch of vulnerable post-breakup-ness... NAY!) I shall leave you with the stylings of Jenny Lewis, the  babe of Rilo Kiley (They're all babes I know but she's the one with the uterus.)