Recreation: I Only Want You To Love Me

It's been a long, long time since I engaged in art as a recreational activity. The stresses of A Level removed any concept of leisure from creation. Once the purpose, the pressure of deadlines, behind making something beautiful is taken away, it becomes harder to ... motivate oneself. I haven't had any artistic agenda for over a year. And it makes me sad.

'I Only Want You To Love Me' is Miles Aldridge's photography exhibition at Somerset House. His artistic agenda is to sell fashion - namely in Italian Vogue. His femme fatales are inspired by as diverse a range of sources as Alfred Hitchcock's heroines, and the ailing Virgin Marys of Raphael's Renaissance period. They are all flawless, aloof creatures. Blatantly high fashion and yet vulnerable: 'a presentation of luxury' marred with 'vapid consumerism', write the walls of his exhibition. Wow. The deep side of the superficial ...

Miles Aldridge's 'Sasha Pivovarova'

Miles Aldridge's 'Deflated' 

Maeve and I went to visit Somerset House on Friday. I've always said the sign of great art is that one comes away wanting some piece of it for oneself. It is the ultimate evidence of influence, effective elevation from everyday drudgery. We gawked at the oh-so-Italian OTT-ness of make-up and colour, the bouffant hair, the drama of composition. We went away wanting. Primarily, we went away wanting to play dress-up.

Alice meets 'Sasha Pivovarova'

We decided our agenda would be "recreation". Simply, to re-create the style of the exhibition. (We have plenty of time on our hands.) There's no political or feminist or fashion statement, and certainly no high art. We used a bedside lamp, an SLR, and Gimp as a substitute for photoshop. (Yes - really, the software is called "Gimp". It's as great as it sounds.) More importantly, we had fun. Recreational Art: An afternoon well spent.

Sinead meets 'Deflated' 

Special thanks to: Sinead, Maeve, Alice for playing with me.

The Disposable

What goes around comes around. I was the dinosaur on school trips with my cheap, bright blue disposable camera, instead of any new or flashy family digital that took more than 27 pictures and let you see your image straight away. My mother had deemed me too brash and careless to be trusted with such up-to-date technology. Still does, really.

Now the disposable has made a come-back. The evidence is all over Facebook. What I thought desperately uncool in the prime of my youth (did I really just type that? Should I laugh or cry?) is now everything that appeals about the developed disposable: the insufferably fashionable grainy quality that David Bailey pioneered with Jean Shrimpton in 1962; and a vulnerable exposure that makes even the most bland subject matter suddenly deep and interesting (see all pictures below). However, let's face it, you can do all that shit with an iPhone these days. I, for one, managed to rack up £25 in the cost of developing these little antiquities. What's causing the resurgence?

My reckoning is Time. The waiting. And retrospection. Vintage is cool, didn't you know. And our generation in particular are culprits, perhaps, of over-digitizing our own lives. We don't wait for anything, we document everything - and broadcast our most intimate moments at their time of conception for the whole world to see. Instagram and Snapchat, etc, etc, etc. The moment isn't valued unless everyone knows we're doing it. It is catapulted into the virtual stratosphere and then lost amongst millions.

With the disposable, suddenly things are left to chance. There is something alluring and childishly exciting in picking and choosing 27 precious snapshots of time. Waiting days, weeks, months to see the outcome - and when the camera works, the flash remembered, the momentum of scatalogical movements just the right match ... a memory resurfaces. Time, truly, captured. There is something refreshing in reverting back to basics: no photoshop, no filter - just a rawness that, when it works, surpasses any other beauty. 

Amsterdam, Croatia, Portugal, London: 

Helmut Newton in Budapest

I realise that it's been ages since the last post, but my life at the moment is completely occupied with my internship, London life and socialising, so I haven’t really had the chance to write anything.  However, after a long couple of weeks I have decided to embrace this beautiful weather and spend a day in the garden – the perfect opportunity to write!

  So I have this wall at home that is completely covered in pictures I have collected over the years from magazines like Vogue, I.D., Wonderland, etc.  This wall is completely plastered top to toe in pictures and it’s taken me a bloody long time to do.  It’s a point of conversation and everyone always looks for what’s new every time they go in my room (the beauty of the wall is that they’ll be pictures that have been there for months or years and people are still only just discovering them).  Basically, my wall is fucking legend.

  ...At this point you may be wondering why the hell I am going on about my wall (it’s relevant, I promise).

  People always ask me how I choose the pictures on my wall, and I can honestly never actually give them a coherent answer.  The sources of the majority of my pictures are from fashion magazines or photographers I like, for example Robert Doisneau is a pretty consistent feature.  But the thing is, I absolutely hate it when the pictures look like a fashion picture (this is part of the reason I love Robert Doisneau so much – his photographs are so effortless and manage to perfectly capture spontaneous moments of the people of Paris without seeming contrived).  A picture only makes the wall if it catches my eye and constantly surprises me and just is the perfect fashion photograph...without looking like a fashion photograph.  Up until recently I could not have given you a reason as to why this is.  And then I visited the Helmut Newton exhibition at the Museum of Fine Art in Budapest.  I have always loved his photography, but after visiting this I realised that the man was a bloody genius.  Within seconds of entering the exhibition, there was a quote of his on the wall that perfectly summed up my thoughts when it comes to photography:

“A perfect fashion photo does not look like a fashion photo, but more like a still from a film, a portrait or a memento photo – anyhow at all, just not like a fashion photo.”

It may seem like a simple quote, but YES.  JUST YES.

  The exhibition was split into 3 sections, each representing a major part of his life and career.  First off was Private Property, an intimate series of his work from 1972-1983 that both overlapped and combined fashion, portraiture and erotica.  This work in particular was his most controversial, but it is how he made a name for himself and you can see why.  The photography is sublime.  The whole concept behind each photograph is so clearly “I don’t give a fuck” but each is executed with such nonchalant elegance that it makes the work so acutely unique. 

  The second part of the exhibition was Helmut Newton’s Illustrated which showed photographs from the magazine that he published between 1987 and 1995.  A new magazine was published, according to Newton, “whenever I feel I have something to say with my camera.”  This resulted in editions of Helmut Newton’s Illustrated named Sex and Power and True and False, investigating issues and inspirations that Newton felt the need to portray to the world through a Newton-tinted lens.  The work was similar to Private Property in the way that, despite the widespread publication of these pictures into the mainstream press, the photographs still managed to maintain the level of intimacy that became a signature of Newton’s work.

  The final section of the exhibition was A Gun For Hire, which was a collection of Newton’s photographs from several decades of working for fashion houses such as Versace, YSL, Bluemarine and magazines including Vogue.  It was in this exhibit where Newton’s adaptability was revealed.  He always cited magazines as being his “laboratory” which allowed him to experiment and try out new ideas, but he clearly always kept the client in mind.  From his classic Chanel images to the more controversial Thierry Mugler shots, the true diversity of his images and talent is so clear.

  The exhibition was the perfect summarisation of six decades of fantastic photography.  It gave an insight into the way he lived and breathed his work, and his passion to give the world something new to talk about.  His work commanded attention from everyone and was so undeniably unique that it completely changed the face of fashion photography, paving the way photographers today.  If photography is your thing, the exhibition is amazing.  When it comes to the UK, it’s 100% worth a visit.

...Holly

My Eastern European Adventure

So, I have just returned from a month of gallivanting across Eastern Europe (a.k.a. The Best Month of My Life So Far)

It was the craziest, most hilarious and non-stop month of my life and I cannot even begin to recount all that happened (parts included a perilous crossing of the Serbian border in a taxi with a driver who spoke no English – an experience that I won’t be forgetting any time soon!)

However, despite my best efforts for the sake of this blog, it wasn't particularly fashion orientated.

Embarking on the holiday, I had planned to return with expansive portfolio of Eastern European street-style made up of 11 different cities in 9 different countries.  This did not go to plan.  It was in Belgrade (a city that I realised does not get enough credit for its exquisitely nonchalant style) where I learned how truly difficult it is to communicate asking to take someone’s picture for your blog in a completely foreign language (the poor girl in question looked at me with pure terror in her eyes – I may have got slightly over-excited at her beautiful leather t-shirt and tulle midi-skirt combo)

In addition to this, before my travels I had also planned to represent British style to the max, and so continued to stuff my entire summer wardrobe into the suitcase that I would be living out of for the month.  Here, I also failed.

1.        Summer style is not my forte.  Being British, Winter is my prime style season.  Only seeing the Sun a handful of times a year causes one to immediately strip off all extraneous layers and wap on a bikini whenever the giant ball of fire appears in the sky, and so this leaves me rather unsure how to dress for it.

2.       Unfortunately, my clothes didn't all fit into my case and so I had to take into account practicality (my least favourite consideration when it comes to clothes).  This meant that not only could I not take a new outfit for every day (crycry), but I also had to consider the fact that they would be LONG, HOT days (I’m talking 34°C in a city centre with no pool to cool off in - much shade-hunting ensued).  This leads me on to...

3.       TAN LINES.  Otherwise known as THE BANE OF MY LIFE.  In Summer, tanning is my favourite hobby.  People who live in Britain will know that this is actually a lot more difficult than it sounds as we only get about 2 days of actual sun per year.  Therefore, the only serious tanning you can get is on holiday.  On a beach holiday this is fine and dandy.  When you’re spending the month wandering around cities where it isn't socially acceptable to walk around in a bikini unless you look like Gisele Bündchen, tanning is a lot more difficult.  As a result, when packing for a back-packing holiday potential tan lines must be considered.  Want to wear that gorgeous vintage floral summer dress that you bought especially?  No chance!  Not unless you want a chest whiter than snow and oh-so-fetching two-tone arms where the sleeves cut off.  And so this is how Levi cut-offs and vest tops became my new staples, turning me into a generic clothes zombie.  This made me sad.  But not as sad as awkward tan lines, so I got over it pretty quickly.

4.       It became obvious pretty quickly that living out of a suitcase causes clothes to become extremely lack-lustre.  Doing all my washing when I got home, I had never been more thankful for an iron in my life.

To sum up; this holiday was not the most successful in terms of fashion.  I would have cared, BUT I WAS BACK-PACKING ACROSS EASTERN EUROPE FOR A MONTH AND IT WAS BLOODY AMAZING.  The best experience of my life so far.  Totally and indescribably amazing.  If you want to do it, work and work in whatever job you can find until you can afford to go.

I would recount all my fantastic tales but that would take forever and a day, and so I provide you with a picture from each place I discovered.

...Holly

SPLIT, Croatia

ZAGREB, Croatia

BELGRADE, Serbia

BUDAPEST, Hungary

KRAKOW, Poland

BRATISLAVA, Slovakia

VIENNA, Austria

PRAGUE, Czech Republic

MUNICH, Germany

BERLIN, Germany

AMSTERDAM, The Netherlands

Lunch in Soho

Well. Well, well. I HAVE slacked on the promise of internship anecdotes. I apologise. Technically, I finished my internship before I even started this measly update for you - it was only a month long. HOWEVER, never fear - they've kept me on as a production assistant and now, lo and behold, they're PAYING me! Argh!

While most days have been a whirlwind of budgets, script breakdowns and networking, today I am simply babysitting the office. That's right - the entire office has jetted off to Cannes festival. And because everyone in the industry is also in Cannes, the phone has rung ONCE in, like, five hours. Ha.

Watch a film, my boss said. In a film production office that somehow has not one DVD. Hmm ... what to do? I'm thinking of the falafel cafe down Old Compton Street ...

Ok, skip forward an hour: welcome to my illegible and inaccurate map of Old Compton Street and vicinity! But, hey, at least the office has Sharpies.

Because everyone at my internship is so wonderfully nice and generous, I have, until today, been let loose into Soho with £5 lunch expenses for an hour - which, of course, is every intern's right but not reality.

I'm a sucker for all food, and especially all food sold in unique(ish) and independent(ish) outlets. Bearing in mind I've been too lazy to stroll into any of the cool places such as the Seven Dials or Kingly Street, etc, here are my top eateries for anyone who may be working in/passing through this particular area of Soho. Think £5 budget, give or take a couple of quid.

In no particular order of preference:

1. Bar Italia, Frith Street
             Like, the best latte ever. Ever. Tacky, tiny, entrenched and always busy. Open 24
             hours. Watch out for: their vintage 1950s cashier tills.

2. Maoz, Old Compton Street
             Fresh-fried falafel in gluten-free pittas with hummus, avocado, etc, etc, etc. So.
             Good. Watch out for: the free salad-y bits you can get from the salad bar as comps. Treat
             like a buffet if you're feeling cheeky.

3. Joe & The Juice, Old Compton Street
             Ok, so there are a fair few of these scattered around but it's no Starbucks. The smoothies
             are great, the staff always cute and the pink pinkness of each eaterie is cheery on a bleary
             summer's day such as this one.

4. Vitao, Wardour Street
             OMG, Vitao is amazing. It's vegan and organic, blah, blah, and just so good. All the food is
             made and served in large metal pan-dish things so if you want to be cool and authentic,
             Bob's your uncle.

5. Cafe el Buen Gusto, Frith Street
             Tiny cafe on the cheaper side of the Soho price bracket. Great, great bread stuff. Watch
             out for: each and every order being made fresh (and quickly) before your eyes.

6. Lick, Greek Street
              Good ice cream, as they come. Little bit pricey, but the lychee flavour is worth it.

7. Tuscanic, Old Compton Street
              Considering Old Compton Street is essentially London's little Italy, and this is the best
              pizza in the area, you can believe it's bloody good pizza. Last I had was grated courgette
              with added  mozzarella, finished off in the oven as you order. And if she asks if you want
              salt and pepper on top, say yes. Trust me, the littlest things make all the difference.

8. Paul A. Young Fine Chocolates, Wardour Street
              Sometimes you don't need lunch. Sometimes you need chocolate. Expensive as, but even if
              you steal in for the samples, hmm-hmmm.

9. Gelato, Old Compton Street
              To be perfectly honest, I don't even know if this place is called 'Gelato'. But they sell it,
              and that much is obvious - let's call a rose a rose, shall we? Consult my trust map. Besides,
              that was about the only word my brain had capacity for at the time. It was that good.

10. Tesco, Dean Street
               I know, I know, it seemed a good joke at time of drawing ... just in case spontaneity or
               funds fail you, at least there's a hearty Tesco around the corner.

I'll leave you with a sincerer promise of more regular updates in future, and the thanks for having killed a couple of hours for me (the phone still hasn't rung ...) ... ...
Hannah

GRADUATEFASHIONWEEK13

               Forgive my blatant enthusiasm (appreciate fashion is supposed to be nonchalant and all) but I just LOVE things like this. Graduate Fashion Week, 2nd-5th June at Earl's Court 2, was catwalk shows, designer exhibitions and social forum all in one. A mammoth effort of over forty universities finally coming together in four days of oozing innovation. All in all, a very cool crowd of Bright Young Things.

               My shitty pictures don't quite capture the degree of colour, ethereality or sheer energy invested in the Edinburgh College of Art designs. Shauni Douglas's (above right) and Melissa Thwaites's (below right), pull off the blasé, somehow, despite the extravagance that has gone into their collections: layers and layers of vibrant lace; mouthpiece moustaches and woollen horsewhips. I happen to appreciate the illusion, having worn Melissa's collection in previous shows and often run headless chicken-esque towards the catwalk (chest gaping, I may add) so she could do up the intricate layers of material in time. Ha!

           

                Outside the catwalk theatre, exhibition hubs positively buzz with their hundred low-light lamps installed against the cavernous darkness of the domed ceiling of Earl's Court 2; the atmosphere is pretty electric. Mannequins and hangers and large white tables boast collections that are selling for hundreds of pounds. Portfolios come beautifully in the form of newspapers, printed artbooks, specialist zines, telling stories through sketches, photoshoots - and hinting by the thickness of the binds at just how many long days and long, long nights went into these degrees. In return, the fashion world is rewarding the young innovators with something it doesn't give lightly: Time. One example is Henry Holland's Henry Holland himself, who visits and gives question time. In the middle of it all, bottled Aspall ciders tantalize at the bar - my favourite; Perfect. It feels chiquely, sheepishly exclusive.             

               This is despite the fact that, actually, Rose and I got our tickets for free. Stepping out of the tube and onto Earl's Court territory, free Coca-Colas were a smug perk. Complimentary programmes and goody bags were the cherry on top. Even those who paid for a ticket were only £12 out of pocket. Again, Graduate Fashion Week plays its illusion - the fine line between the aesthetics of the clothes and the ardour of the designers. The Week is refreshing because it embraces the concepts of inclusion, youth, hard work, without sacrificing the fashion industry's notions of exclusivity, timelessness and nonchalance.

              I'm not even a prospective recruit or whatever. I just went because (being honest) I could go for free, and I wanted to see the hard work of friends paid off. But there is something so electric about watching hard work come together beautifully, and know that the adult world has decided it is worth time, money and effort. I love things like this because days of such creativity and excitement, in whatever field and with whatever crowd, are the ones I aim towards while I sit at my desk and procrastinate.

Meet Me On The Way ...

Meaning meet us:   

-          Holly and Hannah.  Young (women? – are we allowed to say that yet?) going on 20.

-          1^st year of Uni = Check.

-          Enthusiasts for fashion, drinking (we’re working on the classy part.  Neither part-time income allows for full-time cocktails), and culture.  We live by that old work hard, play hard ethic.

-          As we write this, our first blog (from opposite ends of Britain – now that’s teamwork!), I (Holly) am packing up all of my worldly possessions to leave my first year of university, and I (Hannah) am chilling – quite literally, as in chilled to the bone and wrapped within three layers of wool and leather – in the farce of southern summer (i.e. hail).

The Way forward ...

Over the past year we’ve met a lot of beautiful creatures: fantastic, zany – often drunken – people who we are fortunate enough to call friends (including each other, partners-in-crime and now co-bloggers). And we’ve moved *insert cliché here* a step or two upwards on the great ladder of life.

This summer the intention is to keep up the trend as best we can.  We’re emptying our pockets on plane/train tickets and internships.  Fortunately, blogging, photography, beauty and interaction are free.

The Plan:

Away from the hubbub of our new home, cue exuberant city of Edinburgh, Holly’s gallivanting across Europe with a precious Interrail ticket. Hannah’s got an internship with a film production company in Soho. Then we’re colliding again in London - courtesy of the Oliver family - when Holly migrates from Manchester to take on an internship at fashion designer Roksanda Illincic. Should be a pretty good, pretty skint, and pretty hot summer (us naive dreamers refuse to believe there won’t be sun).

So we propose to you, let’s meet each other on the way:  Expect a documentation of everything we love. Enjoy – and contribute! In the vast and easy inbetween of Internet, in the great unknown cities of Europe, in the summer of London’s parks, bars and shops, on the bottom rungs of Career Ladders, going up. Hope to see you around.