On Beauty

Beauty is a quality almost as subjective as political preference. It is celebrated by some, criticized by others and judged by many. It also gains considerable coverage in the national press, with columns devoted to quantifying and analyzing what it means.

An opinion is one of the best things to formulate and then own – it belongs exclusively to the individual. No one can take it away or change it, but merely argue an alternative view. However, it sometimes bears remembering that an opinion is just the viewpoint of one, single person. That writer or speaker filters everything according to her or his perception – including the notion of beauty.

Physically speaking, beauty is often linked with a symmetry of features, or a certain ratio between the waist and hips. The word itself is a starting flag, signaling thoughts of models, actors and muses. It suggests not only an appearance unlike the norm, but also some kind of special status.

We increasingly live in a society driven by the visual. Our days are filled with images, whether on the pages of a magazine or through idle clicks across the internet. A select few of these photos may be considered to be pleasing or beautiful as an art form – perhaps a portrait taken by Irving Penn, or a magnificent flight of fancy assembled by Tim Walker. However, the relentless exposure to snaps of other individuals invites us to become judges of appearance, whether we want to or not. 

The media, particularly magazines devoted to celebrity gossip feed voraciously on a process of belittling. It's present in the faux-worried headlines about weight loss or subsequent gain; in the red circles high-lighting sweat patches and cellulite; in the picture shows of “fashion do’s and don’ts”. This intends to point up that those with extraordinary looks or a successful career in the public eye are just human, and yet any evidence of their similarities to you or I is something to judge. Their small realities apparently deserve ridicule. Is it a primal, tribal desire to elevate our sense of self at the expense of others? Such media features are the equivalent of a sugar rush following a greasy doughnut – initially satisfying, plugging some hole that isn’t quite a hunger (more a want), but leaving an unpleasant queasiness.

I saw an exhibition of Norman Parkinson’s photos in Bristol recently. If you're in the area then it's well worth setting aside a morning to enjoy the docks with their latticework of cranes, and then soak up the exuberance of Parkinson’s images at the M Shed. While slowly padding from one print to another, I had two separate streams running through my head. The first was just a variation on the theme of “Beautiful! Beautiful! I want to take photos like this! Beautiful! I feel inspired!” The second was an inner commentary not only on the varying ages and sizes of some of the models, but also on their tangible real-ness. They were undoubtedly beautiful, and yet in a more attainable manner. Figures and teeth weren’t always uniform, but to my eye at least, that merely increased the effect of their appearance.

An argument has emerged in recent years – the rallying call for the ‘real woman’. This epitome of what a woman should be is apparently neither too large nor thin, too tall nor small, neither too flat-chested nor well-endowed. In short, this ‘real woman’ is as much of a mythical ideal as a young, super-slender model (the topic of modeling is one I intend to return to in another post). Such a process of valuing one type of look above another is as damaging as unrealistic, photo-shopped advertising. Some women have hips. Others don’t. I have recently made the transition from latter to former. Both hip measurements are as real as each other. To suggest otherwise infers that there is only one perfect way to appear, and if a woman is a natural UK size six, then she is likely to be denigrated by some as a mere figment – perhaps constructed from gossamer and air, tied with string. This approach, in which either Christina Hendricks’ incredible curves are celebrated over Erin O’Conor’s tall grace, or vice versa, reduces both aforementioned women to their dress sizes, rather than celebrating them for their achievements, their skills, and yes, their beauty. Both occupy different ideals of beauty and neither is more valid than the other. Besides, they are both as real as the next woman. The real ‘Real Woman’ is every female, irrespective of shape, size, height, colour or appearance.  

Current ideals also suggest that beauty is ephemeral – a fleeting quality to be enjoyed while it lasts. I beg to differ. The fulfilling concept of internal beauty lasts for life, and furthermore, one can look incredible at any age. Admittedly it's not the kind of beauty that yields modeling contracts (unless we’re talking about the amazing Daphne Selfe), but is perhaps better encapsulated in the adjective “extraordinary”. It's the beauty that fascinates a portrait photographer - present in the expressions, in the eyes, in the animation, the dignity and in the lines that fall across the face like shadows of past experiences.

I hope as I age to inhabit my face in all its stages, and never to fall foul of the myth that only youth is beautiful. The human face is extraordinary in all its forms and manifestations, and thus deserves to be celebrated.

This post was inspired by a visit to the Bath Fashion Museum last summer with family friends, where we had the chance to try on corsets and crinolines. The idea of corseting caused me to reflect on the role that fashion plays in deeming what is beautiful and what is not – and how much we have bent to the whims of appearance over the years (and how often those whims change). I could hardly breathe in my corsetry!

The Importance of Wearing Clothes - the Fru-Gal Challenge

The minute the ‘Red Carpet’ rolls out in an article then the expectation will be one of lavish dresses – their hems sweeping the scarlet surface as cameras pop and flash. Each ensemble is praised, belittled and analysed by the media, as galleries of who-wore-what-best spring up like clumps of snowdrops across the internet. The merry-go-round season of BAFTAs and Oscars allows for more than a little dressing up – with some indulging in the ruffles and labels, while others foam that such a thing might be allowed or even enjoyed!

However, what image does ‘Green Carpet’ evoke? Aside from colour blindness, it is the brilliant initiative of Livia Firth – (married to Colin Firth) an eco-extraordinaire. The premise of her ‘Green Carpet Challenge’ is deceptively simple and rather canny. Every time she emerges to attend this awards ceremony or that premiere, she is clad in something sustainable – whether it is a bespoke Paul Smith ethical tailored tuxedo or a creation whipped up by Orsola de Castro. Where better to promote this very green offshoot of the industry than somewhere surrounded by cameras, lenses and rapid shutter speeds - guaranteeing coverage? Livia’s statement is visual – promoting something she is passionate about in every picture that is published. She also blogs for Vogue about her experiences, and has embarked on a campaign to encourage design houses to dwell a little more on the impact of the clothes they produce. She is integrating ethical with the mainstream, which is perhaps the only way to initiate change – or at least to widen the audience. She is also Creative Director of the excellent website Eco-Age, where I recently completed the Fru-Gal challenge – spending five days wearing nothing but vintage, second hand and ethical clothes. It wasn’t a hard challenge for me, as that is my usual source of dressing anyway. The results can be seen in the pictures threaded throughout this post (for the sources of the clothes please see the wonderful website itself).

The clothes we wear can be a declaration of sorts. Even those who claim to be ‘above’ fashion (as though this is some kind of cloudy moral high plateau where only those in the baggiest of fleeces are allowed) still have to make some kind of a decision as to what to wear each morning – their choice to resolutely stand with their back to the industry being as much a statement as the latest Mulberry bag. Like it or not, we do not wander through life naked. Uniforms denote jobs, schools and clubs. Teenagers adopt mohair jumpers and messy hair to assert individuality. Evening gowns give us the chance to play at peacocks - but unlike birds, who are stuck with one type of plumage, we have countless, colourful opportunities.

Clothes can make us tribal; clothes can set us apart; clothes are part of the impression we give of ourselves to those around us. According to Carlyle in Sartor Resartus (as quoted in Lawrence Langner’s ‘The Importance of Wearing Clothes’) “Man’s earthly interests are hooked and buttoned together and held up by clothes.” This fascinating (although very dated) book charts the significance that clothes hold for all of us. Langner summed it up as follows: “clothes came to play an important role in the progress of civilization and all its cultural aspects; religion, government, sexual habits, social conduct and behavior, the performing and visual arts, and most other branches of human endeavour”. 

For Livia Firth, the branch of human endeavour is the sustainable fashion sector. Their presence can be felt at London Fashion Week in the Estethica exhibition, while Oxfam have organized the Good Fashion Show to further promote their admirable aims. I will be blogging for Oxfam from LFW, and have been writing for them for several months. You can read my pieces here. To steal a line from my last article for them - "alongside harnessing the multitude of resources of the past through charity shops, it is likewise important to buy from sustainable brands and producers so as to ensure a socially and environmentally sounder future."

Taffeta - a photo story

This is another in my occasional series of photo stories completed with the gorgeous Ellen, who has previously dressed up as characters that include a zombie and a rather inebriated member of the aristocracy....

Taffeta

I’m sure that I hardly need to retell the macabre story of Lady Sienna Taffeta – nicknamed ‘Snow White’ by the tabloids as they dusted the fingerprints off every detail of her life, right down to the white dress she was wearing on the day she was ‘lost’ in the woods. But perhaps it bears mentioning that the reason for that vividly recounted incident started with a photo. A small, black and white over-exposed snap in the Royal Mirror of a girl with delicate features and a starburst tiara, with the caption: “Is this the fairest of them all?”  The hollow question triggered indescribable, psychotic rage in Sienna’s stepmother Queen Frustra. Rage so great that the tabloids circled like seagulls around the sordid transactions that followed: the hiring of a swift dispatch; the shocking survival and the dramatic rescue. The pages shimmered with hyperbole. The Royal Mirror vied with ‘Oi!’ and ‘Good Day!’ to offer dizzying fees for exclusive photos of the eagerly anticipated wedding with the charming hero – a young prince who combined his royal duties with modeling and DJing at exclusive events. Then the shock - the sudden severing of the fairytale. Ms. Taffeta (it was reported) had run away!  She had disappeared from the arched eyebrow of the media with only a suitcase and a pair of buttoned boots.

If Sienna had wanted to ‘tell all’, then the truth would have been brutal:

“Prince was just in the right place at the right time. He stumbled across that silly glass coffin of mine. Quite literally. Fell into it. That kiss was purely accidental. In return he expects absolute adoration.” She could picture the trajectory - just a photogenic face that could rest on his shoulder and stroke his fringe when he suffered from chronic self-doubt.

Two events fuelled the escape. The first was an unflattering image of Sienna in a bikini on a front page, complete with an editorial of gleeful concern about her ‘already fluctuating weight’. The second was meeting Prince’s parents, in an enforced weekend of photo opportunities. She measured her way through the first evening, counting each breath and blink steadily. She smiled whilst mentally packing a trunk. However, in the skittering chaos of her small window of opportunity (and an even smaller window to fit through), she made a mistake. Instead of the practical necessities – soft knitted jumpers, oilskins, sensible boots – several train rides later she found herself pulling out pastel dresses and purple gloves with dismay. No comforting copies of Angela Carter or Carol Ann Duffy among the puddle of lace and froth. No cooking pot or grille pinched from the over-staffed kitchen of her almost-parents-in-law (that possibility sent a spasm through her gut). No newly sharpened Swiss Army pen-knife.

At least these woods were as well known to her as a sister – the temperaments of the wind and the characteristics of each tree being predictable, safe. It was nice to fend for herself without the hassle of seven small, irascible men to cook and clean for. That time had been so far from independent she had been almost grateful for the rather deadly after effects of that sickly, lipstick-red apple cocktail. Now she could pull her grey cloak around her neck, and listen to the unexpected echoes of birds. It would be easy enough to make a den, weaving the branched walls with leaves and bracken. The luggage would be unpacked, perhaps hung on whittled hooks, and stored in stony corners.

It was a brittle winter – the trees wet green in the mornings as light coloured the sky. Water was fetched from the nearby stream, where Sienna would check her traps. Her diet was mainly composed of pheasants, turnips and winter beets scavenged from the fields around. Fruit was a luxury of summer, to be anticipated. Gradually she stopped tensing her shoulders and snapping her head at the hacking cough of faraway tractors. She pottered, layering all her clothes to keep warm, looking after the fire pit – supplying handfuls of twigs that sparked and crackled in the heat. Her purple tinted hair stuck out from under the floral fascinator; she curled her toes in the mud-crusted boots. 

Somewhere, a prince was slouching on a throne – yellow velvet, with gold tassels. Tapping his manicured nails, he gave curt one-liners to the journalists lining up to ask him about his latest perfume – ‘Heartbreak’ – and sent them scurrying through the large doors. Sixty miles away, Sienna ducked out of her shelter’s hidden entrance. The air was as crisp as a paper bag, and ready to fold itself around whatever she decided to do. She might listen to the squeak of her steps in snow, while drinking coffee (the only small luxury that had successfully survived her flight from Mansion Avenues). She could sink down into the iced grass and think about the book she had rescued from a train station rubbish bin. Or she could visit her favourite tree - a dependable green fir that she could sit on and survey her domain. It truly was majestic. 

Dodecahedron

Serendipity is rare – that’s what makes it special. It’s the moment when you bump into someone you know from a different country - in the middle of London, or find out that a girl from your school knows a blogger friend of yours who lives several hundred miles away. Perhaps serendipity is mostly characterised by place or distance, and the coincidence of personal connections. However, it can also arrive in an email…

This specific email was one from a singer I had taken photos of at the Big Chill in 2010. Her name was Beth Jeans Houghton. I had noticed her glance at me as I raised my camera – standing between two professional, male photographers who were competing with the length of their lenses. The resulting portrait was posted on my blog here (she has knack for always looking extraordinary). I had circled Beth Jeans Houghton & The Hooves of Destiny in the festival leaflet as sounding interesting – I knew nothing about their music before I watched the set. It was good though, really good. I was impressed. This was an unexpected highlight that led to downloading of their EP a few days later and I listened to it repeatedly during August and the autumn months. At some point over those summer holidays a rather intriguing message arrived in my inbox.

“Are you the girl with the camera in front of the stage during our set at Big Chill?” 

I replied that yes, yes I was! It emerged that a friend of hers had sent her a link to my blog, thinking that she may like it, and Beth then saw my mention of her. We’ve stayed in sporadic contact ever since, ranging across subjects from my surgery and GCSE’s to her tours and various features. It’s the nearest I’ve ever crept to having an occasional pen friend. We’ve never met in person, although I’m just waiting for a tour date to come near enough for that to change.

Somewhere along the way she sent me a demo of her album. The album that comes out tomorrow –  that has been among the most played on my iPod for the last year and a bit. It’s called “Yours Truly, Cellophane Nose” and Beth’s voice simply soars among the tracks. I have already seen favourable reviews in NME and the Guardian, and am certain that a deluge of critical acclaim will follow.

(photo by me)

The first thing that struck me about the album is how cohesive it is. The songs float and fit smoothly together from start to end - even though individually they're very different. They evoke a sense of escapism, like snapshots or a collection of small narratives. I’m not a music journalist (tried and failed to learn four different instruments) – I can’t tell you what musical techniques she and the band are using, or give an entirely critical opinion. Furthermore, sounds, like smells, often evoke specific memories. This means that my experience of listening to the album will be distinctly different to that of someone playing it for the first time. I received the CD, with a lovely little typed note in December 2010 when I was spending the majority of my time lying on our grey sofa in the living room, following spinal surgery. My back was still heavy and stiff; the purple seam of a raw scar newly sewn. It began snowing that first afternoon of listening, and it fitted perfectly – flakes outside; spangly, beautiful music spiraling in the warm. 

Whilst playing it, I was also in the process of reading Owen Sheers’ ‘Resistance’ – a stunning, tangled book about an alternate WWII and the impact on a group of isolated women in the Welsh hills. I am yet to see the film, and I don’t know if it was the influence of the book, or simply Beth’s talent, but the songs on the album appeared to encapsulate a real wildness. They make me want to ride horses and run down hills in the wind. Or at least, take photos of her doing that!

 I think my favourite track might be ‘Barely Skinny Bone Tree’. It is incredibly atmospheric and shivery – a truly haunting song. However, others that induce that sense of exhilaration are Humble Digs, Atlas, Night Swimmer and Veins. You can listen to Lilliput here. They are in turn rousing or dreamy - her voice rising and falling like a skylark, accompanied by a multitude of instruments.

The album glitters – and so as a homage, does the outfit I am wearing here. I wanted to try to capture a little of the theatricality of Beth’s - and The Hooves of Destiny's - music, whilst retaining the more untamed element (easy enough living where I do!) So it was on with a metallic sixties zig-zag robe I bought in a vintage shop a little while ago. I felt that gold hotpants (ranking among the best Christmas present received this year!) were also highly appropriate, especially when paired with a purple silk pyjama top. The belt was my grandma's, the array of rings are vintage (many from family) and the shoes are from Next - the heels were appropriately muddy by the time we finished. 

Although I already own an early copy of the album, I am so much looking forward to buying the vinyl after tomorrow's release.  

In praise of Vivienne Westwood

I wish I could say that this jacket is a Vivienne Westwood – it’s not, but I connect red tartan indelibly with her designs. The history of Vivienne Westwood’s career and life is as well known and worn as one of her coveted blazers or dresses. It invariably starts with her relationship with Malcolm McLaren, and the shop they opened on King’s Road as the punk movement took tentative Doc Marten-clad steps forward. The look they popularised, which was ripped, zipped and held together with safety pins, is now both recognisable and iconic. The equally well-known Pirates collection followed, and she is still a flame-haired force both within and outside the industry today. There are other supposedly infamous facts shot through so many articles like arrows – collecting an OBE while knicker-less; her famously outspoken nature; a husband twenty-five years her junior. However, to distill Westwood to these specific moments is to make a rough line drawing of a richly vibrant and colourful character. It doesn’t take into account how literate and smart she is, or how she is the best advocate for not giving a damn for what others think. There’s also that inexhaustable talent when it comes to designing clothes – a talent that has won her accolades, awards and a large number of fans in well-draped dresses.

Her stridently expressed views often appear contradictory – who else would suggest "don't buy clothes" whilst simultaneously sating a demand for tailoring and t-shirts? However, her views on the overblown scale of consumerism do bear thinking about. I often find myself questioning the conundrum of a deep interest in the world of fashion when examined in the context of certain moral and ethical issues. There is no clear answer, but perhaps like Westwood, it is a question of balance. Alongside presenting shows in both London and Paris, she has also collaborated with the Ethical Fashion Program to produce a set of bags that are “holistic” in their approach to sustainable style – providing jobs for women in extreme poverty. 

For of course, this is a woman willing to champion the cause of Occupy London, with their just criticism of the malpractice of the bankers - with their bonuses and boats and lack of awareness of the damage wreaked on a fragile economy. She has also donated to Rainforest charity Cool Earth, advocated the Refugee Council, pushed for a plastic-bag free London and supported both Liberty and CND. This is a woman with passionate beliefs. It soaks through her blog, demonstrating the power of an active and engaged mind. For someone like me, who is interested in the cerebral and aesthetic, there is something immensely heartening in seeing the phrase “art lovers unite”. One can imagine her shouting it with a smile.

I hate to suggest that she is defined by her “British”-ness – a term that now conjures up little more than tea cups, union jacks and red phone boxes. But when one places Westwood alongside some of the other designers produced by this country – Christopher Bailey, the late Alexander Mcqueen, Stella McCartney and Hannah Macgibbon to name just a few of the great and good – they are all are marked out not by any degree of similarity, but by their difference in approach, however unorthodox. However, they are perhaps united in once sense – their clothes will always stay memorable.

Westwood holds significance for me in that she was the first ‘proper’ designer I encountered. I have no idea where or how I found out about her work and general antics, but there is photographic proof that aged ten or eleven, I was really embracing the ripped and ruined look. I used to keep a large basket of fabric scraps under my bed, ready to cut, wrap or tie into Barbie clothes (my feminist mum was only going to allow Barbies into the house if there was a certain level of creativity involved). The contents of the basket slowly altered to include a number of old shirts and unwanted items of clothing that I could ‘customise’ with glee for myself. Inspired by what I thought a 'punk' might wear, I snipped away at a horrible sports t-shirt until there was little left beyond the seams, and then wore it with tights cut off at the knee and a section of fabric tied around my waist as a skirt. It wasn’t particularly precocious though – I am still faintly embarrassed to look at the resulting photos of that outfit. But one needs those flickers of creativity. Not only do they form the basis for cheerful memories – but also without some over-excitement with the scissors and glitter glue, who knows whether I would ever have thought of the possibilities of the sewing machine. Admittedly my pattern cutting skills are limited to the point of non-existence, but perhaps Vivienne Westwood, in some convoluted way, contributed to my ability to make a great gathered skirt out of my grandma’s curtains.

My mum bought the jacket in a charity shop (thinking “Ooh, that reminds me of VW!”) as a Christmas present for me. The long grey dress is also second hand, from a Bristol charity shop in Clifton. The gold torque was another Christmas present from a flea market, and the often-featured belt was my paternal grandmother’s. The shoes are vintage (and now very muddy) Pierre Cardin from eBay. On a final note, one can’t mention Vivienne Westwood without providing a link to Pearl’s blog – who, as well as being something of an authority on all things Westwood-design related, also has an extensive and enviably beautiful collection of her designs.  

Stripes and strife

I’m sure there are plenty of action movies where the Sergeant shouts at his troops to “GO, go, go, go, go!”? That’s increasingly what the process behind shoots for this blog resemble - entirely thanks to the weather. The first time my mum and I attempted to take photos of this vintage dress, we emerged from and scurried back to the car three or four times as squalls passed overhead. The foul conditions resulted in the first ever scrapping of a set of photos (the only one deemed useable can be found at the bottom of the text). The ones pictured above were the result of trying again today, after suddenly remembering the perfect spot with a made-for-photos Morris Minor backdrop that we could dash off to. Of course the recently arrived vintage grey boots found on eBay only served to re-inspire the outfit, and luckily we were spared any puddles that might have ruined the heels. It was a distinctly more successful experience than the previous attempt.

Rain and drizzle have permeated the last few months. This year our New Year’s Day walk involved stubbornly tramping up the bracken-dusted side of a local beauty spot, with wellies and two anoraks apiece. It was amusing to observe how many other families were as hardy as we – the car park was packed, and the hill dotted with the bright circles of umbrellas. And yet, there was a sense of achievement in standing at the top of the slope, balancing on slippery rocks as the wind gusted. Even the heavy clouds didn’t detract from the rippling view of fields.  As we shared out rather meagre rations of chocolate, I was reminded of one of my favourite memories of recent years…

 A few summers ago, tired of complaints about the endless damp, my friend Ellen and I decided to pursue an alternative approach. We embraced the previously moaned-at rain by bundling ourselves up in cardigans and raincoats (a full-length holly green one in my case), slipping on boots and heading out for a rainy picnic. We had a backpack between us, stuffed with flasks of hastily made tea, crisps and half a packet of biscuits. We had no specific plan of action other than to wander, coats pulled tight, until we found a suitable spot to sit and enjoy our treats. After skirting the edge of a field and debating the suitability of a bridge, we instead settled under the shelter of a large oak tree. There we sat, letting the tea burn our lips while we talked. It must have been rather chilly, but I can’t remember much beyond the sound of the rain drumming like fingers on our umbrella roof – although I can distinctly recall the nasty feeling of pulling off damp jeans after we jumped in every single puddle we passed on the way back.

But, nice as the rain was then, I don’t have much patience the rest of the time (yes, I'm really fulfilling the British stereotype here!) Especially not when I’ve got all dressed up – from hair to heels – and driven to the top of the hill behind my house for some quick photos. It's invariably likely that, even if it has been mild all day, the drops will begin to descend the moment my mum pops off the lens cap. Either that, or the carefully thought out hair will suddenly acquire a halo of frizz thanks to the wind. Another element to add to this unpleasant scenario is the cold. I typically like to romanticize winter during the summer – thinking of the swans that huddle together on the sequinned ice of the nearby lake; of the temporary suspension of normal life when snow falls; of the glow one feels in the warm living room while reading. Do you know what none of those pleasant images takes account of? The seeping cold - not the crisp type associated with snow, but the lurking chill that means you're never quite wearing enough layers. And at the other end of the spectrum there's the heat of the fire, which although comforting to begin with, can lead to sluggishness that leaves motivation lacking. I think we often like to pine for other seasons - with very selective memories – picking the choicest moments to recall. For me, winter is encapsulated in a walk my dad and I took two years ago where the frost was as thick as fabric, transforming each tree into a scribble of white lines.   

However, at least winter allows for unashamed imagination and dressing up (vintage accessories galore!) – with my ‘look’ here being a kind of Venn diagram between Twiggy, sixties girl-about-town and Jean Shrimpton. I’m looking forward to seeing ‘We’ll Take Manhattan’ (a dramatization of the relationship between Shrimpton and the photographer David Bailey) on the BBC later this week. 

(Only useable photo from the first attempt a couple of weeks ago, in which I decided that I should never wear my hair in a ponytail ever again)

All I need is a Train Ticket - and a Time Machine

Many my age might see a gap year as release from the extensive time spent controlled by term dates and exams. Thus I have friends who want to travel to America, Australia and India. The basic requirement is to be somewhere - anywhere - other. I wonder how many pupils, during an interminable Geography lesson on rainfall levels in Brazil, have found themselves studying those laminated World maps that curl on a wall or display board. The pastel coloured countries, adorned with names and black circles showing faraway cities where millions of people work and sleep and eat and laugh and argue, appear hugely more exciting than the basics of learning about hill-sheep farming. In Britain at least, years seven to nine (roughly from the age of eleven to fourteen) are a ripe time for cultivating such imagination – because not much really happens in the curriculum.

Modern travel makes adventure-based wishes easy and relatively straightforward (if one discounts airline-associated stress and working to save up for the ticket). Desire is in part stimulated by some kind of nagging feeling that there are bigger, better things if a border is crossed or a new continent plunged into. It’s no surprise that the idea of travel or working abroad is popular with teenagers. We’ve spent, on average, fourteen years following strict rules that often have little resemblance to the way the rest of life works… My educational trajectory was one in which I adored my village primary school (where we had the grand total of forty pupils – all of us tearing around the playground playing ‘tag’ or ‘stuck in the mud’); was fairly dissatisfied in all but a few inspirationally taught subjects at my state secondary (that was judged ‘unsatisfactory’ by Ofsted in my penultimate year); then landed finally at my state sixth form college. Here the considerable pressures and commitments are tempered by passionate teachers and subjects of genuine interest. Right now, with exams in the next two days, coupled with a nationwide education system geared towards tightly timed essays that tick all the right boxes (as opposed to promoting an actual interest in knowledge and learning) I have been left wanting to escape. Just a flight of fancy as the chill of January and relentless study becomes undeniable.

I’ve read classic travel books (specifically Laurie Lee and Patrick Leigh Fermor), watched films set against dizzying vistas and, like many before me, fantasized about the goings-on beyond the cold seas of this small country. However, my notion of travel was – and still is - largely romantic; primarily informed by literature and tales from previous decades. I tend to imagine Orient Express style sleeper trains that will deliver me to the Onion domes of a Moscow inhabited by the characters of Anna Karenina or members of the Ballet Russes – rather than RyanAir and fractious hours bickering with family members when the plane is delayed. I want to travel with monogrammed trunks rather than an ugly (but ultimately practical) suitcase, or alternately rely on the kindness of strangers while wandering through Europe. Such ideas are now just wisps of smoke – pretty to look at, but quite impossible to grab hold of and physically experience.

Travel has been globalised. At first glance, this appears completely positive. And to some extent it is – I doubt that without technological advances my family would have managed to visit my grandma in the glacial expanses of Alaska, or enjoyed the kind of European week-long holidays that are possible. I am of course grateful for these advantages, but there is still a tinge of another feeling – not exactly sadness, but a kind of longing for something never experienced, something that existed seventy or eighty years previously. Wherever travel takes us now, there are invariably the drooping arches of a McDonalds – with Ibiza going as far as to provide a giant facsimile of the British high street on a Saturday night.

My notion of a journey imagines total immersion in another culture. Does that still exist? When I was complaining to a friend about my desire to go around the world in 80 days (but with the aid of a time machine), she suggested that one just had to search further afield. Is this the case? Is it still possible to emulate the kind of voyages that great writers and adventurers embarked on? Or has technology not only removed some of the challenge, but some of the spirit of such a trip? Maybe it's the curse of the human race to assume that anything other than our immediate experience is going to be better – whether this means another county, or in my case, another time.

In a homage to a Russia that has probably never actually existed (apart from in folk stories), here is an outfit with embroidery and large skirts aplenty. The stunning blazer is Moschino, formerly owned by and then given to me by my fabulous Fairy Godmother (along with the hair clip), and I added a vintage taffeta skirt that once belonged to my mum – she bought it from a jumble sale. The tights are actually two separate pairs, with the adjoining legs tied together and tucked out of sight, while the shoes were from a charity shop. 

Also, I was immensely pleased to be told that I have been long-listed for the Company Style Bloggers awards (and so happy to see so many of my blogging friends in the different categories listed too!) If you enjoy my blog then you can vote for me - or for whoever your favourites are - here. 

Snow White and Rose Red

(Click on the landscape ones to make them bigger)

I often advocate extensive re-using and re-styling when it comes to clothing – and now I’m extending this to outfit inspiration too. For those who have been reading this blog for an immensely long time, there might be a vague recollection of an original ‘Snow White and Rose Red’ themed post . In fact, it often displays on my blog stats that people have virtually wandered onto this site while searching for that very fairytale.

I like using fairytales as a starting point for outfits or photography (I talked about literary stimulus here), but where the original post quoted excerpts from the Brothers Grimm, the theme here was distinctly more shadowy. One of my current favourite writers is Angela Carter, whose prose is like searching through a display cabinet of treasures and tidbits – full of rich images and crackling humour. I was first introduced to her novels by way of ‘Nights at the Circus’, but recently read ‘The Bloody Chamber’ after recommendation by my English teacher. It is not for the faint-hearted. Many popular fairytales are re-imagined and re-woven into much darker tales – not the sort that one wants to read late at night. This is perhaps apt, as fairytales are often thought to be a means to express the more confusing and murky elements of life. Wolves prowl through forests and wicked stepmothers don’t love their stepdaughters. They take the incomprehensible and safely explore it through the medium of story.

The idea of twisted fairytales permeated this two-way shoot with my friend Flo. We dressed up at her house, and jumped in the car – she in a red cape and me in a seventies wedding dress – to drive to a nearby wood. We then tramped over three fields to reach the trees. I'd like to think that if anyone caught a glimpse of us then they might have thought of the folklore associated with the area (which, as with much of England comes laden with local stories of ghosts and mythic characters). Either that or they realised we were just two friends who happen to enjoy outrageous dresses and camera lenses.

Unfortunately, the light was decidedly uncooperative – slowly draining away until only the dregs of day were left. Even my Canon 5D couldn’t cope with the dark trunks, showing its discomfort through a refusal to focus. We both took turns using the flash, but I don’t like the way it often washes out skin tones and makes everything look a bit Juergen Teller for my liking. So my non-image editing promise has been lifted for this post – just to lighten the shots - so that at least our faces can be seen! Despite the light difficulties (I blame the short days – I want sunshine lasting until ten at night, please), I was still satisfied with the atmosphere of the resulting shots.

Besides, for me the process of photography – both behind and in front of the lens – is not just about the results. I love the excuse it offers to get outside and really experience the landscape; the beauty of which still astounds after all these years in the countryside. And with friends such as Flo, it is the event itself that makes it worth doing. All of those moments not captured on a memory card – us carrying bags across hills, leaving boot marks in sticky mud, giggling and jumping like grasshoppers from thought to thought – are completely magical. That’s the real fairytale. 


Also, I'm taking part in the 'FruGal' challenge for brilliant ethical website Eco-Age (creation of Livia Firth). What an honour, and a lot of fun, to be featured for five days wearing entirely second hand/ sustainable clothes! See the first look here. 

Autumn Almanac

I know it may be a rather obvious statement, but the majority of clothes featured on this blog were designed for women. Unsurprising since most of my most posts feature myself or friends, and besides I’m not much of a tomboy – not being particularly inclined towards the ‘boyfriend’ look (or maybe that’s just down to never having had a boyfriend to steal clothes from!)

However, when it came to styling my friend Krishan for my first male fashion shoot, I was surprised by the amount of masculine clothes my drawers and wardrobe yielded. I came across countless men’s jumpers and shirts, alongside a rather fetching set of vintage scarves that belonged to my granddad. My mum did even better than me; thrusting a dashing tailcoat at me that she’d unearthed from some dark corner of the house.  

I had always seen male style as somehow lesser – restricted in terms of creativity and self-expression. Why focus on trousers when one can have pick of the tea-dresses? And yet, what about suave Harris Tweed jackets? (Yes, I tend to employ the kind of terminology used to describe Don Draper when writing about masculine style.) And how about the silk pyjamas and red and yellow silk paisley dressing gown I wear with relish when I want to emulate Boris Lermontov from the Red Shoes? Perhaps I have finally discovered the appeal of clothes belonging to the opposite sex. Menswear gives the chance for deep focus on cut, colours and shape. Attention is drawn in to details. It can be classic, and often refreshingly simple. Savile Row has a reputation for a reason – what could be more satisfying and full of longevity than a bespoke suit? And at the other end of the spectrum, in day-to-day wear I’m positive that men’s jumpers are more comfortable than women’s.

And so, it was both a challenge and a delight to style my friend Krishan for my first attempt at male fashion photography back in autumn. I took my cue from the colours outside, and was pleased when my willing model turned up in a perfect pair of mustard trousers. These were used for every outfit – demonstrating the potential that one item of clothing holds for re-styling. I made a moodboard ahead of his arrival, filling it with studious looking boys reading books in awe-inspiring libraries, and other figures tramping across the grounds of Oxford. I think Jack Kerouac was in there somewhere too. It was hard to find the kind of images I wanted though. Perhaps part of my initial relegating of male style to the ‘slightly boring’ category was a consequence of many of the male editorials I’ve seen. Naturally, this isn’t true of everywhere (the Burberry adverts are of course exempt), and maybe I just need to research the field more.

My theme was “Well-dressed intellectual” – using clothes taken from my usual sources. The jumpers, jackets, scarves and even the fireman’s coat were a mixture of second hand and vintage (or sometimes both). The trousers and converses belonged to Krishan, although I provided the riding boots. My mum kindly drove the chair to a nearby lake, and it looked almost comical as it sat on the jetty. The light was a miracle – the kind of tones that characterise autumn, and that we don’t see enough of. And my favourite condition (intensely bright in the foreground with storm clouds in the background) even made a cursory appearance. Autumn, with its feeling of change, was an appropriate time to explore a new type of style – and who knows, I might even try a blazer and jeans at some point...