Clothes, Cameras and Coffee

In praise of Vivienne Westwood

2012-01-29T20:42:00.002Z

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

2012-01-22T21:32:00.005Z

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

2012-01-15T19:06:00.005Z

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

2012-01-09T18:20:00.002Z

(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

2012-01-04T21:31:00.002Z

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...

Sounds of the Woods - Nadinoo & Wish Wish Wish

2012-01-01T14:53:00.005Z

Getting up at 5.30am to be in make-up at 6am is never the most pleasant way of waking up – even if on this occasion it was the lovely Emily choosing my lip shade and expertly applying eyeliner. But shooting a video with Carrie directing, Nadia styling and Miguel shooting definitely ranks among the best things I experienced this autumn past.

What I enjoy most about my blog is the unusual opportunities it occasionally throws up, that would have been inconceivable had I, in some ‘Sliding Doors’ style parallel life, not decided to create ‘Clothes, Cameras and Coffee’ on a day off from school several summers ago. This alternate Rosalind wouldn’t have visited London Fashion Week twice, been honoured to be featured in a number of magazines and websites from around the world (including Grazia most recently – thank you so much to Hannah Almassi!), and she definitely wouldn’t be as interested in writing. She would also never have met the wonderful Carrie from Wish Wish Wish, and so the chance of modeling in a video in collaboration with delectable designer Nadinoo would have been entirely improbable. Luckily, here I am, two and half years after starting my blog – and here is the film I appeared in.

Sounds of the Woods - Nadinoo AW11 Film from WishWishWish on Vimeo.

I will state now that having a blog is a little like having a double life. I get up (often blearily) in the morning to catch the train to college – and with that comes the endless responsibilities of homework and extracurricular activities, alongside socialising with good friends. Another side of me writes potential blog posts in the back of my lined notebook during free lessons, replies to the wonderful emails I receive and puts together text and photos for features. This side attends Fashion Week and the occasional shoot in London – often involving a hastily organized train journey. The two aspects to my life are not entirely separate though. I cajole friends into letting me take photos of them for my blog, and although I don’t wear fifties' ball gowns and gold pleated skirts to college, I don’t particularly water down my style either.

However, this video divided me not into two halves but into three characters. Pixie, Lula and Fleur to be precise. The trio serve as the muses behind each Nadinoo collection – a brand that mixes whimsy and classic design to create clothes that can be labeled simply as ‘beautiful’ and ‘highly desirable’.

Pixie is book-ish, with a fondness for wildlife and the outdoors (possibly bearing the most resemblance to me). Lula is the mischievous one, whose red cape and lips give her away as she spies on her fellow characters. The constant advice given to embody her was to “scamper” and “look cheeky”. The third, Fleur, was perhaps my favorite to act out. I was thoroughly enjoying myself, and so really got into character as I pretended to read tarot cards – fulfilling her more ‘mystical’ aesthetic. We shot all three in a day in the outskirts of London, not that you’d know that from the locations. The only reminder that the city was not so far away was from the occasional clatter of trains as we crossed and re-crossed a railway bridge. In the course of the day – a real dawn to dusk affair – our small team walked from the trees where the Boy Scout-esque tent was pitched to the lake where I ‘fished’ (country girl? Pah – I know more about Balenciaga than bait) three times. It was roughly a mile each way, meaning that I probably did more exercise than I usually manage in a fortnight! And might I add that portions of those treks were completed in heels? I wore those black Mary-Janes, (which you may also recognize from this post), to do everything from clambering up a muddy bank to Kate Bush-style swirling while the smoke canisters did their work. I was told afterwards that the designer and make-up artist had been singing ‘Wuthering Heights’ as I spun.

I was immensely impressed by the props that Carrie had painstakingly collected and organized, and I took great delight in several ‘Observer’ leather-bound books she’d found – reading the miniature guides on birds, fungi and butterflies while filming. Her boyfriend Miguel, who is also working on this fascinating-sounding short film, did all the cinematography and is obviously intensely talented. The assembled crew of four (five including me) made the day both memorable and interesting. The yellow leaves and autumn light led to repeated praise of the perfect locations, and I'm still smiling when recalling the bemused expressions of dog-walkers who stumbled across us. It was an exhilarating time – and my first chance to perform on film (I’m more used to doing formal LAMDA speech & drama exams).

The stills were taken by Nadia, and for anyone not already familiar with her work, please do take a look at her incredible designs. Her personal style is top-notch too, making her a brilliant advert for her own brand. I hope you enjoy the video – I certainly enjoyed making it and am extremely honoured to have been asked by Carrie to be involved. The amount of work she put in to the making of the film was simply extraordinary.

And of course, it being the first day of 2012 I wish everyone a very, very happy new year. May it be filled with adventures, opportunities and friendship. Thank you SO much for reading and commenting on my blog in the past year. I have so many ideas fizzing around my head at the moment, so I hope that I may continue to improve in all creative endeavours this year.

Elementary, my dear Watson

2011-12-28T17:11:00.012Z

Sherlock Holmes often wore an "ear-flapped travelling cap". That’s right - there was never any specific mention of the iconic accessory we most associate with his character. That particular head-gear was first dreamt up by illustrator Sidney Paget - who took this description to mean a deerstalker hat. Thus it was that a hat, alongside the memorable images of cape, pipe and magnifying glass came to be linked with only one literary character. Indeed, not only is it not necessary to have read anything by Arthur Conan Doyle to recognise Sherlock Holmes, his appearance is so familiar that one needs only to look at the silhouette on the tiles at Baker Street tube station to know whose profile it is.

Sherlock Holmes is often regarded as one of the most recognisable literary figures of the late 19^th Century, with only the occasional curiously named Dickensian character to contest his fame. In fact, his renown spreads far enough that one knows who he is, regardless of whether or not they have read any of the stories. I for one have never indulged in ‘A Study in Scarlett’ or ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ – although the complete works is looking immensely tempting in my local Waterstones. And yet, despite my ignorance in most things Holmes-ish, I still know plenty about his appearance and attire.

There seem to be certain books, authors/poets and characters that transcend their pages to take on a life of their own. What they come to represent is something beyond the original work. Someone who is a “bit Brideshead” could be thought of as part of the privileged aristocracy, an Oxford-ian or aesthete perhaps, or simply a religious noble with a little too much appreciation of champagne. Furthermore, ‘Byronic’ and ‘Heathcliff-like’ seem to have become rather interchangeable when it comes to descriptions of dark and brooding types. Such phrases, among countless others, are indicative of one of the ways that literature has infused day-to-day life.

Similarly, we often rely on books to inspire us. A fashion shoot somewhere wild could be deemed as having a ‘Wuthering Heights’ feel, while anything even vaguely whimsical is assigned an ‘Alice in Wonderland’ comparison – regardless of whether or not blue dresses and Cheshire Cats are involved. Although the same books can be peddled over and over again, becoming more repetitive than the adverts one sees on the London Underground, there is a certain joy in using words and descriptions as a creative stimulus. And so here I am taking my style credentials from Sherlock Holmes, complete with a second hand (charity shopped) deerstalker hat and vintage leather gloves. Not sure what he would have made of the Laura Ashley velvet shorts though - even if they were cleverly customised from some too-short trousers. The jumper is vintage Jaeger, the shoes were a present (they’re Office), the tights are from Next and all other accessories are vintage.

Oh, and the title? I’m afraid to say that Sherlock Holmes never uttered those words – it’s actually “exactly, my dear Watson”. It’s like a glorified version of Chinese Whispers.

Do you have any other literary or film inspirations and references you use? I would love to hear about them.

Swan Lake

2011-12-24T17:10:00.002Z

We have a set routine on Saturday mornings at home. Family members stumble downstairs in various states of sleepiness, in hope of finding my dad serving up breakfast and coffee. Then my parents and I fight over who reads which part of the paper, while my brother stays out of things by burrowing into a Beano. Today, despite being Christmas Eve, was no exception – although there was a little more discussion over who got to look at the TV schedule first. As my mum wisely pointed out while I circled listings in a purple felt tip: “It’s not Christmas until the Nutcracker is on”.

Ballet, Doctor Who and Absolutely Fabulous all make for extremely festive viewing (that and the perennial favourite ‘A Muppet Christmas Carol’!) – thus making it the only time of year I really take notice of the TV. To pirouette back to that first mention though, there is nothing more cheering than immersing oneself in watching The Nutcracker (with a score by Tchaikovsky). The sequences remind me of a pastel kaleidoscope, with the spinning fabric of the skirts and the imaginative wonderland sets. See the Foolish Aesthete for a fascinating analysis, alongside an interesting photo edited by Jill.

Aside from the incessant need to mention dressing up boxes in every other post, I am sure that my determination to maintain an appreciation for ballet would suit my six-year-old self. Like many, when I was younger I nurtured the idea of becoming a ballet dancer – although I must admit that this daydream was influenced primarily by the pretty tutus. Nevertheless, I did my Grade 1 ballet exam and received a stamped certificate with a slanted signature. This exam largely involved ‘graceful’ running from one side of the studio to the other, and the occasional plié in front of the mirrors. However, ambitions swung around as easily as a revolving door, and so on being told I would be “too tall” ever to be a professional dancer, I declared instead that I would make wedding dresses (noticing any kind of froth and frippery theme here?) When young it's simple to skip from one aspiration to another, as easily as hopping over puddles.

Having recently watched a documentary on the working lives of those individuals who choose dance as a career path, I was left both full of admiration and rather glad that I was not one of them! The level of rigour and the expectations that come with the career would be beyond me. If there's any industry that expects perfection, it is ballet. And yet, I am still utterly enthralled when watching the work. Perhaps it lies in appreciating the strength and capability of the human body – to think that it could perform all those jetes and spins! Athleticism and elegance are combined, and the effect is jubilant.

Therefore, it might not come as a surprise that one of my favourite films is ‘The Red Shoes’ – with its title aptly suggesting the profusion of colour, (better than any Christmas tree) in each shot. It's perfect Christmas viewing, and worth buying for the costumes alone. The protagonist, played by the magnificent Moira Shearer, is captivating as she dances her way through a ten minute condensed sequence of the Hans Christian Andersen story of the same name. Andersen was adept at portraying the darker side of dancing, with destructive potential also suggested in another of his stories: ‘The Steadfast Tin Soldier’ – in which the soldier and his paper ballerina are engulfed by flames. However, I’m hoping that the only fires seen this weekend are the ones warming houses filled with festivity, community and appreciation. Plus, it's the only time of year when it is perhaps permissible to dress up as an actual sugar plum fairy!

I must admit that the outfit link is as tenuous as they come – I nicknamed this shoot with my friend Flo ‘Swan Lake’ as - well - the photos were taken next to a lake that has many resident swans. I'm speaking from bias, but isn't her photography fantastic? I could argue that my white and black lace dresses are redolent of Odette and Odile, but that might just be reading into things a little too much.
If you are celebrating Christmas tomorrow, then I hope you have a warmly wonderful day with family and friends.

Wintery Sunday

2011-12-18T14:42:00.004Z

Whenever I put on the jacket pictured, I am immediately transported to my only brief trip to Paris in early 2010. As detailed below, it was bought on a very wintery Sunday.

My mum and I arrived late on a Friday evening, puffing out spirals into the freezing night as we waited for a taxi. As the car then sped around the city, we played ‘spot the landmark’ – pointing to the Arc de Triomphe and Eiffel Tower, lit up like golden velvet.

The next day I was up early for a modelling assignment for an Italian magazine known as D Mag. One of the strangest things about modelling is that you never know quite where you are going to end up – a blessing or a curse, depending on the outcome. That time I was more than lucky. The shoot took place in the top floor apartment of what looked like an otherwise deserted building. Our initial qualms were abandoned once we saw the interior. It was like stepping into a perfect replica of the seventies, from the sliding door revealing shelves and shelves of vinyl records to the cream sofa I was asked to recline on in a cheesecloth skirt. The owner, (a doctor if my memory is correct), had rented it out to the team for the day.

I count the hours spent there as being one of the highlights of my very short-lived modelling career. It was my first big, ‘proper’ job – I was a nervous fourteen year old surrounded by a number of people who were constantly adjusting my appearance and discussing it in a wonderful mixture of languages. I did have one reason to be worried though. I had been diagnosed with scoliosis some months previously, and the physical effects on my torso were already noticeable. When styled in a striped swimming costume and long, clingy skirt, my mum and I silently wondered whether the photographer saw my lopsided-barrel ribs. However, if the team did notice anything amiss, then they gracefully didn’t let on. I attempted to use my rudimentary school-learnt French (taught purely to pass exams) at lunch. I smiled gleefully as the Italian stylist chose each garment. Almost flirtatiously I would flutter my eyes at the Stella McCartney skirts and Chanel boots, like a girl waiting for a dance partner to choose her. It was my first glimpse of the way those clothes looked and felt in ‘real life’ – my previous perception was a purely visual one, influenced by the images from Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. I softened up as the day progressed, and left having thoroughly enjoyed the whole experience – and hoping that I had done my job well.

Sunday offered the chance to explore the city – my mum and I taking in the sights at high speed. We walked to the Sacre Coeur, and later took a rattling metro train to the Notre Dame. The two grand churches were bookends, with ‘Les Marches Aux Puce’ (the flea markets) sandwiched between in the afternoon. We made our way through stalls selling CDs and the men touting fake Louis Vuitton bags to the ‘vintage quarter’. We knew we were near when the surrounding shops started displaying antique furniture, giving prominence to items that I didn’t know I desired until I saw them: crystal doorknobs, individual sparkling droplets from chandeliers, ornate keys covered in curlicues, feather fans.

We trod along alleyways and cut through passages, slowly losing ourselves in the catacomb of clothing. Places selling leather jackets sat alongside cave-like rooms that one had to stoop in to examine vintage satin hats and snakeskin shoes. Recognisable names (and less recognisable price tags) fluttered by – Madame Gres, Chanel, Alaia and a green fur Dior.

There was a lot of fur, most of it sported by the elegant, elderly French women. It was a freezing February day, the coldest in years (according to the conversations we overheard), and these women looked smug and warm. Some of the pelts were accessorised with the glowing red tip of a cigarette, or bright lipstick bleeding into the tributaries of their lips.

I found the cropped, blue jacket pictured in a stall located at the top of a set of stairs. The rails of Bell Boys’ jackets and delicious looking dresses were riffled through having just enjoyed a hand-warming crepe. I sprung at the snatch of blue boiled wool and military style buttons visible among the heaving coat hangers. It was one of several in varying sizes and styles, with some kind of insignia stamped on the brown, slightly faded lining. I would love to know whose uniform this was; what they did and where.

This piece of clothing now serves as a souvenir, not only from Paris, but also from modelling. It hangs in my room alongside a Charlotte Taylor top as a memory of a dizzy and fleeting immersion in an industry that was both tantalising and curious.

We later dashed to catch a glimpse of the Louvre in the melting sun, before leaving for the airport. It was too quick an introduction, but I’m sure I will be re-acquainted when the time is right.

The dress was from a favourite charity shop of mine, as was the hat and the chelsea boots. The turquoise necklace belonged to my mum (I put it on the circular torque) and the scarf in the first shot belonged to a family member.

Grey Day

2011-12-11T21:52:00.003Z

The current colour du jour for the weather is a rather classic charcoal grey, with cloud banks adding some eye-catching texture to the flat light.

Basically, it’s miserable.

Overblown descriptions aside, the three simplest adjectives are: cold, wet and horrid.

My home for the day is a large red armchair next to the well-stocked fire. If I’m extra-chilly I can swing my legs over the grille to warm my toes like some 19^th century fictional character. However, today I resemble a mad professor in a lime green cardigan - the hours have been spent scattering our carpet with history timelines, revision notes and piles of books. I have only retreated from my warm lair to make cups of tea, eat meals and fetch further materials. Oh, and I managed to snatch a brisk stroll across the fields at twilight.

Nevertheless, the small slivers of daylight seen today reminded me of icicles – such a novelty that it felt justifiable to reach out and grab at them (or rather, hurriedly put on wellies and dash outside in the hope of fresh air). Yet the minute such effort was made, the light melted and disappeared behind another layer of rain. These last few weeks of the year feel ripe for hibernation – a fortnight of unbroken sleep would improve my mood no end. At the very least things should be restricted to only the most gentle of activities: drawn out games of scrabble perhaps, or some light baking and heavy reading. A further week of college and commuting must be waded through first.

So, how to conquer the grey feelings that all too often accompany the grey daylight? I like to think of it in terms of inverse proportion – the duller the day, the brighter the clothes. And this vintage Betty Barclay jumper, reminiscent of the famous YSL ‘Mondrian’ dress, is the brightest of them all. The black velvet shorts were customised from a pair of rather nasty jogging bottoms. I wore a variation on the pictured outfit to college recently, replacing the high heeled Mary-Janes (a gift) with long black boots and adding an M&S reversible black cape for warmth. A friend told me that I resembled a French art lover – surely the best possible response? When the jumper was donned again for the photos at the seaside last weekend, the day was not so much morose as downright temperamental. The wind was bitterness personified – colder than Scrooge. My brother sat miserably on a rock while my dad attempted to shield the camera lens from rain drops and sea spray. Finally, we admitted defeat, zipped up our rain coats and trudged back. Unsurprisingly, we were the only people on the beach.

Yet, alongside the opportunities for bright clothes-wearing, there are other advantages to this weather. Lucy wouldn’t have found her Narnia without a grey day to while away. Similarly, no childhood classic is complete without a rainy afternoon providing the opportunity for hide and seek. Ideally, said story should also include a grand house big enough to run amok in and well-stocked dressing up box. Now there is something I can lay claim to - my wardrobe (ie an extended dressing up box) is never knowingly under-stocked. And the clothes within it are useful tools for combatting seasonal melancholia in the dark evenings. Plus, if all else fails, then there are always pink silk pyjamas to fall back on.

What brightens up a dull day for you? Suggestions, memories and well-tested methods are all appreciated.

Strange Phenomena

2011-12-05T20:31:00.007Z

I discovered Kate Bush’s music when I was about six – or rather, I was in the room when my mum put on ‘The Red Shoes’ CD to play. There was no musical epiphany, no obsession (at that point), or deep connection to the music. I just knew that ‘Lily’ and ‘Rubberband Girl’ were two of the best songs in the world to dance to wildly.

Ironically, that is now the album of hers I play least. Perhaps as a result of obsessive listening to the point of over-saturation when I was younger, to hear it now is akin to putting on a well-worn, overly familiar coat. There is a certain comfort to it, but nothing particularly new or exciting. However, the thrilling ‘Hounds of Love’ and the languorous ‘Aerial’ joined it on my iPod early last year – both CDs unearthed from the darkest recesses of my parents' CD drawers, (filled with music ranging from Punk to Jazz). That was when I had the moment of realization – the woman is a genius.

I can now sing along to roughly eighty songs of hers (including 'Strange Phenomena' - this post's title), with '50 Words for Snow' being the latest addition. This new album typifies ‘slow-burn’ – perhaps ironic for a set of distinctly chilly songs. It takes several listens for the meanings and melodies to thaw, at which point the icy beauty hits. Hearing the tracks is like a mixture of sending spirals of breath up into the costume jewellery stars, lying in a snow drift at twilight and sweeping down a steep hill in a red plastic sledge. It almost makes winter desirable, despite my current feeling that the short days and cold should stick around for a maximum of three weeks and no more.

However, a favourite form of procrastination (among the many up my silk shirt sleeves) on these dark nights is obsessive watching of her music videos, from Cloud Busting to Army Dreamers. Each film is like a short narrative in itself. She is perhaps the best example of what it can mean to be an artist: original, intelligent and outrageous.

She is also fascinating in her approach to the creation and publicizing of her music. Her first, and only, tour was in 1979. It is a rare and lucky day when one can read or listen to an interview with her, and she by and large avoids the public eye. Thus we are left to judge her music objectively, without any back-story splashed across tabloid pages to manipulate our opinions. This is especially fascinating in the wake of the ongoing Leveson inquiry, with the questions it has raised about press accountability and the role of the ‘celebrity’. With Kate Bush, one gets the distinct impression that all she cares about is her music – her writing, singing and recording. Long may it continue.

There is a very wild quality to many of Kate Bush’s songs, and this was the basis I used as inspiration for this shoot with my completely stunning friend Evangeline from Storm Models. She and her family typify the words wonderful and welcoming - and I'm sure that she will go far as a professional model. I thought her long hair and extraordinary look called to mind the musical maven herself. When I told her about the thought process behind my suitcase bulging with red lace and seventies nylon, Evangeline laughed and revealed that her party trick when she was younger was to put on ‘Wuthering Heights’ and cajole guests and visitors into watching her perform it. She was obviously born to fling herself dramatically against trees in the autumn light!

The vintage (rather fragile) red lace dress was bought from eBay, and the 60s red velvet one belonged to my mum - as did the orange hat. I pulled out the green velvet skirt from my dressing up box, and all other accessories are vintage. The shoes and coat are Evangeline's. Doesn't she look gorgeous?

Bloomsbury Black

2011-11-26T20:09:00.007Z

Rarely a month goes by without a newspaper (tabloid or broadsheet) smugly declaring that Oxbridge is ‘elitist’. "The intake from disadvantaged backgrounds is too low; the humanities courses designed only for those who think themselves superior; the universities serving as little more than reminders of Brideshead Revisited".

The first point about intake is valid. Unfortunately the standards of teaching experienced do have an impact on grades, and thus on University application. The only solution I can see to that particular problem is for the Government to work on genuinely improving state education (and therefore life chances) nationwide. Pigs might fly. But in some sense Oxbridge cannot help being selective – as they require the best exam results and commitment - and even those won’t guarantee you a place.

Despite initial reservations over the jaw-slackeningly high fees, I still want to apply to some of the leading Russell Group Universities next year – preferably to study English Literature. I might change my mind again at some point, but I wonder if this aspiration makes me appear almost ‘snobby’ to some – as though my decision to aim high is a personal affront to any other life choices.

Why do some consider it elitist to devote time to the in-depth study of great works of literature? If I do pursue this, it means I'll leave with a greater knowledge of literature than others might have gained, but I do not accuse a cabinet maker of elitism for understanding more about the construction of a cabinet than I do. Maybe it’s because the humanities and arts subjects – English, history and philosophy to name three – are more concerned with ideas and analysis than practicality. They don’t yield tangible results in the same way that maths and science do. There are no great discoveries that can be publicized and praised by a Government that is only concerned with the short term – the same Government that has slashed Arts Council funding in a way that denigrates the status of the humanities. Let me tell you Government Ministers – my history GCSE exam was ten times more challenging than my science GCSE. The former involved months of revision and preparation; the latter required about three evenings in which I learnt the contents of a revision book by rote, with the information it contained floating straight out of my head the minute the exam paper was closed.

And yet this pervasive anti-culture attitude continues. Those who enjoy art house movies and galleries may find themselves labeled as ‘pretentious’ (although this one is clearly subjective, as there is plenty of modern art – I’m looking at you Damien Hirst – that I loathe), while those who write for and read, say, the Guardian are accused of not understanding the real world.

These musings are centered on what many see as superfluous, as the arts are arguably not one of the necessities of survival. But who would wish to live in world without music, paintings, films, sculptures, dance, theatre, books or poetry? Furthermore, when did it become sadly true that three in ten UK households own no books? Stories are one of the most imaginative and exciting releases from day to day life.They instruct and provoke thought as well as entertain.

One reaction to this criticism is that it doesn’t matter what people are reading, so long as they are still casting their eyes over words in some form. Really? So basically twitter is the same as Tolstoy? Who needs ‘War and Peace’ when you can instead concentrate on texts and misspelt Facebook statuses? I hate this argument for the simple reason that it makes no differentiation. We don’t equate a three-year-old’s finger-painting, charming as it may be, with Leonardo da Vinci.

One set of individuals who understood the power of literature was the Bloomsbury Group. Perhaps best known for including Virginia Woolf and EM Forster among its numbers, the group expanded and contracted in size during the 20^th Century. As a collective they had many criticisms leveled at them, both at the time and in retrospect. One of the words most frequently thrown at the group was ‘elitist’. Maybe shades of this were true – everything has its grey area. I can’t pass judgment, as (much to my regret) I was born far too late to be a part of something like that. And yet, I am unashamedly drawn to the idea of a group of individuals who met to discuss literature, aesthetics, economics, feminism and other current issues of the time. My romantic notion of how I would like to live my life involves a lot of time spent drinking good coffee whilst debating the merits of classics or current affairs.

Are there any examples of similar groups in the 21^st century? I’d be interested to know, as they so far seem unparalleled in their values and aspirations. They lived in a time when a far greater emphasis seemed to be placed on the value of reading, writing and ideas.

And so to my outfit. The main part, the dress, was probably created at that same time as pacifism and poetry were being vociferously debated by the Bloomsbury Group: the primary outfit inspiration in this post. It is also the final installment of my Bertie’s styling series. This original thirties' translucent beauty of a dress was loaned to me temporarily by the wonderful Bertie's Vintage shop. It reminded me of sweeping staircases and decaying cinemas with velvet curtains. From the collar to the ruffled detailed on the sleeves, it deserved to be styled dramatically. And so I obliged with a simple slip, shoes from a charity shop and the other pair from Next, and for two shots a vintage boater, sunglasses and satin sash.

The Autumn Queen

2011-11-18T22:04:00.009Z

If autumn were a fabric, it would be yellow taffeta. Or perhaps orange velvet mixed with brown tweed. Okay, maybe the analogy would be better suited to a whole basket of material scraps in marinated colours.

It’s a tricky season to write about without resorting to clichés or endless tropes. How to sum up the mists, the leaves, the wood-smoke, without parroting what others have already said? I could quote Keats or Elizabeth Jennings – make some poetic reference. But maybe for once I shall just accept the experience of autumn without articulating every little detail. I love it, and shall leave it at that.
However, as with any time of year, it brings its own sartorial challenges. The temperature fluctuates between balmy crispness and downright freezing. The latter is experienced while slowly icing over at the station in the morning, waiting for a train half an hour late. Thus my attitude to outfits resembles an onion – endless layers. Cardigans, long socks and faux-fur hats are all utilities rather than style statements. Bulky coats can be taken off when I am red-faced from my trek up the hill to college, while scarves are stowed in bags.
However, in my head at least, I would always dress like these photos once the birds start migrating, taking the warmth of summer with them. I'd wrap myself in gold pleats and khaki silks, adding seventies shoes (though in an ideal world the soles would not disintegrate on contact with the outside world, as these ones do – a worthy sacrifice nonetheless). The jackets would always remind me of Roald Dahl's Fantastic Mr Fox, and I could even artfully arrange leaves in my hair – assuming the persona of an ‘Autumn Queen’ who spends her days drinking home pressed apple juice and jumping in piles of leaves. Hmmm... Maybe. But for now I'll stick to my velvet miniskirts and cable knit jumpers for sixth form.

Just to go back to that Roald Dahl reference for a minute though, the other ‘branch’ to this outfit’s inspiration was the Mulberry AW11 collection. Put ‘British’ and ‘iconic’ in any description and my interest is more than piqued; especially when this is combined with a campaign by Tim Walker (who is still unbeaten in his role as my favourite current fashion photographer) and delectable looking clothes that are one part English aristocrat, one part Owen Sheer’s novel ‘Resistance’ and one part childhood rural fantasy. Famous Five meets Wuthering Heights. (Talking of which – I am really looking forward to seeing the new British adaptation of this Bronte novel in the next couple of weeks. I think it will be worth watching for the cinematography alone).

The two ‘Berries’ of the London/British fashion scene, Burberry and Mulberry, have experienced huge success in recent years. Perhaps I should create a brand called ‘Blueberry’ or ‘Raspberry’ to make it a trinity of labels? A lack of technical skill and general clothes-making ability would be a hindrance though. As would the lack of expertise in fashion design. So, I’ll leave that to the experts and stick to writing and photography and wandering through fields in hazy light...

Finally, if you haven't already then please take a moment to look at According to Annika. In the last few months I have been honoured to talk to and get to know this extraordinary woman who is stunning inside and out. Annika is immensely encouraging, compassionate and all-round wonderful as well as being an amazing writer. She has already had way more than any fair share of trauma, and so I was devastated to hear that she was very recently diagnosed with cancer. Her situation utterly demonstrates the arbitrary unfairness of our world, and I cannot pretend in any way that I recognize what she will be going through right now. What I do know is that she thoroughly deserves the deluge of love and support pouring from her many, many readers.

High Society

2011-11-13T17:20:00.010Z

Lady Tallulah Lock-Likely was jolted out of sleep by a screeching. She opened one hung-over eye to see a fast retreating smudge of brown feathers. A pheasant. How disgusting. This was why she hated the countryside – it was full of nasty, smelly, noisy things. They were only of use when they were being shot at.
She wiped her face with gloved hands. Her upper arms were covered in stippled marks, as though she were the product of an overenthusiastic sculptor. As she stood up, she heard a clink and grimaced. Two champagne bottles and an empty glass were lolling on the grass. That explained a lot.
Tallulah had loved the champagne the previous evening; bottles of bubbly served up underneath neo-classical statues tastefully arranged around a cavernous ballroom. High heels had staggered across the polished floor all night. Everyone who was anyone had been at the gathering: the Smethwycke-Smith-Smiths, the Chatterquales; even the Curlicue-Fripperies had made a cursory appearance.
And her: the Rt Hon Lady Tallulah Lock-Likely the 2nd, in a pink satin dress. Mind you, after her arrival, memory was little more than a fogged camera lens.

There was dancing, laughing and enough air kissing to power a hot air balloon. Then there were some very reckless decisions. Hers was thinking it was perfectly normal to commandeer a horse at 3am in the morning. The members of the party had spilled out into the garden, confetti-bright in their gowns. Tallulah was the first to spot the grey shape in an adjoining field. All it took was a dare, and a call of “chicken!” for her to take her skirts in her hands and vault straight onto the startled beast.

She had been riding since she was old enough to sit upright – as a girl she had not only asked her daddy for a pony, but also a customised saddle and reins, a large paddock, stables, a horse-hand, riding gear from Saville Row and an engraved hoof pick.
However, Tallulah wasn’t so used to holding onto a rapidly galloping horse with one hand, and clutching Bollinger and Moet in the other, while also pondering whether the hills actually did have eyes. The shrill call of voices behind her was soon hushed by the trees she sped through. On and on, until - with a sudden, dull thunk - a low branch swept her sideways. She was lying on her back, listening to the soft thud of hooves growing faint.
For the next few hours she had wandered, finally arriving at the edge of a forest, with unfamiliar valleys rippling dimly under the moonlight. What a squalid place. She hummed to herself.
“What to do darling, what to do?”
Tallulah did what any respectable member of the aristocracy would do – she slept on it.

The honking alarm clock chimed with the rising sun. All around her the birds were doing that awful singing business. Couldn’t they learn something a little more melodic? Mozart, say? Tallulah couldn’t make any decisions on an empty stomach, so she raised the champagne bottle to her lipstick smeared mouth.

Feeling better, she tried a tentative call.
“Hello there, umm, locals? Does anyone know the way to Stipplehuff Hall? No?”
A sheep bleated. Right. Time to put great-grandaddy’s safari skills to use. She was sure there must be a path somewhere, or a sign. She plucked up her fur coat and strode in what she assumed was the right direction.
She hadn’t remembered a stream. Or a clearing. No matter. Her blue blood was used to chilly conditions, and her feet were repulsively muddy. A quick splash would rejuvenate her. She felt like Captain Scott in a dress – going boldly where no lady had gone before. That was what he had done, wasn’t it?

Odd feelings pursued her through the trees. It seemed such a long time since Tallulah had left Chelsea. She wasn’t up to the tweed-jacket-and-dog-breeding-and-weekends-in-the-country lifestyle. Too much bother, too little noise. And yet, and yet... How long had it been since she had paddled in wild water?
There were sunglasses in her pocket - she slipped them on and scrambled up a hillock.

The chilled air was more bracing than any spa plunge pool. No houses. Well, unless one counted the tiny little hovels in the distance that appeared to be – eurgh - bungalows. Her eyes widened at the sight of a grumbling tractor and a hairy looking man in overalls heading in her direction. She doubted she would understand a word he might utter. The only sensible option was to flee back among the trees.

Ragged breaths matched the ripped hem of her dress. The sun hid behind bruised clouds. Tallulah wasn’t sure why, but she had the strangest urge to start spinning: to let the bottles roll away and the feathers in her hair take flight. She tried swishing the dress.

She felt as though she were back at the party – but instead of a muscled arm clad in a dinner jacket twirling her in pirouettes, it was the breeze that gave her a helping hand. Her sunglasses were whipped away as she shrieked in delight. It all felt so, well, dramatic. Nothing this exhilarating had ever happened before. She could have been in Wuthering Heights; a lovelorn Cathy staggering through the lesser known West Midlands. She was almost tempted to start calling for Heathcliff – but a dignified upbringing did have some use.

The dizzy dancing grew faster and faster - she was a whirring record, a roulette wheel. Her bare foot snagged in a root and she slipped over. Delight was replaced with disgust. Clichéd swaying grass or no clichéd swaying grass, Tallulah didn’t want to know what she had just landed in.

“Ms Looooock-Liiiiikely?”
About bally time. How long did it take to find a befuddled aristocrat? If the rescue party hadn’t brought any freshly ground coffee with them then they’d be sorry. Tallulah put her arms behind her head, stared up at the sky and happily envisaged being found. There would be tears of course, and apologies. She would make absolutely sure of it with the amount of shouting she was about to do...

Disclaimer: No friends were harmed in the creating of this post. The champagne bottles were already empty and merely used as props.
Thank you to my ever-lovely, ever-gorgeous and effervescent friend Ellen for donning a vintage dress and necklace, gloves and feathers from the dressing up box and my faux-fur coat and sunglasses. She has previously appeared in my short photo-stories as a zombie and a painting.

In other news, I was featured on Grazia.it here and the Laura Ashley blog here.

Seaweed Green

2011-11-01T22:00:00.005Z

The notion of slithering into a wetsuit and battling with towering August waves seems so very long ago now. As does having time to relax on the beach with a book – or rather, ignoring the wind-whipped sand while clutching at pages.
Instead, my last few months have been meted out in a rhythm of food, essays, sleep and choosing outfits for sixth form (oh yes, that last one is just as important!) My inner metronome currently ticks away through word counts and Latin vocab lists, with only the occasional beat reserved for personal writing. I do love my new sixth form college though, despite the limits it has put on my free time.

To recall the sense of summer for a minute, here are some mermaid themed photos – styled with a vintage green dress and hair made curly by salty seawater swimming. My mum took them in a beautiful little village on the Welsh Coast called Llangrannog. The sand under my bare (and I must say rather cold) feet was steeped in recollections. A sprawling set of houses is fronted by a cove encircled in rocks like protective arms. It was the place that my family and our very good friends holidayed every year when I was considerably younger. This summer was the first time I had returned since.
It’s odd re-visiting locations that make up childhood memories. Sometimes the disappointment can be overwhelming – perhaps we would rather keep recollections untainted and free of new experience. On the other hand, I left Llangrannog this year loving it more than ever. I stayed with the same family friends in the same cottage we always used to rent. There was a new kitchen, but the apples in the garden tasted the same. Hairline cracks in the front room showed where I had once inadvertently pulled down the curtain rail and a large chunk of the wall with it (in my defence I was being a “brave explorer”). But my friend Esme (she of the backbone brooch) and I no longer discussed our barbies’ attire, but instead how early we could drag ourselves out of bed to complete a sunrise-over-sea shoot.
The various rooms and furniture in the cottage felt smaller. However, the height hierarchy among ‘the kids’ has remained roughly the same. We re-created a snapshot of me, Esme and our respective younger siblings taken 8 years ago, perching on the wall in ascending height order outside a cafe that serves ice creams tasting of summer. The original photo is blue-tacked in our kitchen at home, with our gap-toothed grins and ice-cream smeared faces offset with faintly tacky t-shirts and jelly sandals. This time I was wearing vintage culottes and a cable knit jumper.

Nevertheless, being teenagers has not hardened us to the delights of childish activities. As the sun melted over the waves on the day we arrived, Esme and I decided the smartest thing to do would be to paddle. This jumping over waves turned into fully-clothed swimming, until our hands and feet were thoroughly chilled. We emerged to eat hot chips, with our wet hair leaving pools in the sand.

Aside from trying to give ourselves colds, and the occasional bout of excited dolphin spotting, our families also re-trod in the echoes of clumping wellies. A journey to the nearby headland, which I recalled as a trek worthy of Scott and a team of husky dogs, was reduced to little more than a stroll with pit stops for handfuls of blackberries. The location reminded me very much of Sylvia Plath’s poem ‘Blackberrying’:

“Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries.
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks and a sea, somewhere at the end of it, heaving”.

Like the blackberries, my time spent revisiting various places and moments of the past was almost always sweet. The only sour note was a result of coming face to face (well, foot to fin) with a weaver fish – a spiny little beast that loves to hide under the sand on the British coast line and sting people’s unsuspecting toes with a venom that feels ten times worse than that of an angry wasp. Although they are technically harmless, neither my purple, swollen foot nor I were very happy – especially not when faced with the prospect of immersing my foot in near-boiling hot water to draw out the painful poison.
Yet, two hours later and I was back with my family and friends scrabbling around with spades to build an intricate system of moats and sand walls. Our aim was to keep back the tide for as long as possible, but as King Canute could have told you, the water shall always win.

I also recently wrote a guest post for the wonderful and warm-hearted Bella of Citizen Rosebud. I was thrilled when she asked me as I have so much respect for her and her work. You can see my musings on buying vintage here.

Portrait of a Blogger Pt 2

2011-10-26T23:10:00.007+01:00

David's blog 'The Nyanzi Report' is a superb lesson in how light, composition, an acute eye and a meticulous attention to detail yields fabulous results. His photos are as immediately charming as he is - something he demonstrated by showing me around the nearest shops once I finished snapping.

I spent another day behind the camera today – the sound of its shutter is now less than a faint echo as I scroll through the resulting photos. But they will be for another week... For now I am casting the reel of my thoughts back to the summer, when I started my blogger portrait series, the first part of which can be seen here.

The aim was to capture something of the fashion and style bloggers I pointed my Canon 5D at – and I’m assuming that only they could tell you if I succeeded. The likelihood is that I have a lot more work to complete before I could ever produce a portrait that reflects the absolute character of the sitter, but I guess it’s a goal. For now I just wish to celebrate the work of these bloggers I admire.
However, Lucy made a pertinent point when we were strolling through sunny Hyde Park with her cousin and Carrie. She asked me to explain my aims for the project, which I did. She was interested in the notion that my perception of appearance and what constituted a great shot was very different to her own. I could end up choosing to feature a photo she would never consider airing in the light of the internet. I found this fascinating – that it was up to me to pick out whatever characteristics and details I wanted to with my camera.

Carrie of 'Wish Wish Wish' makes me think of a British Bardot - her classic style and looks set off with a side ordering of whimsy. She is as (if not more so) lovely and engaging in 'real life' as she appears on her beautiful blog.

As self-style bloggers, no matter how objective we try to be, we are still depicting some kind of projection of ourselves. You might delete one photo because you can see skin blemishes, or you don’t like the bags under your eyes. Maybe it just doesn’t have the right atmosphere. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t choose to showcase images where I appear tired or miserable. However, this means that the resulting posts will always subjective – a view of ourselves that we are happy to present to others. I guess it is an active manifestation of “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” – and as a blogger, you must, for a moment or two, be your own beholder. The photos I choose to post of myself on my blog might be accurate reflections of me, or total daydreams of characters I wish to embody.

Cameras, as I have said in the past, have the most magnificent ability to both conceal and uncover. I discovered this when hiding all signs of my scoliosis for several months. Critics sometimes refer to photographers whose lens no-one can escape as an ‘all-seeing eye’ – as though the camera holds within in it the strange power to uncover the true self of the subject (and thus why some people might be wary of having their photo taken). And of course this is true for the most talented photographers. Henri Cartier-Bresson once talked of the way he “craved to seize the whole essence, in the confines of one single photograph” and “preserve life in the act of living” (both quotes taken from the excellent ‘Photographers on Photography’ set of essays edited by Nathan Lyons – from a favourite bookshop in Hay on Wye). I can agree that the appeal of both photography and writing for me is the chance to grasp at something and stick it down, in either a photo or word document. And yet, the moment it is seen by someone else it is open to a completely different set of judgments - our taste being just another way we assert our own individuality.

Jazmine from Jazzabelle's Diary has both an amazing sense of style (we share a penchant for car boot sales and charity shops) and endless legs. These photos were aptly taken at the V&A - one of her favourite places in London - after we had enjoyed a coffee in the incredibly picturesque cafe there.

Backbone

2011-10-20T21:36:00.015+01:00

I can tell you what I was doing exactly a year ago: to the day, to the hour, to the minute. I was lying in intensive care, dazed and more than a little confused, after having metal rods screwed into either side of my spine and 2/3rds of my vertebrae fused in place. I have scoliosis to thank for that. Three hundred and sixty five days later, here I am - with memories that will never fade or pale like the scar on my back. I feel good... Better than that, I feel grateful.

To commemorate the occasion, I thought it apt to accessorize my scar with a vintage skirt, vintage gloves, a silk scarf top and plenty of strings of faux pearls. I also realised it would be the perfect time to put up one of the three pieces I submitted for the Vogue Talent Contest that I won; an 800 word 'memory' of intensive care.

The other photos throughout are ones I took of friends for my GCSE art project last year, in which I focused on the contrast between straight and twisted - culminating in two Frida Kahlo-inspired plaster casts of backs with raised spines - one perfectly vertical and one in the full, curving throes of scoliosis. As you can probably tell, I am now fascinated with images of backs. The second set of black and white photos are of my fabulous friend Flo (aka the photographer), who will be shortly posting her own work on her tumblr here.

This is the article - it was the first piece I wrote of the three.

BACKBONE.

'I wake in Intensive Care. The bleeps are a cooing flock of birds – reassuring me that they are watching from the shadows. My body is bound down. I am Gulliver; attached to wires and tubes, like an autumn tree with new vines.

It is three in the morning. I know because I ask the nurse who is filling in a chart at the end of my bed. I’m wide awake and I want to talk. I tell her my plans for A’levels and later, University. She listens and speaks in a soft, warm voice. I don’t feel pain, just faint nausea. We discuss women’s rights – I think I’m surprised to be having this conversation less than nine hours after surgery. I think I may be talking quite fast. She checks my temperature and melts away.
Funny how one day a word can enter ones vocabulary and cause so much change. It’s like flicking to an unknown page in a dictionary, running a finger down the words and choosing an entry at random. Congratulations, that word - scoliosis - is now yours to keep, nurture and deal with! The swerve of the ‘S’ matched my spine, the vertebrae of its soft letter shapes standing out on the page.
Scoliosis: a curvature of the spine comes from the Greek ‘skolios’, meaning twisted. It is often, but not exclusively, diagnosed in teenagers like me, sometimes after a growth spurt. Mostly it is idiopathic, meaning simply that there is no known cause. No explanation. No reason. It just is.
This word began intruding into my life right at the beginning of 2010. And in autumn of the same year, I am here, lying in a darkened room filled with humming machinery. My helter skelter spine has been turned into a drop slide, with scaffolding ; fused into place using titanium rods and screws. I may not have fallen down a rabbit hole, but the sudden height gain is disorientating - two and a half inches in four hours.
During my pre-op pep-talk, the orthopaedic nurse told me the first night would pass in a groggy fog of sleep. Instead I am reclining on a fluffy cloud of morphine that blurs the edges of the pinched lights and dulls the pain to a faint and far-away ache on the earth below. My back feels heavy and stiff, like a blackboard with a new bold line running down the centre, chalked in flesh. Lying in bed, my legs being nudged up and down by a pump, images from the last twenty four hours whir and flash like Polaroids.

Click! I wheel my heavy suitcase, loaded up with books and silky pyjamas, along a hospital corridor.

Click! In a silent waiting room, I leaf through a Vogue. I read about the Ballet Russes, admire Tim Walker’s photography and wish I could be somewhere with my camera instead of here. I see a young boy with a back twisted like a tree, like mine, and wonder what private struggles his family are experiencing.
Click! A sympathetic radiographer asks me to lean to one side and I emulate the pose of the model in the magazine I was reading. The machine flashes sullenly. I wonder how those invisible x-ray particles can be speeding towards me. I imagine the contraption shooting out stardust, defining the silvery trail of my spine.
Click! I sit in a bland hospital room, full of white furniture and the smell of desperate hope. Minutes drag past like slugs.
Click! A well cut tweed jacket and smiling eyes – my anaesthetist introduces himself, shakes my hand, tells me the next time I see him he’ll be wearing scrubs.
Click! I’m wearing a hospital robe and scratchy paper pants. I lie down on the bed, my chariot, which will bear me to surgery.
Click! The anaesthetist, in pale green, still smiling; picks up a syringe. “This will just feel like a pinch.” I squeeze mum’s hand and stare at the clock above my head. It shivers, wobbles and disintegrates as black shutters crash down, and the film runs out.
In the morning, Irish and Afro-Caribbean accents mingle into a murmur. They are interspersed with a rhythm of beeps. My feathered wings of morphine are slowly drooping in the light of day, until they are replaced with a clipped leaden pair that weigh my back down and fill it with wrenching ache . These wings will not fly; like a fallen angel they have no use but to remind me of the pain to come.
My eighteen hours of flat back rest are over. I am ready to be transported to a ward. As a porter manoeuvres my bed into the lift, he looks down and exclaims “Blimey! You’re a tall one!” I am now.'

'Backbone' implies strength and solidarity - it's a word we use to describe those who are unwilling to budge in the face of adversity. That's why I was so overwhelmed when my friend Esme designed and made me the brooch that appears in my header, and I was thrilled with the attention it received at London Fashion Week, being featured on Altamira, Vanessa Jackson, Fashionistable and Stockholm Street Style among others.

Sleep walking

2011-10-15T18:12:00.004+01:00

Our family affliction is insomnia. This comes from my dad’s side of the family tree though, so my mum really does sleep easy. However the other three of us are affected by anything from stormy nights to the looming full moon. My favourite phrase when I was younger was, “I can’t sleep!”

The one thing that has passed us by though is sleep-walking (and its subconscious cousin: sleep-talking). The very idea appeared quite extraordinary to my six year old self. There were the stories from childhood friends – a granddad who went downstairs, still fully asleep, to put on his galoshes “because there was a flood”; other people’s brothers who woke the house, shouting at 3am in the morning at "the nightmare-monster attacking me", and the sensationalist tales from newspapers, with people being found on motorways in their pyjamas as the red sky of dawn approached. All this behaviour being involuntary and uncontrollable sounds odd to we humans – so used we are to being in command of every action.
Of course, the intrinsic link to dreams makes it all the more fascinating. Dreams can be serene or scary, or to borrow Evelyn Waugh’s title, 'Beautiful and Damned'. But no matter what happens – whether we miss trains (my recurring theme), find ourselves inexplicably back at school with exams that have not been prepared for, or with marshmallows glued all over a favourite pair of shoes (yes, that was a recent dream – try analysing that) – we can always wake up again.

The idea of dreamy sleepwalking inspired these photos, and aptly my peaceful slumber was interrupted with an alarm at 6am so that it could be completed. While away on holiday in the early summer, mum and I rose at the hour known only to dog-walkers, commuters and parents of small children - to make our way down to the beautiful beach with a sixties two piece nightgown (from a charity shop) in hand. The nature of the outfit only complemented the theme, especially as I felt like a carefree Betty Draper wearing it. (The nylon blue 70s robe featured a while ago was also paraded the same morning). By the time we arrived at the sandy shore it was already warm – the only time we saw sun in the five days we were there. The wooden posts that poke up from the water are like attentive soldiers, ever-stationary as barnacles creep across the surface and the waves eat splinters. The same waves crashed over the back of my legs as I waded in.

Immersing dresses in water is perhaps a recurring theme on this blog – as a long time ago I featured both a silk river dress, and an Ophelia inspired shoot where I submersed myself completely. I wasn’t willing to be that devoted to the photos this time though, not least because post-surgery I get quite extreme itching radiating out across my back after swimming in very cold river or sea water.
I find this intensely frustrating, because it means that each time I want to go swimming outside, I have to carefully weigh up the pros and cons in the style of a complex maths equation. Is it worth the discomfort, or should I play it safe? During our stunning holiday to Spain several months ago, I went with the former. The consequences were always worth it to go snorkelling in the clear water, with a whole micro-system of multicoloured seaweed and shoals of fish like iron filings beneath my nose. Magical.
The cold Welsh sea before 7am though? No! Even though 'wild' swimming is to immerse oneself in the outside entirely, there are limits.
Standing in the water I watched the shapes made by the frothy layers of fabric and lace; snake-like. The sea crashed and seethed as gulls circled. By the time we walked back, photos finished, the sun had once again disappeared behind a cloud and coffee beckoned.

Back home a few days later, I pulled out my book on the Pre-Raphaelites to have another quick look at the famous Ophelia painting – which is both dreamy and sinister. It was painted by John Everett Millais in 1852, who asked his model Elizabeth Sidell to recline in a bath for the duration of its creation. I wanted to recreate that idea at some point, with a bathtub and armfuls of wild flowers, but I think that plenty have trod that path before me.
One of the things the painting does reflect though is the restless nature of water. It’s both a killer and a lifesaver. It’s quite understandable why the pre-Socratic philosopher Thales could think that water was 'the principle of all things in existence' (blame my ‘History of philosophy’ podcasts). We drink it, swim in it, boat on it, our body is 50% to 70% made up of it, and we sometimes drown in it. But statistically, that last one’s unlikely!

Something Old, Something New

2011-10-06T21:49:00.008+01:00

My paternal grandma was married in the United States in the late 1950s. I don’t know the details but I do know the dress. It was white (surprise, surprise), with a fitted bodice, cascading skirt and a dramatic train, all constructed from yards and yards of delicate lace. Her husband matched in a white dinner jacket. The wedding photos are jubilant; their faces joyful.

The usual destination for a dress such as hers is the back of the wardrobe –perhaps protected by dust covers – or folded carefully in a tissue-lined trunk. The intricate embroidery or tulle layers might be rediscovered on special occasions, anniversaries perhaps, and one day might be tried on for size by a daughter. Sometimes, as with so many family heirlooms, the precious fabric might be lost or ruined.
However, none of these options apply to my grandma. I must start by explaining that she was a Czech refugee. Her family fled the communist invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1948 with little more than the clothes they were wearing. This brutal change of scene, coupled with their experience of WWII, meant that my grandma (or my ‘Babi’ as I call her) was never wasteful. Every scrap of fabric had its home, all leftover food its use.
Therefore after the wedding celebrations she was practical in her decision about the dress. It was purposefully put together to be taken apart again. The long lace train and other components of the dress were given to a seamstress, who cut and re-stitched it into useful items of clothing: a full length skirt, a pencil skirt, a sleeveless top and an A-line evening coat. They were still special garments of course, but vastly more useful than a gown only suited to formal balls.
Those four items of clothing were given to me when I last saw my ‘Babi’. The long tailored skirt was tried on for size. I realized that the material encircling me had eventually led to me being born. If my grandma hadn’t married and had two boys, one of whom was my father, then I wouldn’t be standing in my bedroom in a full length lace skirt...

Sadly I never knew my grandfather because he died before they had been married a decade, leaving my ‘Babi’ to bring up those two young sons on her own. She had lost the great love of her life (and it would take her until the age of sixty to find love like that again). She moved to London, taking her clothes and memories with her.
Death is not finite. It cannot be fitted neatly into one of many boxes and stored away in the spare room under a pile of coat hangers. Just because more than forty years have passed, it does not mean that the memory of my grandfather has diminished for those who knew him. Instead, her home has come to represent a jumble of times – different lives laid out, one on top of the other, like layers of tissue paper. When my family visit London, to fill the place with noise and the smell of cooking, there are still small reminders. If I go into my dad’s old room and lie down then I can see his scribbled teenage writing on the underside of a shelf. A wedding album sits among other family photos, and it represents the best of times.

My grandma has gradually given me many clothes that I consider heirlooms: a red satin evening coat, a couture cocktail dress she bought in an NY thrift store for $20 in the fifties, a seventies blue nylon hooded robe. Each piece arrives with a story attached.
The threads that are seamed throughout these garments are like family, stitched together. In seeing and wearing my grandma’s skirt, I am embracing the good and testing times that marriage and life in general brought her – for anyone, these are dresses to have and to hold (and to hold on to).

In the first look I added a yellow crocheted top bought from a charity in shop in Bristol (I love all the St Peter's Hospice ones there!), alongside a white silk sash and shoes from ebay.
For the second I styled it with the the same silk sash (in my hair) and a green sixties fringed top from a vintage market. The clutch bag is my mum's and the belt was second hand. The necklace in both shots was for my birthday.

Finally, I was extremely happy to be asked to be Motif Mag's covergirl for their latest issue. Do take a look at this free, quarterly, online magazine.

Portrait of a blogger (series)

2011-10-02T20:57:00.018+01:00

Nadia of FrouFrouu fills her posts with timeless shades that wouldn't look out of place in a 1940s forest, farm or film - rich purples, muted olives, soft browns and blacks. Her photos resemble newly discovered heirlooms... If only we could all stumble across images of someone so striking in our attic!

One of my favourite places to visit in London is the National Portrait Gallery. Alongside the V&A, it is somewhere that sums up what I love about our capital city – culture. Last time I swung through the revolving doors, it was to see the BP portrait prize with one of my best friends. We went from one painting to another, discussing the techniques and our reactions. There were some portraits we unanimously decided were brilliant and others that one or the other of us hated.

However, I don’t usually visit the NPG for the paintings (brilliant as they are); it’s the photos that entice me. I can think of no other place that has left me so inspired after an exhibition. The work of Hoppe, Ida Kar and Irving Penn all made me feel so stirred that I wanted to pick up my camera then and there. Anyone who thinks photography does not qualify as art should see Penn’s masterful portraits of cultural figures such as Truman Capote and Louise Bourgeois. These are not just snaps, but deeply insightful observations into the characters of his subjects.
As Penn himself said, “Very often what lies behind the facade is rare and more wonderful than the subject knows or dares to know”. The skill lies in that accurate portrayal – not a photo that seeks to glorify the sitter or make them look pretty.
I am sure (in fact I am positive) that this is a talent that takes many years to develop and perfect. There is so much I wish to improve about my own photography, but the only way to move forward and to learn is through practice and pedantic evaluation. That is why I have been setting myself varying portraiture tasks.

Dvora of Fashionistable has long been one of my favourite street style photographers, not only for her perfect use of colour, composition and framing, but also for being interested in drawing out the characters behind the shots. You can see her excellent photos of me at LFW here. She also shoots for Vogue.com. I was honoured that a photographer I admire so much agreed to be photographed.

I am also intrigued by the implicit divide between portraiture and fashion photography. The former is about truth, while the latter is about fantasy and escapism. I think they require separate disciplines – and some current photographers, such as Tim Walker, have mastered both - as has my ‘honorary uncle’ Clive Boursnell. His photos of Bill Gibb’s dresses are on a different continent altogether to his sensitive reflections of the working lives at Covent Garden.

The photos of my own that I occasionally post on my blog are of friends, styled by me and shot in a fanciful location – maybe a stately garden or the hills surrounding where I live. I like to create narratives and make up characters to accompany these images. I rarely feature portraiture as it does not chime so much with ideas of ‘style’ and ‘fashion’. However, here is where that changes.

Lucy of Snippets of Shiny Thoughts makes me think of colour, colour and more colour. Both her personality and clothing choices are immensely vibrant, and she has the prettiest (and most infectious) smile you will ever see. Her great sense of humour extends into her blog too. The second image was more than a little impromptu, due to Lucy accidentally toppling in the Serpentine as our photo-session neared its end.

There was a particular NPG exhibition that turned sparks into a bonfire – Ida Kar. She was best known as a ‘bohemian photographer’ who was prolific during the 50s and 60s. The majority of her subjects were artists and writers.

The book released alongside the exhibition is now spread open in front of me. How could I not be stirred by her use of light, of framing? Of her ability to ensnare the characters and work of her subjects?
I was struck by Kar’s specialisation in the creative fields, and wondered if I could start a project that was similar. If I had my way I would be asking the great writers of our generation if I could take their photos – Owen Sheers, Carol Ann Duffy and Andrea Levy to name a few. But for now I wanted something more immediate, more relatable. Thus: bloggers.

Daniela of Couture and Crumpets is an afficionado of clothes, designers and words. Extremely knowledgeable about the world of fashion, she writes brilliantly for her blog and also 1883 magazine, and is always a delight to meet up with.

The term fashion/style blogger is now a canopy that houses beneath it those who specialise in street style, those who post their own outfits, those who write about collections and more.

My aim when I hatched my initial idea was to ask a selection of bloggers I admired if I could take their photo, with a mix of those who worked behind the camera, and those who posed in front. I had met nearly all the bloggers at the previous London Fashion Week in February. Once I had a rough list of willing participants, I packed my camera and bought train tickets. Over the course of the summer holidays I took photos of many bloggers (more in this series to be featured in upcoming posts), and I hope to expand on the number in the coming months too.

Dressing up at London Fashion Week

2011-09-28T11:58:00.005+01:00

Photo: Zoe Glazebrook for Vogue UK

Photos: Craig Arend for Altamira NYC

Photo: Refinery 29

If one could capture the essence of fashion – boil it up and then sieve it – how might the result be described? I like to think of it simply as: ‘dressing up’.
Of course perhaps the phrase ‘dressing up’ evokes images of pirates’ costumes, glittery shawls and sunlit childhood afternoons, rather than structured tailoring and catwalk shows. And yet, if one looks a little longer then the similarities begin to seep through.

Entering the courtyard of Somerset House, the first impression takes in small flocks of street style photographers. Their camera lenses are like beaks, snapping for 'the' outfit, 'the' person walking past who can be swooped on and asked, “excuse me, may I take your photo?”
Accordingly, plenty of those attending (including me) take it as a great occasion to dress up. Feathers, fringing, Marie-Antoinette - style taxidermy headgear. All this and more can be found striding across the cobbles. I enjoy it. Having the chance to spend a couple of days submersing myself in a world that celebrates and revels in style, plus observing all those who make diverse careers out of it, is fascinating.
In the words of my good friend, photographer Dvora, of Fashionistable (who is currently shooting for Vogue UK here), being behind the camera at London Fashion Week is like, “being in a sweet shop” – colours, textures and ideas abound everywhere. There are some who may see this as a negative - an opportunity for narcissism – but what’s the problem with enjoying conscious dressing?
My own experience of LFW is certainly enhanced by being able to dress creatively in outfits I don’t necessarily get the chance to wear every day. I may be there to learn, to observe, to take notes and photos and to pay homage to favourite designers - but I may as well have fun too. After all, many of the outfits I put on my blog might only be appreciated by the sheep in local fields or the occasional bemused walker who wonders if I’m really going hiking in heels and chiffon.

It thus seemed apt that a theme of ‘dressing up’ ran through many of the collections I saw. My London Fashion Week started with Paul Costelloe. I had caught a tube, run along the Strand and paused to change my flat shoes for lace-up, heeled brogues, before heading towards the entrance. It was an enjoyable beginning, with a collection that referenced the sixties. While I sat in the dark, my small notebook clutched in one hand, I tried to imagine how I would write about the clothes. The thought I kept returning to was the idea of days spent in grand houses playing hide and seek. Details such as ruffled necks and puffed sleeves gave it the look of a carefree afternoon of dressing up and playing charades. For me, Costelloe captured the innocence, cut and elegance of sixties styling – a decade that I am more than partial to.

Another element involved in dressing up is the creation of a narrative. My friend Ellen is my long-suffering model when it comes to assembling characters such as zombies or figures in paintings (see previous posts). Armed with the contents of my dressing up box, we have a great time whipping up fictional scenarios.
It's probably not surprising then that I find myself drawn to collections and shows with a very strong sense of identity and narrative - where the models are not only being dressed up, but also inhabit the spirit and story of the collection.
Perhaps the best designer I saw at London Fashion Week to illustrate this is Corrie Nielson. She certainly knows how to put on a show. Her latest: Arbiter Elegantiarum, was inspired by ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ mixed with oriental influences. It took place in what I assume was a concrete car-park, that had been appropriated for the occasion and kitted out with a panel of large, bare light bulbs hanging over the catwalk like a modernist chandelier.
The models didn’t stride – they sauntered – as the eerie music pulsed and camera shutters clicked like moths. What of the clothes? Folds of fabric cascaded in all directions like artfully re-arranged satin curtains, with acres of ruching, layering and pleating in between. My favourite piece was a green (I assume satin) jacket that fanned out below the bust like book pages or an elaborate ruff. It summed up the collection: the dramatic clothes that called to mind decadence and sumptuousness; the cuts that mixed together elements of Vivienne Westwood and Alexander McQueen. They almost made me want to dress up as a china doll and wander around graveyards looking melancholy – but that might be going a little too far.

Watching various collections drew out threads of comparison. The design process is akin to a writer creating a story – there must be a plot (the order of clothes), an inspiration, and in current economic times, a selling/marketing point too. But sometimes there is also a muse, as with Corrie Nielson above, and also with the design duo Fyodor Golan.
Although I wasn’t lucky enough to see this ultra-talented pair win the Fashion Fringe - which they more than deserved - I did get a close look at the clothes the next day when they were being exhibited. Gobsmacked is not a word I often use in relation to anything, but it is appropriate here. The muse for the collection was Frida Kahlo, and she was most certainly present – in the flower and bird motifs, in the low backs revealing the line of the spine, in the idea of transformation and metamorphosis. As a girl who has enjoyed a closer than usual relationship with her spine, I loved it. I will definitely be returning to this collection in a future post.

While at London Fashion Week I also saw Jaeger, Masha Ma and Jean-Pierre Braganza, but to borrow a fairytale line – “that’s another story,” for another day - or at least, for a Part 2.

The photos above were among the first ones I came across of my outfits at LFW. Many thanks to the photographers credited. And if anyone happens across other images elsewhere I'd really appreciate any links.

Finally, dressing up and narrative collections aside, what really made my LFW enjoyable were the people: Style East, Stella, Dvora, David, Jill, Dina, Nadia, Frances, Peony, Vanessa, Pearl and Craig among a whole host of warm, friendly, lovely individuals. It's the people there who make a good experience into a great one.

Finally, how amazing is this painting that Dina of She Loves Mixtapes did of me? You can see more images on her blog. I was shocked (in the best possible sense) when she emailed them to me - how wonderfully talented she is.

Celebration or Denigration?

2011-09-19T22:08:00.002+01:00

I just spent the most wonderful weekend at London Fashion Week, where I saw fascinating shows, scribbled notes to my heart's content and met with good friends as well as interesting new people, all alongside getting rather blinded by camera flashes. I'll be covering much of this in a subsequent post. However, time is short and my teachers at college have decided that I should have no free hours this week, as I have been set several essays. Therefore, I thought it would be an appropriate time to post one of the articles that I submitted for the Vogue Talent Contest - particularly in light of some of the coverage that London Fashion Week and fashion in general recieves in the media. This was the polemic/ opinion piece:

Celebration or denigration?

As a reader of Vogue, have you ever had to justify your interest in fashion? Been accused of frivolity? Maybe someone has commented on the shallow ideals fashion promotes. Or you might have witnessed a shriek of – “It gives nothing to the world!”
Fashion, above other creative fields, is a magnet – repelling and attracting equally -- and disparagement is something it attracts with ease. Open up a newspaper and there’s another article screaming, “Why I Hate Fashion.” (Ergo, why my opinion counts more than yours because I am a serious individual, and to show how serious I am, I shall wear a shapeless cardigan). Or another claims smugly that catwalks are filled with, “emaciated teenage coat-hangers with spaghetti limbs on rickety stilts”. Furthermore, look at any fashion-related piece on a broadsheet website and scroll to the comments below. It is guaranteed that somewhere among the reactions will be an individual who is irate that the writer of the article chose to talk about anything other than world news or politics.
Fashion may not solve global crisis and nor does it claim to (though it can be valuable to help rebuild psychological confidence - as explored by Linda Grant in 'The Thoughtful Dresser'). In fact, it is one of the many means we use to distract ourselves from harsher realities – in the same vein as reading a book or enjoying good food. Why then the criticism reserved for fashion alone?
Firstly, the differentiation between ‘fashion’ and ‘style’ is not often recognised. Using the umbrella statement, “I hate fashion” is a little like basing all your assumptions regarding cinema on one trashy ‘romcom’. Fashion itself is the changing of trends every six months or so, with new collections being produced by designers twice-yearly. Style is using your clothing choices to express your personality. Sometimes the two coincide.
However, for many, the presumption is that anyone who actively enjoys and plans how to dress must be a bubblehead. For those sitting in judgment, it is apparently impossible to be both intelligent and stylishly attired: wear a leopard print turban simply because you want to, and you deserve ridicule.
Why is it alright to aim a pool of vitriol at conscious dressers? Where is the censure of such critics? Why does being a part of the fashion industry invite vilification?
It may not be a perfect industry - but then neither are the worlds of sport, fine art, music or literature. All similarly offer entertainment and enrichment. But fashion rises above these others in flack-attraction.
Perhaps attacking fashion is simply another form of bullying that goes unchallenged, an inverted status game of ‘my tribe is better than yours’. After all, clothing or painting the human body is deeply ingrained in our ancestral psyche. It’s an identifier, an instant signifier of belonging to a group. In colder climates, wearing clothes is a functional necessity. But more than that, with the luxury of choice, it’s a joy. Joy - now isn’t that something to celebrate, not denigrate?
-------------------------------------------------

In these photos I am wearing an incredibly sumptuous gold silk Chloe dress. Yes, that's right. Chloe. No, I couldn't believe it either. This was a birthday present from one of the most magnificent, most beautiful and warm-hearted people I know - aka my fairy godmother. I adopted her as my 'Fairy Godmother' - because after all, how else can you refer to someone who is not only able to whisk up a dress as fabulous as this, in a froth of tissue paper, but also conjured her way to London to spend time by my hospital bed day after day in the aftermath of spinal surgery.
Here, it is worn with Office velvet heels and a long sleeved top from a charity shop. The straw bales accessorizing my look were appropiated from a local farmer, daahling. Or maybe that should read as my mum and I sneaking into the field to take some snaps just before the farmer arrived with tractor and trailer to cart them away into winter storage.

March of the Penguins

2011-09-12T10:46:00.003+01:00

My fingers run over stacked spines in my grandma’s flat. Book spines, that is. Titles, authors and publishers all piled together. Here and there a logo: a small black penguin - usually on an orange background.
The older copies have the white stripe across the middle like a debutante’s sash. These are now considered iconic; the book world’s equivalent of a discreet designer label sewn into the back of a vintage dress. I am talking, of course, about Penguin books.

On a recent trip to the library I pulled out ‘Front Cover – Great Book Jacket and Cover Design’ by Alan Powers, which details the fashions, fads and relevance of book designs throughout the twentieth century. It was fascinating, proving the importance of the book jacket as much as the work inside (even though I've always been told 'not to judge a book by its cover'). Among the reflections on the impact of twenties modernism and design in the digital age, there were several spreads devoted to Penguin. The history is simple...
It was set up as a company in 1935, producing very cheap, high-quality paperback reprints of books. It was initially supported by ‘The Bodley Head’ and other publishers. The colour coded system was in fact inspired by Albatross (another publisher), and the books were first stocked by Woolworths - one of the first UK high street victims of the current recession.
Although looked down on by other established publishers, under the guidance of Allen Lane, Penguin went from strength to strength, especially post World War II. They are still highly successful today, with many illustrious authors (if you’ll excuse the pun) tucked under their wing.

It is impossible to have a favourite publisher – my most beloved books have sprung from all over the world. However, what can’t be disputed is the sheer aesthetic appeal of an original Penguin book cover. They are immediately recognizable, adding not just classic design to any bookshelf – but innovative ideas too. The dust jacket can cradle anything, from acidic and witty observations on class to tales of overcoming adversity. They are culturally significant.

Someone who completely understands this is Tony Davis, who founded 'Art Meets Matter' alongside Angela Lambert in 2002. I’m sure many will recognize his designs – the brightly coloured Penguin mugs, tea-towels and deckchairs.
I was lucky enough to meet him at the Hay Book Festival a few months ago, in a tent dedicated to Penguin (and Faber – another favourite) paraphernalia. By that point I had drunk two very strong mocha coffees, and was wandering around on a bit of a caffeine overload. Therefore, my memories seem quite vibrant; the purples, yellows, oranges and greens of the stacked mugs particularly bright. When I remarked on what a clever business idea it was, the stallholder said, “Oh, you should tell that to Tony” – which I did, enthusiastically, when he materialised seemingly from nowhere.
He was obviously incredibly passionate about his work, demonstrating ideas by picking up a pack of penguin pencils that were “exactly the same size” as book spines. And although I didn’t buy them, I was terribly tempted.
I walked away from the stall feeling unusually inspired. What was it about these objects, these useful items that made them so desirable? Was it, as some suggested, that they simply represented an aspirational lifestyle choice?
But maybe it’s more than that. As Davis himself said in an excellent Guardian article, he thinks of these creations as “Celebrating the essence of books”. I can definitely agree. Of the four Penguin mugs we own, I have read and enjoyed three of the titles emblazoned around them – The Great Gatsby, Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice. I am yet to tackle Virginia Woolf, but I can tell you that when I do, it will be with my purple ‘A Room of One’s Own’ penguin mug in hand.

I hope that Davis is right in assuming that items could inspire people to pick up books, something sorely needed in an increasingly internet-driven society (she says while writing on a blog).
I am a firm advocate for books as physical objects. While I can appreciate the utility of Kindles or ipads, it's not possible to replicate the joy of discovering soft grey lines of pencil underlining favourite sections or making observations in a classic; the markings over fifty years old. Neither will there ever be an app that releases the musty, biscuit-y tang of cream pages from a screen. In fact, at another stall at Hay Festival advertising the London Library (which I seriously want to move into/ work at full time), one of the staff said that a specialist perfumer had been called in to create a scent inspired by old books. That strikes me as just a little bit amazing.

From my point of view as a consumer, I appreciate the Penguin products because they integrate what books stand for into other parts of my life. Someone who loves cars might also own calendars, key-rings, photos and other household objects that relate to that automobile obsession. So why not do the same for books? Especially if it helps to combat the vapid, ghost-written 'celeb' memoirs that often invade the best seller lists like armies of ants.
So, my mugs, my book spine wrapping paper and a set of Penguin postcards showing 100 iconic covers serve to show the impact that books can, and do still have on the world. They rejoice in the written word – quite rightly celebrating the cerebral.

As you may be able to tell, I am dressed as a Penguin book cover. This would definitely be a fancy dress outfit of choice. I achieved my ‘literary look’ with an orange skirt and shirt from a charity shop, vintage hat and gloves that used to belong to my great-grandma, and a vintage white silk sash.

Finally, those affected by 9/11 were very much in my thoughts yesterday - those who died, as well as the relatives and friends who live with the consequences of that day, every day. Polka Dot Jill wrote an immensely powerful post recalling and reflecting on her responses at the time.

Vogue Talent Contest

2011-09-07T09:00:00.118+01:00

I’m in a subdued airport terminal corridor at eleven pm. Everyone hurrying by looks tired and desperate to get home. We feel the same. We have just spent the week in Spain surrounded by fresh fish, terracotta buildings and plenty of sun. I am standing with my family on a 'travelator', which is moving along at a sedate pace. I scroll through a slew of bland PR emails on my phone, and then spot something that makes my stomach do a grand jete.

Vogue Talent Contest 2011- Result.
“Dear Rosalind, I am delighted to announce that you are the winner of the Vogue Talent Contest 2011...”
“Oh my Jesus!”
My mum turns around, looking concerned.
“Is it bad news?”
I shake my head and babble.
“I’m the winner! It says I’ve won!”
News of this email travels down the single file line of our family and friends in a Chinese Whisper. My dad asks if I’m sure. Where was it sent from? Is it a friend’s hoax? Nope, it’s real. I need to sit down.

The Vogue Talent Contest has been held every year for the last 60 years. Previous winners include novelist Owen Sheers and Vogue contributors Charlotte Sinclair and Harriet Quick.
The entry requirements are straightforward: to be under 25, and to submit three written articles – a memory, a polemic and a cultural review. It is the latter, written by me that can be found in the current October Issue of UK Vogue on page 204. I titled this third piece (Agri)cultural Review – it uses elements of parody but is also part commentary on an event in the rural calendar. Ironically this was the one I had fretted about most, as I hadn’t visited any galleries or shows since before my surgery in October 2010. It was the last of the three to get written, and was something of a wild card in terms of the idea and inspiration.

The other two entry pieces will be posted on my blog in the coming weeks. All three were written in Spring – and were continually polished, re-worked re-drafted and pedantically edited for several weeks. I worked on them at the same time as I prepared for my art exam, and geared up ahead of revision season. The envelope addressed to Conde Nast was finally posted in a fluster on the day before the closing date, sent by Recorded Delivery.

A letter telling me I had been shortlisted, replete with Alexandra Shulman’s signature, arrived the day before my final GCSE exam. I was so shocked I could only squeak and hyperventilate, like a set of dropped bagpipes. There was just one drawback. On the day of the lunch to which all finalists were invited, at Vogue headquarters in Hanover Square, I was due to be in a plane on the way to Spain. Being shortlisted was, by itself a huge honour that I rode high on, but how I wanted to sit down to lunch with the editors and writers I admired. I think I may have sulked. Alternative flights were sought, but it was fruitless. All the feverish internet activity didn't turn up a way to get me on holiday a day later. There were no flights available.
It was several days later when I had already emailed Vogue to inform them that I would, sadly, not be able to attend, that our friends (with whom we were holidaying) rang to let us know they had found an alternate plan – an available flight to a tiny, recently opened airport. If I could make my way across London to Heathrow on the day after the lunch then I could join my family in Galicia. There was no question - I immediately emptied my bank account to book the new flight.

This was how I found myself waking up as the sky stretched its arms and yawned very early on a Friday morning. I was driven to the train by a friend, to be met at the other end by the wonderful person I call my ‘honorary uncle’: Clive Boursnell – an extraordinary photographer who then captured me walking into the Conde Nast building (he positioned me twice, oblivious to antagonising surrounding traffic!) He had also entertained me on the tube journey and quick cafe visit with his anecdotes and tales of Bea Miller, Bill Gibb and Cecil Beaton. So, the top three photos and the one below are with thanks to and courtesy of Clive.

After a fair degree of indecision, the outfit I had chosen was as shown: a vintage Jaeger cream silk shirt, (charity shopped), tucked into my favourite St Michael’s vintage cream culottes, also second hand. Over the top was a full length cardigan (birthday present...from a charity shop), kept in place with a worn, pink leather obi belt from ebay. My shoes were Carvela – heeled brogues that clicked as I strode through the revolving door over to the reception desk. Gold letters above my head spelt out V-O-G-U-E.

After giving my name I joined the other finalists (eight of us in total - and they were all so interesting, engaging and talented, but most of all, friendly) who were piled up on a leather couch. We smiled and introduced ourselves. Our ages ranged from 16 (me) to 25, and among us there were students, graduates, interns and a science teacher specialising in astrophysics.
We were soon called upstairs, where we were each given a name badge and a glass of bubbly – served in glasses that curved out like lilies. The judges included Alexandra Shulman (UK Vogue editor), Julie Myerson (novelist), Jo Ellison, Emma Elwick-Bates, Lisa Armstrong and Frances Bentley.
There was a brief ‘getting to know each other’ and then we were ushered through to the lunch room. The walls were bright white, covered with monochrome portraits and fashion shots from Vogue’s illustrious history. Twiggy and Jean Shrimpton stared down at me and I felt my cheeks flush the same colour as my belt.
We were seated with a judge either side; the judges moving two places along after every course, meaning that each finalist had the chance potentially to talk with six other people. The conversations were informal – with Alexandra Shulman it ranged from discussing the Ballet Russes, the inspirational Tim Walker (who was one of “her photographers” that she had championed) and the V&A; then with Julie Myerson - scoliosis and University choices. Recurring themes were my spine, my school, my future and my age, (I was referred to as “the baby” more times than I've sat on late trains). I was overwhelmed when Julie Myerson described my piece about recovering in intensive care as having “no extra words” and feeling like a part of something bigger. I also discussed fashion and style blogs with a different judge, and we evaluated the future of blogging as an industry.

When the conversation and delicious food drew to a close a few hours later we were offered a tour of the Conde Nast building. As you can imagine, no-one turned it down! We first explored the offices of GQ and Tatler, before being ushered along to the floor that housed Vogue. The highlight was, of course the clothes - ooh the clothes. The sheer volume of garments was breathtaking. Whole rails of trousers; walls of cosy looking jumpers and capes; rows of shoes lined up neatly like schoolchildren; an extraordinary sequinned dress accessorized with feathers. A member of staff made a reference to staying in the office until midnight and I wasn’t surprised.
It was strange seeing the magazine stripped back to its bare components, like the switches on a circuit board or the chemicals in a concoction. The people I was observing were the ones responsible for a new UK Vogue plopping through my front door every month.

The final part of our tour led us to the basement, where the Vogue archives are housed. I could happily camp out there – shelves heaving with fashion and photography books, alongside large files with every back issue of Vogue (both UK and foreign editions) from 1950 onwards.
By the time I floated away from this extraordinary day of meeting inspirational professionals and incredibly talented finalists, I felt complete. I had already worked out who I thought would win, and I was just ecstatic to have been given such an opportunity. As far as I was concerned, being shortlisted and getting to attend the lunch was a prize in itself. I left for Spain the next morning, shouldering a sense of fulfilment on one shoulder, and a very heavy bag on the other.

After recovering from the shock of being told I had won, I remembered that the most incredible part of the winner’s prize is a month of paid work experience at Vogue, which I will complete next summer. All I will say is that I truly can’t wait.

Do-gooders

2011-09-03T16:59:00.003+01:00

Good things often come in threes. This was proved true when I arrived back from a few days by the coast to find an exciting looking package from Goodone waiting for me. Following twitter and email communication, I had requested to borrow three items from their AW11 line - a jumpsuit, a belt and a cable knit muff. For me this trinity of gorgeous garments brought with them three words: recycle, re-use and re-claim.
“Re”, unsurprisingly, means ‘again’. I currently need to re-charge my phone and re-organise my room. My parents need to sort out the recycling. Ah, there is a word that has been much misappropriated. As Pearl (from Fashion Pearls of Wisdom) pointed out in one of her recent posts, the term ‘recycling’ has been (ahem) 'recycled' to encompass all sorts of meanings. I agree with Pearl, in that it is definitely not the act of wearing the same dress twice – that’s called being normal.

On the other hand, the ethical company Goodone are definitely encouraging the right (and real) sort of recycling with their wonderful label. As they state on their website: “By using reclaimed fabrics in every possible part of the design process we create desirable, assertive and feminine pieces.”
I can attest to that. The jumpsuit was the first garment I decided to style, and the minute I slipped it on I felt like Katharine Hepburn. I have something of a battle with jumpsuits. I want one of my own very badly. However, I will not touch anything that looks vaguely eighties related. I want 1940s satin, not 1980s batwings! The other issue is the length. I love having long legs, but they do not lend themselves to trousers and jumpsuits. The hems usually graze the middle of my ankles, or even sidle up my shins.
So you can imagine my delight at getting to style this classy all-in-one. The fabric is soft and cosy, while also being durable. My inspiration for the first look was land girls – ergo the vintage headscarf and muted colour scheme. I have just put The Land Girls by Angela Huth on my reading list after seeing this review by LandGirl1980. All those monochrome and sepia photos of the large groups just seem irrepressibly optimistic. I don't know if it's the smiles, the uniforms or the images of machinery and windswept fields. Whatever it is, essence of land girl definitely influenced my style choices yesterday.
However, I’m not sure if any self respecting land girl would complete her duties in second hand Faith wedges and a vintage belt that belonged to her grandma. Or a silk shirt from a charity shop for that matter. I would probably have been chased away with a pitchfork.

What I like about Goodone is that they embody the spirit of ‘make do and mend’ that was so popular during times of genuine need. I recently came across the most extraordinary advert in an old ‘Picturegoer’ magazine. During WWII, the British National Savings committee spent considerable time and effort trying to convince people to stop spending. Imagine that! How different, how alien that seems to us twenty first century buyers. Long gone are the thrifty years of war and post-war, where every scrap of fabric had a purpose. Nevertheless, companies such as Goodone are reviving the practice of ‘reclaiming’ and ‘reusing’ unwanted fabrics and off-cuts to create their clothes.

The wartime campaign mentioned above even had a purpose drawn ‘squander bug’ – a gremlin style creature covered in swastikas, which the government used as a propaganda tool. This naughty pest would be depicted in adverts, whispering in innocent ears “buy it now”. He was a menacing puck; persuading citizens to part with money that could have been put to good ‘war effort’ use.
One of my favourite advertisements stated simply, “To dress extravagantly in war time is not just bad form, it is unpatriotic”. I think characters such as Anna Dello Russo and Daphne Guinness would not have taken well to rationing and coupons. Neither would I. But I can tell you something – we would have all got by.

We don’t ‘need’ new clothes all the time. We don’t ‘deserve’ it. These are wishes and privileges, not concrete rights. There was so much debate about these ideas when Lucy Siegle’s book ‘To Die For’ was first released (you can read my review here), but I wish to echo her sentiments once more.
Siegle suggested buying less and spending more. This sounds logical – I would rather save up for something from a label with amazing credentials such as Goodone, Orsola De Castro or the Vivienne Westwood’s ethical fashion programme.
Unfortunately, every time I utter the word ‘ethical’ (or in this case type it) the images brought to mind are of saggy hemp sack skirts and nettle waistcoats. The word itself is almost too worthy – too alternative. How to combat this negative stereotype?
Goodone claims that “We aim not to stand apart from the mainstream fashion industry, rather to achieve positive change from within”. This is exactly the approach I applaud – creating style rather than forfeiting it. The brand has worked with large names such as Topshop and Asos, and is a part of London Fashion week.

The second part of my styling used a gorgeous Goodone cable knit belt (I want one!) and an equally delectable cable knit and faux fur muff. I moved from land girl to Russian dinner guest meets hiker. The long cream dress is second hand charity shopped Miss Selfridge, and the boots are Topshop. The socks peeping out are from Nanadecor – a Japanese company that specialise in beautiful, organic, ethically sourced cotton clothes. The faux fur hat was from a charity shop, and the owl necklace is vintage.

Goodone can be bought from several places including Yoox, Young British Designers and Beyond the Valley. See their website for more information.

Between the Woods and the Water

2011-08-26T13:30:00.005+01:00

I travelled home from London the evening before last on a heavily crowded train. My exhaustion only allowed for slumping in the seat while watching trees and towns swoosh past. The many crop fields that sped by (already shorn and given buzz-cuts) confirmed that autumn has definitely jumped ship and arrived early. As for summer, it slouched off with its hands in its pockets to play truant ages ago; hasn’t been seen since.

Yellow leaves are even now scattered across the city pavements of Portobello and Primrose Hill, whilst back home the smoke from garden fires permeates the valley outside my window. Our house also smelt of burning yesterday, but that was because our new internet modem started smoking ominously when we first plugged it in. That makes it sound like a rebellious teenager. It wasn’t - but it was just as irritating.
Although I love this season – full of spiced colours, misted endings and new beginnings – there is one thing I will be particularly sad to say goodbye to: reading books outside. I have a feeling that by September the only alfresco page turning will happen while swaddled in a cable knit jumper or welsh wool blanket.

A book is a book whether it falls open in Mumbai, Japan or the Cotswolds. Wherever it is read, the pages will spin webs of worlds to get snagged in. However summer (in Britain at least) is roughly the only time of year when one can pack a drink and a copy of Wildwood by Roger Deakin, and then relax to experience his words as I am sure they were meant to be heard; accompanied by the sound of birdsong and breeze. This is completely different to hunkering down with a cup of hot chocolate by the fire on a December evening.
The act of being transported to another location – be it Deakin’s bluebell wood or Patrick Leigh Fermor’s Germany – is the same regardless of weather or season. What changes is how the surroundings affect what is being read.

Take Laurie Lee’s ‘A Rose for Winter’. The first time I heard his beautifully crafted memoir it was while recovering from surgery in hospital. The soothing sound of my mum reading aloud the details of places and characters was the only thing that could lull me to sleep. I hardly remembered the events, as they were all half-heard, but I did feel moved nonetheless. Maybe my groggy state helped to make post-Civil War Spain all the more vivid. I could almost feel myself seeing the same views Lee must have enjoyed.
I re-visited the book during the summer months, and gobbled it up in about two sittings. If I remember rightly I picked it up after my exams had finished and grabbed a few hours of sunshine. Often I read while listening to my ipod, but this isn’t always the case. Outdoors it is better to be absorbed completely.

Travel writing – especially the trinity of Laurie Lee, Patrick Leigh Fermor and Roger Deakin – is a very distinct genre. These books are not plot-driven, but chug along at a sedate pace, propelled by the power of description alone. They can be dipped in and out of. They are not furious reads, but languorous. Just the kind of book I pick up at midnight if I can’t sleep (I have tried and failed to see if I could spend an entire night reading, but I always get too tired).
The mark these books leave is a desire to visit the places depicted. That’s fine if the novel in front of you is ‘Waterlog’, as one could pay homage to the rivers and lakes that Deakin swum in. Not so easy if one is reading ‘As I walked out one midsummer morning’ . The parts of Spain portrayed by Lee’s pen have crumbled away now. Our constant evolution as a human race is reflected in the landscape around us. We tear down buildings and construct new ones. Forests are cut down and replanted. Cars, computers and electricity have completely changed the way we live. My great-grandma was born in 1917. How different was her childhood? Books, like photos and films, act as preservatives. The images are pickled, dried or suspended in formaldehyde.
This was especially clear to me when I visited Spain for the first time this summer. I can’t remember if Lee ever travelled as far as Galicia, but although there were elements I recognized (terracotta roofs, yellow buildings, large rocky outcrops in the sea), this country is of course as much a part of the twenty-first century as the rest of Europe.
Thank goodness we do have books to give us a rich history of these countries. Not static museum exhibits, but tales with a beating pulse that remind us why it is as important to remember the past as to look towards the future.

Conversely, Berties Vintage – described in detail in my previous post here - is a modern shop decorated to resemble another decade. Like a good travel book, trying on dresses behind two gold, draped curtains immediately lifts an otherwise mundane day. To step into the shop, which is scented with the kind of perfume one imagines ‘ladies’ dabbing behind the ears with glass stoppers, is to dive headlong into another time. Who needs a Tardis?

The original twenties dress was kindly lent from Berties Vintage, and is accessorized with a second hand hat and a sash from the dressing up box. The high heeled sandals were from ebay (they’re Office) and the silk shirt was found in my local charity shop. The bag was from the Big Chill St Michaels charity stall.

Finally, thank you to everyone who sent me comments, emails and twitter messages to let me know that they had seen an image of me in the September issue of UK Vogue, on page 204. This was a very wonderful shock. I had no idea the photo would appear, as it was evidently snapped by a street style photographer while at London Fashion Week in February. I am uncredited. Here is the photo:

I don't who the photographer was, but thanks to them. I recently showed the image to the woman whose antique stall the vintage coat came from. She was thrilled as she can now claim that her clothes have been "seen in Vogue!" She and I agreed it was wonderful to see her vintage stall coat alongside the great and good designs.

Bad taste is the new black

2011-08-17T15:12:00.003+01:00

At the end of my bed there is a whole shelf dedicated to scrapbooks – finished articles that I flick through for inspiration, boxes holding postcards and tattered family photos, containers bursting with images ripped from magazines. Every so often, my floor is deluged with Harper’s Bazaar images of models (I tear them up, but the Vogues stay intact) and portraits of famous writers that I rescued from paper recycling. Then, preferably while watching Green Wing/ Father Ted/ The Fast Show/ Black Books/ Spaced (depending what comedy mood I’m in), I proceed to fill up cheap scrap books from the pound shop.
I’m not sure what is so satisfying about this process – possibly it’s just that I love pictures and patterns. Being satisfied with a page in a scrapbook is like creating a really good outfit that juxtaposes unwitting elements together.

Recently I was looking through the first scrapbook I made several years ago. Inside, there are two snapshots of my parents. The first is my mum and a friend. My mum, her red curly hair reaching afro-like proportions, is dressed in a brown crocheted cardigan, with a petrol blue polo-neck and yellow joke sunglasses that make her look like a cartoon caricature. Her friend is similarly clad, with a tartan floppy fisherman’s hat, ‘bottle-top’ glasses, a pink jumper with an oversized collar peeping out, a floral waistcoat and countless strings of cheap beads around his (or her – I’m not quite sure) neck.
The photo was taken at my mum’s 21st birthday in 1986. The theme had been ‘bad taste’, and almost everyone had turned up in something vaguely seventies inspired, with a heavy emphasis on granny chic. That’s what was considered ugly when she was younger – a decade that has recently enjoyed a renaissance on the catwalk.
Looking back on this image, I was reminded of a famous Oscar Wilde quote:
“Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months”.
I think I mentioned it on this blog a long time ago, but the words still ring satirically true. Obviously I don’t consider fashion to be ugly (you need Tanya Gold if you want that opinion), but nevertheless it’s obvious that the whole fashion industry is built on the changing of trends twice a year, so that new goods are constantly desirable. This sometimes means there are certain items that would be considered hopelessly out of date right now (aviator jackets, anyone?), while others that were recently dismissed are suddenly ‘en vogue’ once more.

So is the idea of bad taste constantly evolving, or are there certain items that can be considered strange no matter the year or season? I’m sure that this blue hooded dress (worn over a second hand dress) was once considered the epitome of chic during the synthetic seventies. Now, when I look at it, I don’t immediately think “My god, that’s a timeless staple that I can wear every day!” but I do feel I can appreciate the rather strange beauty. Admittedly, I did feel like an extra from Star Trek on an empty beach at seven in the morning while my mum took photos. However, if it wasn’t made of fabric so flammable I felt glad to be next to a large expanse of water, then I could have equally been a ‘lady of the lake’. The style, from the floor sweeping length to the dramatic sleeves, seemed highly influenced by medieval dress. Anything pre-twentieth century doesn’t seem ‘bad taste’ per se, but just un-wearable now. When was the last time you saw someone in full Elizabethan regalia, other than at a period castle or costume party?
They say that beauty is in the eye of beholder, but maybe bad taste is too? One girl's dream dress could be another’s worst nightmare. For example, I don’t go out in skin hugging body-con, neon and trainers, as that is my idea of bad taste. But for another person, they might see my choices of crocheted cardigans and jumble sale buys as unfathomable.

Of course, here I am talking about bad taste in terms of popular opinion. Some choose bad taste (in everything from fashion to music taste) purposefully as a form of rebellion – think of the punks of the seventies, or even the hippies of the sixties. These were groups of people who chose to go against what was then considered the norm, so that they could consciously stand out. Where we might now see the original punks as subversive, I’m sure many at the time swept them aside as teens with too many piercings who listened to bands that resembled screaming and the clashing of dustbins.

My dad was a late punk – the archetypal middle class boy trying to lose his roots during the late seventies and early eighties. However, when he later met my mum they both went through a very second generation hippie phase. Both my parents tried on various personas for size before dropping them again.
The other photo in the scrapbook shows my dad standing on a street several weeks before he met my mum, a row of houses with net curtains, made for twitching, stretching out behind him. His hair is as long and curly as my mum’s (at their wedding they actually had ‘his and hers’ hairdos), and he is wearing what appears to be sofa fabric. Of course, if I ask him about it, he likes to tell the story about how his patch-worked two piece suit was tailor made to his measurements, and that it was a one of a kind classic. All I can see when I look at the image is soft furnishings - he wouldn’t look out of place surrounded by chintz table lamps and china figurines.
That suit still hangs upstairs in his wardrobe, joined in the gloom by a tie designed to look like a fish, and some scarily bright shirts. All relics of his younger self. He still loves the grey and blue squiggled fabric (I may be mistaken, but I think we might actually have a picnic blanket made of the same material), but although I can appreciate it from a safe distance, I will never see it as anything other than slightly odd.

Thank goodness we’re all different though. I’m so glad that we don’t all have the same style barometer installed in our heads, as life would be distinctly dull then. Maybe fashion feeds on judgement, and constantly re-defines the boundaries of ‘Bad Taste’, but style should be about celebrating the individual.
However, I refuse to celebrate jeggings – ever.

Bias-Cut Reflections

2011-08-12T15:49:00.001+01:00

My good friend Flo has stopped by. We both have hectic schedules – she is working full time, and I am running around completing projects. We have already had a ramshackle picnic, put together from fridge pickings, and eaten in the shade of the hollow tree up the road. We have sunbathed and chatted, stretching out our legs in the light.
When we return home we abandon the basket and head upstairs so that she can raid my wardrobe – trying on a green fringed two-piece and then a raspberry, raw-silk pencil skirt. She settles on the latter and asks me to find something dramatic to wear, so she can take photos. I sort through the coat-hangers, suspended on a groaning rail that buckles like an inverted bridge, until I find a thirties evening gown. I pull it out, slipping its cool form over a dusky pink silk slip. I swing around to pick up a cream turban before snatching a thin silk sash.
All the while, certain words and phrases tumble: “Moonyeen” and “Ballet Russes” and “Thirties eccentricity”.

Moonyeen was the original owner of the dress; partner to the silver beauty featured here. I didn’t discover her story until that first acquisition was posted on my blog, and I had written a thank you letter to the kind woman who had provided the exciting bag of vintage offerings.
Soon after, I received an email that detailed who Moonyeen was. Alongside her incredible name, she was “a kind and lovely person” who “in her youth... looked a lot like Grace Kelly so was very elegant and beautiful”. My interest was more than piqued. I imagined a classic, movie-star-esque woman who had worn and loved those clothes before me. What parties and wardrobes had this dress, with chevrons of blue and pink, graced?
More anecdotes emerged. I was told: “She went to an exclusive dance school in London when she was young but went on to marry my father in law who was in the navy. He became a Rear Admiral and served on the Royal Yacht Britannia which is no more. He remembers Prince Charles as a small boy playing hide and seek on deck with Princess Ann. The nanny was nowhere to be seen and he noticed that Prince Charles was hiding in a dangerous place where he could fall overboard, so he gently went up to him and told him to find somewhere else to hide.”
As I have said many times, I love the fact that stories often accompany the garments I am lucky enough to be given. The idea of Moonyeen, with her exotic name and story, completely inspired my styling choices.

Alongside wanting to do its original owner justice, I was also struck by how much this dress reminded me of the Ballet Russes. The photo-session with my very talented friend Flo (who incidentally will be studying photography at University in September), happened several days after I bought a lavish book called “Ballet Russes: The Art of the Costume”.
It was a bit of an impulse buy, and a greedy one at that. I already own the volume that was published alongside the V&A exhibition, but couldn’t resist the vivid pictures and details of designs by everyone from Leon Bakst to Sonia Delauney in this edition (produced by the National Gallery of Australia). As you may have guessed, books are my second biggest weakness after clothes.
The style and cut of the dress reminded me of the bold slashes of colour and intricate patterns that make the Ballet Russes costumes so recognisable and memorable. The dress doesn’t quite have stylised clouds or grand tassels adorning its edges, but it seems to display the same influences, down to the pattern of gold curlicues covering the fabric like veins.
It also epitomises the use of prints and patterns during the 1930s, as machinery advances led to commercial production of garments that included:

• “Designs printed on silk, rayon and crinkle crepe”
• “Bold lines and patterns of the prevailing Art Deco style”
• “Contrasting colours and bright shades to emphasize print”
• “Influences from Cubism and artists such as Picasso and Man Ray”

(Quotes from ‘Vintage Fashion: collecting and wearing designer classics’ by Carlton books.)

Although the Ballet Russes’ grand reign is thought of as ending in 1929 – the year of Diaghilev’s death – it still had various renaissances during the thirties, when this dress would have been created.
One of the problems that plagued Diaghilev’s grand company was finances. Many of his costumes (alongside “stage sets... designs and musical scores” according to the book) were sold off in 1930 to cover debts. Although they were bought by a composer, with the intention of reviving the Ballet Russes, the effects of the Wall Street Crash put a stop to these fanciful thoughts (and led to a large re-sale in 1934).
I was fortunate to cover the American Economic Crash for my history GCSE (the hardest of all my exams, but also one of the most rewarding), which seems extraordinarily prescient in light of the current recession – which I understand is not going to improve any time soon. The effects of these difficult times were immediately apparent yesterday, when we went to our nearest large town (by nearest, I mean 40 minutes) and were confronted with one empty shop after another. Many windows were almost naked, their dressings having been removed and sold off at 70% discount.

Ironically, we now remember the 1930s as the decade of Hollywood Glamour – a time of bias cut dresses, silk jersey and Vionnet drapery. While thousands camped out in ‘Hoovervilles’, accompanied by the rhythm of the weary footfall of desperate jobseekers, film stars such as Marlene Dietrich and Joan Crawford enjoyed unprecedented popularity. The two extremes are not without links. The chic elegance of the ‘Stars of the Silver Screen’ provided much needed escapism for those caught up in the depression – cinema numbers were at an all-time high.

The same could be said of 2011. As a nation, we still lose ourselves in movies, TV Programmes and magazines that promote aspirational lifestyles. A dwindling number immerse themselves in the worlds and characters described in books and poetry. Many like to turn on a CD or iPod and tune off from the world.
However, although I enjoy life’s pleasures as much as the next person, capitalism and the emphasis on ‘needing stuff’ is not the be all and end all. It has, in part, led to these economic problems, alongside bankers gambling so that they might get an even more gargantuan bonus. Nevertheless, as many people have observed: while those who joined the rioting and were caught will now rightly face the consequences of their actions, the bankers have continued to act with impunity and moral disregard.

Finally, you may have noticed that my blog has had a re-design, courtesy of the very wonderful Olivia from Robin Blogs. If you fancy a new look, then she is definitely the person to contact. She is such a pleasure to work with, and brings ideas to life like a magician! I'm so pleased with the result. Huge thanks Olivia.
The ‘backbone’ brooch in the new header was made by my close family friend and honorary cousin Esme, who I have known since she was born! She is now a very talented silversmith (and cook), and created this extraordinary piece for me to express my response to both scoliosis and strength. You can see more of her designs here, and I will be featuring the brooch in a post of its own.

Feelings

2011-08-08T23:00:00.002+01:00

I tried to start writing this post about three hours ago. What happened to those 180 minutes I could have spent typing? Well, twitter and rolling news had a large part to play in it. As did obsessive email checking, and scrolling through BBC coverage.

Why the interest in the London disorder? But more importantly, why the need to find out what is constantly going on? The nearest I was to any rioting was watching my brother and a friend earlier use water-pistols to spray my windows as they laughed hysterically.
It’s awful – I know it’s awful. These riots will result in lost homes, lost livelihoods and potentially even lost lives. The looting and violence is shocking. I spend quite a bit of time in London, so although I do not call it ‘home’, I do feel for the capital and its inhabitants. No-one deserves to be subjected to the scenes we have seen on various websites – of buildings burning and crumbling, of masked gangs roaming streets like zombies, of ransacked shop fronts. It’s a Monday for heaven’s sake!

However, I didn’t really know much about what was happening until I turned on my computer this morning. I have a new policy of trying to cut down on internet consumption (a web-diet perhaps?), and spent the weekend enjoying the freedom of spending hours reading and scribbling ideas in my notebook. I went for a long walk, had endless family discussions, and finished sorting out my room.
And do you know what? I felt better for it. Not knowing what dreadful things were happening in the world, just for two days, helped me to clear my head.

So, as one can imagine, I had quite a lot of catching up to do in regard to the situation in London – which is still unfolding as I type - a strange thought. As these words make the journey from my head to the document in front of me, people are being affected. Firemen and paramedics are facing risk as my fingers move across the keyboard.
It’s not that I don’t want to know what’s happening – I do, and I think that is important for everyone to educate themselves about current affairs. But there’s current, and then there’s current. Twitter, like many other forms of social media, provides a constant stream of instant updates. Want to know what is happening in Hackney, right now, this very second? There are pictures, comments, hashtags and even blogs devoted to the events unfolding step by step.
Sometimes this is good, as it leads to instant (and very often important) knowledge, awareness and positive action. However, I do also sometimes wonder if Henry Miller was on to something when he wrote in ‘The Colossus of Maroussi’:
“To be silent the whole day long, see no newspaper, hear no radio, listen to no gossip.... to be thoroughly and completely indifferent to the fate of the world is the finest medicine a man can give himself”.

Along with the need to read and spread information (eg, advising people about where unsafe areas are), there is also an addictive quality to constant updates. It’s the same as seeing the ‘Inbox (1)’ message, or finding a Facebook notification or a blog comment to moderate. The internet seems to have sped us up to the point where we always crave the new, the next, the immediate.
I know that many may disagree – I realised that when I started trying to articulate these feelings. But my question is, is instantaneous news always healthy? Maybe it’s just me, but sometimes it feels a bit voyeuristic, like seeing news footage of waves engulfing the coast of Japan as it happened.
The news focuses on bad events like a child with a magnifying glass – sharpening every detail, and sometimes sizzling the subject of its scrutiny.
It’s true that we deserve to know what goes on in this world, especially if it affects us directly. But do you know what else is good? Letting go for five minutes, so that one can appreciate sitting outside on a windy day with a cup of tea, or reading a beautiful sentence in a book. Knowing that there are still good people in the world, despite the reports of criminals treating London’s shops as one large trolley dash.
I guess that is possibly why we find the past so comforting. We already know what happened, and that there is no way the events of previous years will change. They are constant - something we can analyse and dissect, safe in the knowledge that we cannot be harmed by history’s villains.

Which brings me on to the inevitable part of the post – the clothes. These photos were taken a few months ago; a now comfortable past. I remember the sense of solidity while sitting on the stone wall, years of work beneath me. Then there was the reassuring familiarity of the various locations that change daily according to light or season. But these are the changes that are anticipated – even expected. They don’t cause anxiety or worry.
I am wearing a second hand blue woollen blazer and patterned shorts, with Topshop shoes (and wellies) and Next tights. The ‘Mummy’s Scissor’ necklace is homemade, and the belt was my grandma’s.

Finally, to all those affected by the horrific London riots – those who have lost their business premises, valuable work or homes, those who have been subjected to violence – all I can say is that my thoughts and wishes are with you on this dark and deeply chaotic night.

Edit: In light of overnight coverage, my article seems already quite obselete. Is that how fast news is moving now? The havoc wreaked through this beautiful city - from Chalk Farm to Croydon - is beyond belief. In the end, I couldn't look away from coverage. It ended up being personal. I know some of those streets, I know people living in various affected areas.
Having tried to switch off from the terrible news, and finding this impossible, I started reflecting on the role of the media. All websites and feeds were linked directly to the rioting - useful for information, not so good for spreading inspiration. 'Copycat' events taking place in Bristol, Birmingham and other cities couldn't have happened as quickly in the past, as the pictures and coverage of mayhem wouldn't have been so immediately accessible. And that's before we even start looking at Blackberry Messenger. However, social media such as twitter has also been instrumental in the extraordinary riot clean ups taking place this morning; an inspirational group effort. Media - a double edged sword.
Finally, I was saddened to realise that many of those creating the lawlessness were of my generation - teenagers. Is this truly how society has evolved, to the point that the young have no respect for law and order, or even for their own communities? I do understand all the social problems faced, but all they have done in these mindless few days is perpetuate their own stereotypes.
For a very eloquent and thought-provoking response, by Camila Batmanghelidjh (who I admire very much), see here - http://t.co/5RrAxP8

The name of the rose

2011-08-04T23:36:00.000+01:00

My first name, Rosalind, is derived from Latin, meaning ‘Fair and beautiful rose’. Rosalind is also a character in Shakespeare’s ‘As You Like It’, and has been played by actors such as Helena Bonham Carter, Juliet Stevenson and Helen Mirren. The role is best known for requiring cross-dressing as a man – not a trait she and I often share.

My parents chose the name precisely because it was Shakespearean, although it could also refer to Rosalind Russell (an actress), Rosalind Franklin (a chemist), a rural Canadian town or a moon of Uranus. As far as I know, none of these places or people were pivotal in the decision making.
However, it was a second choice. I nearly ended up as a Rosa – until good family friends decided that it would be the name of their baby, born before me. So, it was either Miranda or Rosalind. My parents settled on the latter.

Many of you know me as Roz – a nickname that I seemed to acquire along with my scratchy secondary school uniform at the age of 11. Much like a haircut, my name has been chopped and changed over the years; losing letters and growing them out again. In the past I had been called everything from ‘Rozzie’ to ‘Rose’, before these derivatives were trimmed down to ‘Roz’. This was how friends, family and teachers referred to me, the full version only appearing on formal letters and in the school register.
Some cultures believe that if you know the name of something or someone, then you have power over them. And it must be said, there is a certain power in being able to identify the world around you and make sense of it. This is especially true when we are little. We learn words and their meanings; carefully repeating (and often mangling) them until they are right – and we know what they stand for. Our dear friends’ two year old toddler is currently making his way through this process, and every time we see him he is more articulate!
Although this is an important step towards growing up, there is sometimes a bittersweet side. Once the environment around us becomes finite, then the excitement in the simplest object can be dulled. Once we know what a teapot or a flower is, it can never again be anything other than that.
I talk of naming because I am starting to use my full name, Rosalind, again and am in the process of altering various online profiles. I am still happy to be known as Roz, but I feel I have maybe grown up enough to start inhabiting all three syllables.
This small change has also coincided with a definitive altering of my aspirations. When I first started this blog over two years ago, it was on the basis of loving clothes and wanting to (one day) train as a fashion designer. I left a minimal amount of text under the photos I posted, sometimes with a rather embarrassing sprinkle of smiley faces. Each post was carefully worked out around the outfit, while the writing, like a younger sibling, simply lagged behind.

Several events catalysed my decision to change what I wanted to do with my life, and to some extent, my blog. First there were people I talked to and worked with – who demonstrated the hardships of the industry, and made me re-evaluate whether this path would be for me. Then there was the small fact that I didn’t actually enjoy pattern cutting and sewing, as it made my back ache and I often ended up frustrated. Finally there was the scoliosis – which overtook everything else.
People are often asked about what events they might change in their lives, if they could. Perhaps surprisingly I wouldn’t alter my curved spine. It may have brought a host of problems, but it twisted me into a totally different direction. People might have seen me at my worst while I recovered from surgery, but I saw them all at their absolute best, which was a real privilege. The long winter months spent getting to grips with my new scaffolding spine were also intensely creative. The frustration spurred me on to write, to try to put my experience into words and, like a lepidopterist, pin down the fluttering images in my head.

This new found love of writing – something I had previously considered a gentle hobby – grabbed my ideas for the future by the ankles and shook them upside down. Putting pen to paper (okay, typing away at a computer) is now something I consider seriously as a potential career. I want to pursue it, work hard to develop it, and painstakingly learn the craft.
Funnily enough, I guess this dress perfectly illustrates how much has changed within the last year. I first featured the draped lines here, eager to showcase the piece I had customised at my work experience/ internship at a local fashion company last July. As I circled around the mannequin, pins in mouth, and a vaguely Peter Pilloto inspired silhouette in my head, I had felt that creating beautiful clothes was what I would devote myself to. That changed.

Alongside the passion for words, there is also the photography. Although I am still fascinated by the facets of fashion photography, it is now portraiture that really excites me. Irving Penn, Ida Kar, Hoppe, Horste and Sally Mann all sit on my photography shelf – the pages of their books well-thumbed, the soulful eyes staring out. Like writing, the camera captures and frames fragments of a story.

These photos were taken by my dad on a family walk to a set of hills that are much loved. On the journey, we realised that it was almost a year since we had scrambled over the rocks and picked bilberries among the heather. We were revisiting the same place, hardly changed, but seeing it differently, with a new set of experiences. The place was at once familiar and new. Much like my dress – thrown on that morning. Much like my name, tried on for size and found to be a more comfortable fit.

The hat is second hand (Kangol), as are the shoes, leather bag and ribbed top underneath. The belt is Jaeger from ebay.

Flying

2011-07-28T12:51:00.000+01:00

I was sitting in a hospital waiting room yesterday, flicking through a mangled copy of a magazine, when I found a short interview – the type with one line questions, such as “What would your superpower be?” The answer there was “flying”.
How many of us would agree with the interviewee’s wish? The ability to take off and leave the ground below sounds exhilarating. No boundaries, no limits, no need to turn back. Maybe that’s why dreams of swooping over cities and seas are so prevalent. Flying captures the imagination. It’s something we see birds doing all the time, and yet, so far, the act of flying without technical help eludes us.
It seems that as humans, we have a longing to conquer the fourth element – air. We have swum in the sea, warmed ourselves by the fire and dug homes out of the earth. How best to immerse ourselves in what we breathe? We have spent centuries developing ways to enter the sky: hot air balloons, planes, helicopters, parachutes. Those with an urge for adrenaline might try skydiving or base jumping, while the more docile could fly a kite or let go of a sky lantern. The latter is akin to a message in a bottle; the thrill in knowing that it can soar off to another part of the world.

I’ve just finished reading ‘Nights at the Circus’, by Angela Carter. The main character ‘Fevvers’ is known throughout Victorian-era Britain for her illustrious wings. They have made her a star. But that fame has been tempered with suffering. Her wings have not only provided the momentum for recognition, but also set her apart from her peers. She is an outcast – simultaneously commanding majesty and mockery. The magic realism of Carter’s novel could be said to reflect the way we view flying. It is an action that we see being demonstrated by the smallest of birds, butterflies and other winged things, and yet, try as we might; we can only poorly imitate them. To us, the idea is fantasy.

Of course, the other story that comes to mind is that of Icarus – the boy who flew too close to the sun. Dating back to ancient Greek times, perhaps this tale best encapsulates absolute yearning, combined with crunching loss: the idea that one cannot have flying without falling. As the saying goes, “What must go up must come down”.

Although the physical activity is most often associated with wings, phrases such as “high-flying” and “soaring” are used to denote success. If someone is doing well, or achieves spectacularly, then they are thought of as ascending to higher levels. In comparison, if someone “crashes and burns” then they have foundered and broken.

This is sadly apt in relation to the recent death of Amy Winehouse. In some ways it seems that she was like Icarus – flying so high and so brightly, with such talent. Her voice took us with her in flight.
That is the mark of a true artist – be they singer, painter, photographer, writer or actor. Their work can elevate and transport us, taking the listener, reader or watcher out of their own lives and into something else entirely. I remember that exact feeling while recovering from surgery, and putting my entire concentration into absorbing one Kate Bush album after another, so that I could float away from pain. The sublime ‘Aerial: A Sky of Honey’ is the musical equivalent of gliding – complete with snatches of birdsong! Schopenhauer was most definitely right when he stated that we could momentarily escape suffering through the arts.

Birds and flight also provide inspiration for countless creators, such as Alexander McQueen. His S/S 2001 collection, complete with feathered dresses and taxidermy, is perhaps the best example of his extraordinary work. For him, the significance of birds could be eerie, as well as breathtaking.

Of course the one art I haven’t yet mentioned in relation to flight is dancing. What other profession allows for grand jetés, pirouettes and glissades? Watching my incredibly talented friend Choe (pictured here) spinning around the stately gardens where I took the photos made me feel exulted. She moved her limbs with grace and silence, the only sound alongside the cooing of a woodpigeon being the click of my camera shutter. As I asked her to do one leap after the other, I felt that if I looked away, then on her next spring she might just float up and up, until she was as high as the tower in the distance.

The location for the photos is very near two large lakes, which house several families of swans. When we were being driven back, exhausted and hot after several hours of photography, I saw a large white shape flutter down onto the surface. It felt like a privilege to see that swan make the transition from air to water; a moment of ungainliness sandwiched between its usual serenity.

I styled Chloe using clothes from my wardrobe and dressing up box - a mixture of family heirlooms, charity shop bargains and vintage gems. The leotard and ballet shoes are hers. Thank you Chloe!

Light and Dark

2011-07-23T16:53:00.006+01:00

Weather is always unexpected. Seasons may attempt roughly to toe the line and reflect the time of year (it would be worrying if russet leaves fell from the trees in March). However, Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter, in their attempt to find some distinction or definition, are hampered by what the elements throw at them. Weather likes to wrong-foot us. Went out without an umbrella? Ha! The rain doesn’t care. Experiencing an unprecedented heat-wave? Oh, sorry.
However, sometimes it creates extraordinary scenes. In the instance of these photos (the next part of my Bertie’s styling series), it was the storm clouds creating the drama. Great banks of grey in the distance – hovering like piles of mascara-coated cotton wool - were offset by intense sunshine in the foreground; illuminating and sharpening colours.
Looking at the seemingly stage-lit scenery is like seeing a photo with multiple exposures – different weather systems layered over each other.

But isn’t that exactly like life? There’s only one planet earth, but it houses multiple ‘worlds’. London is a prime example – within the space of three streets, one can travel from extreme privilege to poverty. This sense of overlapping lives – and experiences – has been high in my mind recently.
While most of the UK news has been centred on the News of the World scandal (which I will say, I have been following doggedly), with links all the way up to the Prime Minister, other atrocities and tragedies have been occurring worldwide. First, the famine in the Horn of Africa. While the bright lights of the western world have been focused sharply on Fleet Street and the media, the rumbling thunder of empty stomachs has been presented mostly as a background image.
Reading reports on the sheer numbers involved – the children who suffer – the abject loss, is devastating. The immediate reaction, after horror, is one of absolute sympathy; of wanting to do something, anything, to help those most in need. Unicef? Medicins Sans Frontieres? Red Cross? Which one would be most effective? But then the Googling starts. The questions pile up.
When I make a donation, will it be guaranteed to reach those who most need it, rather than being appropriated by corrupt governments? What about global over-population? What other ways are there to address the crisis, rather than tossing money around? How to make an active contribution?
I don’t know enough about economics or politics to form rational answers to the queries above, and if anyone is better placed to give more informed suggestions, then I would be very grateful to hear them.

Clothes, Cameras and Coffee may be a style and photography blog, but I am perfectly aware that I am incredibly privileged in being able to indulge in hobbies and creative aspirations. I have the time to write; to hunt out second hand bargains; to while hours away reading; because I live in a country of comparative material prosperity. Things may be a little less certain than we would like, but we are not in any immediate danger of extremities such as starvation or war.

But then there are events that bring these layered, multiple exposures – snapshots of other people’s lives – closer to home. The Oslo and Utøya attacks are uppermost in my thoughts. The horror is so extreme that I can’t even begin to articulate a response right now. One of my best friends is currently on a different kind of summer camp here in the UK – comparisons are inevitable. The rise of the internet, and 24 hour news channels, means that we seem ‘battle-hardened’ to what we see happening. However, reading details of what has happened provoked similar feelings to hearing snatches about the Beslan school siege when I was much younger – queasiness, bewilderment (and sobering realisation) at the pain humans are capable of inflicting upon each other.
One does wonder though – with the prevalence of a greater world knowledge, and information only a click away – if we shouldn’t have a greater consciousness to match? In all honesty, in an affluent country, it is all too easy to switch off the computer, and retreat into a warm house; pretending that nothing exists beyond the blank screen. Often this might be simply self-preservation – it is impossible to sustain having our minds filled with tragedy 24/7. Nevertheless, one of the fundamental human qualities is compassion, and we need to keep feeling this in order to respond.

To return to the original analogy, the weather backdrop to these photos was one of extreme contrast. All these appalling events around the globe are disturbing. However, they don’t negate moments of wonder or joy either. Life is both incredible, and hard and full of hurt in equal measure – a ragged bag of grief and laughter. It’s dark and light.

The black lace twenties dress was borrowed from Bertie’s, to style. My favourite details are the pink and green hem, with scalloped edging. I styled it using a variety of accessories and garments – including a pink vintage silk skip, a pink silk shirt (with matching scarf), a vintage carpet bag, black men’s M&S brogues, second hand heels, thrifted belts, a charity shopped cardigan and family owned jewellery.

Edit: After further research and discussion, I have made a donation to the DEC appeal, which is an umbrella organisation for fourteen charities.

Bertie's Beauties

2011-07-18T15:09:00.009+01:00

With the Harry Potter era coming to its momentous finale as the very last film is released (which was better than I had anticipated – I thoroughly enjoyed seeing it yesterday), there has been the inevitable round of memories, reminiscing and ‘Favourite bits of the series’ in the media. One detail that struck me, alongside the great service JK Rowling performed by encouraging a whole generation to read (who will be her successor? We need someone else to fill that gap – and in my opinion, it never will, and never can, be Stephanie Meyer), was the mention of platform 9 ¾ at Kings Cross station. A portal that leads to a fantastical world is something every eleven year old would kill to enter. Of course, she was not the first to put this idea into play – read the utterly magical ‘The Secret of Platform 13’ by Eva Ibbotson (one of my all-time favourite childhood authors, alongside Margaret Mahy), which was published three years prior to the Philosopher’s Stone.

We may not have Hogsmeade or broomsticks (although the ongoing News of the World scandal suggests there might be a few Voldemorts and bumbling authorities around), but there is a place I sometimes visit that bears more than a passing resemblance to that mythical train platform (and even better, it is accessible by train too!)

Whenever we get the chance, my mum and I take a special day trip to the gorgeous Bertie’s Vintage of Craven Arms. Plenty of time needs to be set aside for these excursions, because the minute one steps into the shop, off the perfectly ordinary market town Street, it is quite difficult to extricate oneself again. Like the King’s Cross platform, this shop is completely unexpected.
Escaping from the drizzle (which seems to be a pastime for us British), and being confronted with a room where a vintage mannequin greets you like the figurehead of a ship, before your eyes pick out a small changing room with magnificent gold curtains to hide your modesty, and several period glass cabinets housing forties’ snakeskin shoes and feather fans, can only be described as extraordinary. Who needs the Triwizard tournament when one can instead marvel at stacked hatboxes (and name spot – Elsa Schiaparelli anyone?), and savour the look of the elegant black hands that emerge from one gold and black wall-papered surface – the fingers nonchalantly bearing forties and fifties handbags. In the same way that Mary Poppins led her charges into a chalked picture on the paving, so this place makes one feel as though a running leap has been taken into a particularly chic kodachrome photo.

And how best to describe the feel of gently riffling through the two racks of exquisitely chosen vintage garments? I think the owner, Robert, described it best – it is “bespoke shopping” – a couture-made experience. Like the clothes, with their pin-tucked details and bias cuts, the hours spent perusing can only be thought of as ‘tailor made’. Thirties striped Katharine Hepburne-esque hand-knit sweaters can be spotted among floral fifties day dresses and the occasional breathtaking evening gown.

I currently own three items from Bertie’s (although I have my eye on a fourth) – two I carefully saved up for myself, and the other was a birthday present. The first, a two piece suit, can be seen in all its wide-collared glory here. The others are yet to grace the web-pages of this blog, but that will soon change – as I can’t wait to share my new sixties (quite Prada-ish) blue and white mini-dress with a pleated skirt.

On the back of these much anticipated sporadic visits, and the fact that Robert has now seen my blog, he recently offered a very exciting proposition. How would I like to style some of his precious dresses to demonstrate how they might be worn?
Even before he finished the sentence, I was already nodding eagerly and casting my eye around the room, like a fisherman preparing his line for a catch. Four pieces were borne away (I was terrified about anything happening to them – especially as some of the loaned items were from his personal collection, rather than stock for the shop), and have now been returned once more. The photos above are the first set of ‘styled’ looks, based around a rather delectable forties lace dress, that I had considered buying. Instead, I settled for borrowing it and dressing it in three ways – the first, a classic interpretation, complete with my late paternal granddad’s straw panama and my paternal grandma’s belt (she wore it to the Czech equivalent of Girl Guides), finished off with my beloved high heeled Carvela brogues.

The second two ‘looks’ were put together with the idea of ‘similarities and differences’ at the back of my mind – ergo the two sets of shirt and shorts with a hat, but presented in contrasting colour shades.

The green silk shirt was from a charity shop, along with the khaki shorts. The hat is vintage.
The pink shirt is also second hand, as are the plum coloured shorts. Likewise, the hat is vintage – even the origins match up! Shoes as before, and all jewellery and accessories are vintage, or family owned.

If you ever get the chance to visit Craven Arms (located very near Ludlow – home to the nationally known food festival), then I can’t recommend Bertie’s highly enough. There are details on his website, and the shop is rooted right in the middle of the aptly named ‘vintage quarter’ – the display window facing off the oh-so magnificent ‘Land of Lost Content’. An extraordinary museum, that houses every household item one could think of, dating back to over a hundred years. Where else would you find a whole room stuffed with vintage cameras, living alongside Beatles’ memorabilia and WW11 uniforms, all under one roof? Stella, who created the museum, is an amazing lifetime collector, and is instantly recognisable by her incredible vintage (and often bright) clothing and beautiful smile.
It is well worth a ‘day out’ to discover the delights of these two places, standing out in the town like peacocks compared to pigeons – it is accessible easily by train on the (I think) Manchester to Swansea line, and takes only one change from London. (Although, you do have to cross a busy main road and go past a cavernous supermarket before you can find it.)

I had a very wonderful and relaxing holiday, which I will talk about in another post.

'The Woman by the Lake'

2011-07-12T14:00:00.004+01:00

What would you do if some spotty stranger stuck their nose in your face? Would you politely cough and move away? Maybe glare at the lack of manners? Give them a shove?
Violetta had devised all these methods and more to deter the gawpers: professors with their round glasses and scratchy writing, bored schoolgirls with skirts that would make a nun blush, a housekeeper who tutted as she bustled. But Violetta could no more fulfil her angry wishes than she could skydive from Westminster Abbey. She was stuck – suspended against a background of green wispy reeds and water with more ripples than creased clothing. She sat, glum, fixed expression painted on her face.

Violetta wasn’t quite sure when she had arrived. There was nothing, a blank canvas... and then she appeared. She remembered a hand stroking her nose, shading it a dainty pink. First she was a sketch, then a defined outline, which became a solitary figure, before finally appearing as ‘Woman by the lake’. Couldn’t her creator at least have come up with a better title? She knew he worked in brushstrokes, rather than words, but it smacked of indifference.
This maker was still a mystery. Many had arrived to scrutinise the black scribble at the edge of the frame, blemishing her yellow, ruffled skirt, and failed to pinpoint him. She had been tested, analysed and evaluated. Essays had been written on her strange beauty, and critical articles published in riposte. If only these arts writers had bothered to ask, then Violetta would have happily told them her name and story – before ripping apart their waffling theories. She was not a “distressed fiancée, who watches the turbulent waters, representing her inner turmoil as she waits for a loved one” and nor did the “muted shades of her dress suggest a retiring sensibility and demure nature”.

Her juddering train of thought was ambushed by a movement. Approaching from the door was a bent figure, hand clenching a polished walking stick. The clicks and taps as it moved reminded her of Morse code. She could see now that it was a man heading straight towards her. He stopped and leaned closer, sucking his teeth. His upturned features were an ordnance survey map; his forehead a field and his eyes two drying ponds. Contour lines stretched out in arcs across his skin.
She knew those crumpled landmarks. Those eyes had studied her with interest, looking feverish with excitement or tense with frustration. What’s more, she was acquainted with the now wrinkled (but still stained) hand reaching out.
“Hello old girl”.
It was him alright – the cheek of it. The prodigal artist returning after all these years, only to wipe his smudged fingertips all over the clouds above her head, and smile at his work. No apologies for painting her in such an uncomfortable position that she had suffered a bad back for the last six decades. No offers of commiseration at the levels of boredom involved in being the star attraction of a drafty hall. He hadn’t even given her a shawl to ward off the chills.
As his fingers traced the line of her arm, Violetta made a snap judgement. She seized the thin wrist, dragging the surprised pensioner swiftly into the painted scenery. She felt a rush of air as she toppled backwards, and down onto a hard wooden surface. She looked up to see a canvas – her canvas – hanging on a cream wall. In one corner, a very startled looking gentleman stared in puzzlement at the floral parasol he was bearing.

Leaving him trapped like a bug on a windscreen, she sauntered off. The late afternoon threw soft squares of light through the windows. Violetta stepped out into the garden.

Spread below was a tapestry: two satin lakes, surrounded by shorn velvet fields and a grey-blue linen sky. The scene was pinned together with trees. Breathless with excitement, she made her way towards the water. Every few yards Violetta would halt to pluck up flowers, making a bouquet. Her nose twitched in delight, and the petals felt soft in comparison with their scratchy painted counterparts.

Revelling in the feel of grass under her feet, she arrived at a small jetty. From here she could turn back and study the vast building she had left.

Violetta leaned over the edge of the planks, and stretched out her hand. Her touch broke the surface – making the water hiccup. It was cold and sloppy – unlike anything she had imagined. She tried to hold the liquid, but it melted through the cracks in her fingers.

It would be so easy to walk away. She could leave the artist where he was – dangling in his own creation, puzzling visitors. She could rip off her ruffled dress (which was already splitting along the seams – not used to movement) and let it float across the lake in its fading decadence. She could offer her sash to the wind, and pull out her jewelled headpiece to give to a passing magpie. She could run.
Impossible. Violetta sat back, stroking the flowers, her fizzing thoughts subsiding. She recognised her surroundings – they had been her background for years. But what lay beyond the edges of the frame? Noise and busy lives? Or empty space?

No, easier to stay in this moment – with the scent of honeysuckle and the sound of swans. She idly picked apart her bouquet, ripping out stamens and peeling stalks in half. She busied herself with un-doing the flowers until she was left with a multicoloured mound.

Her slender frame rose; she arched her neck to see the birds darting like paper cut-outs. She flung her arms wide. A small storm of petals were let loose, the purples, pinks and yellows briefly in flight, before they were blown back towards her. They settled on her dress, on the lake. Confetti, caught in a split-second snapshot.

The sun slid towards the end of the lake. She stretched. She would enjoy the walk back, the early evening breeze, the call of roosting birds. She would slide in through the French doors, across the smooth floor. She might even have to find a chair to climb back in, and let the old man go, but she would take her time...

The next morning, the cleaner looked in bewilderment at the petals scattered in front of “woman by the lake”. Though even more odd was the painted lady – surely she had been seated before?

This is dashed - as I am writing this before heading out the door for holiday (although I should be in Spain by the time you read this!). Thanks again to my wonderful friend Ellen for assuming another persona - this time in a vintage dress from a market stall, and a sash from my dressing up box - so that I could take photos of her to accompany another photo essay.

I was overwhelmed by the thoughtful and funny responses I had to my 'Style Yourself' giveaway. I was so impressed that I would like to incorporate some of the best answers into a future post, so that everyone else can read them. However, there is only one book on offer. I used random.org to decide the winner (adding in the emails as numbers at the end), and can happily say that Catherine will be getting a package from publisher Weldon Owen soon! Please could you email me your address?

Hand me down

2011-07-06T22:20:00.003+01:00

How do we remember, or come to know (and perhaps even love) those who are no longer with us? It might be through the stories told to us of their escapades and fearless adventures. We hear about how our Grandma walked through a busy British town in bare feet every day, or listen in amazement to the tales of great-grandparents who fled their Eastern European home disguised as ski tourists. Possibly we recognise their faces from old photo albums that were discovered when clearing out a house – accompanied by boxes and boxes of unsorted images, with veils of dust over the faces. If these relatives were even older there might perhaps be the occasional posed painting or daguerreotype to admire. Or, if we’re lucky then there could be some grainy footage from holidays when the Acropolis wasn’t yet a humming tourist destination, and it was still possible to imagine the Greek Gods floating over the shoulders of our then-young grandfather. All these relics from the past serve to educate us about our ancestors and build them up in our head – creating living sculptures made from papers, portraits and words.

Sometimes these scraps of memory are woven together with fabric. The final way to understand the characters of those we never knew is through looking at what they wore. My (still alive but remarkably changed) 93 year old great-grandma favoured Jaeger cardigans and dainty shoes – many of which came from charity shops in later years. My other maternal great-grandma (and great-aunts) owned a large variety of hats, gloves, scarves and bags – typical of what women of their generation wouldn’t leave the house without. And my paternal grand-dad, who died when my dad was little? Although we have photo evidence of him as a ‘dapper young chap’ in three piece suits or slacks, I know him specifically through a few objects dotted around our house. The first is a Stanford vest; a relic from his college days. Then there are the white rimmed fifties sunglasses – so big that I feel like a child playing dress up again, as the frames slip down my nose. And finally, hanging on a hook in the hall, I can see a straw fedora that wouldn’t look out of place on the Sartorialist.

Wearing (or even just owning) clothes that belonged to various relatives is the ultimate recycling – not only are the garments being re-used and re-discovered (where they might otherwise have been dumped), but these items can also be given a new type of life. Our own stories are added to the ones that went before them. “If these walls could talk” is an often used phrase. However, I sometimes wonder if the more interesting statement would be “If these clothes could talk”. What we wear accompanies us all day long and our clothes will be party to whatever we do or say.

Sometimes I feel like every item my grandma has given me should have an invisible label on it, detailing its history. “This couture dress was bought in a thrift store, and worn when I was a jobbing actress in New York” or “I brought this sixties flower brooch with me when I moved to London”. We could scribble our own additions on to this label – “I used the seventies patchwork floppy hat to keep the sun off my face during a picnic with my family”.

So, in memory of my family members who are no longer with us or who do not enjoy the health they once did, here are three outfits styled (almost) exclusively with pieces from the past – handed down from great-grandmas, aunts and cousins three times removed.

The first of the three ensembles is made up of the previously mentioned Stanford vest (and white sunglasses), worn with silk knickerbockers (used as shorts) that were discovered, still unworn, in a great-grandma’s house. The silk shirt underneath belonged to my maternal-great grandma (who has been a wonderful source of all things silk and fur related), as did the long string of faux-pearls. The silk scarf in my hair comes from the box of treasures from my other maternal great-grandma’s house.

The second has a floral dress hand-made by one of my maternal great-grandmas (she of the hats and gloves), worn under a black lace bodice that was owned by another great-grandma. The two great-grandmas on my mother’s side did not get on, and therefore it’s quite bittersweet that I am pairing their clothes together. In addition, this black lace strapless top has been worn and styled by four generations on my mother’s side – having been made by my great-grandma, who gave it to her daughter, who in turn passed it on to her daughter (my mum), who wore it, stored it, and one day found it had been appropriated by her daughter – me!
I am also wearing a velvet choker and a little belt that both belonged to a paternal great-grandma. The wedges are not family owned (but from ebay), as my feet are much too big to be stuffed into vintage shoes.

The third look was very circus inspired – especially in the colour palette. The white blouse was my great-grandma’s, and the black trousers were my maternal granddad’s. I had to cinch them in with a sash, as the waistline was somewhat larger than mine – however, I love the voluminous look of the legs. The red satin evening coat worn over the top belonged to my paternal great-grandma. Most of her clothes were donated to an American theatre wardrobe department (sob), but this is one of the few pieces I have been lucky enough to receive. The brooch at the neck is Christian Dior, and was from my maternal great-grandma (along with the pearl clutch). The shoes are second hand.

All three outfits have elements of red running through them, which wasn’t planned, but seems appropriate. If we go back once again to the symbolism of colours, then red stands for courage and valour - two qualities that saturate various family stories. However, it also represents anger, which is just as apt. There have been fiery arguments, harsh words and great sadness. However here red is tempered with white; the sign of peace and serenity. Hopefully there is a dash of that in the family mix too.

I will be on holiday as of friday, and so my next post will be pre-scheduled for the middle of the following week. I have been really busy, so will announce the giveaway in that, after using a random generator - everyone's answers were too good (thoughtful, funny, reflective) for me to make a rational decision! This will gave the winner plenty of time to contact me with an address before I get back.

Past and Present

2011-07-03T13:23:00.002+01:00

Life is full of unlikely combinations. Relationships, friends, family – oh, and colours. Pink and yellow for example. My only memory of these two clashing shades (taking place in the ‘Jarring Colours Hall of Fame’, alongside green and purple, or fuschia and red), was absolute devotion to a pink and yellow striped umbrella I owned when I was little. Its curved handle was perfect for small fat fists; the canopy large enough to shelter beneath.

Pink and yellow is reminiscent of striped candles on cakes at childhood birthday parties – of wild flowers sprawling in a protest of colour – of dressing up in the brightest clothes. Maybe that’s why I was so drawn to this dress in the first place. My smaller self would definitely have approved of the swishy skirt, smattered floral print and princess style neckline. ‘Little Roz’ would have begged her mum to buy this yellow dress when she saw it in the charity shop – and for once, I agreed with my past self.
Sometimes items catch me out like that. I itch to touch diamante and lycra monstrosities (the ones that would have been deeply desirable ten years ago) hanging between the boxy shoulder padded suits and nylon nighties. When I was younger, I was fixated with anything that had even a hint of glitter or, even better, whorls of sparkle across the neckline – resembling a synthetic night sky. My tastes have moved on, but as I have said previously, I am sure that my current wardrobe is just an extension of that beloved dressing up box.
As a six year old, my eyes would definitely have lit up at the sight of the salmon pink cardigan too (also second hand). On reflection, I don’t think my love of pink was anything to do with upbringing or peer conformity – my mum was adamantly against gender stereotypical items such as Barbies (she eventually gave in, and I spent many happy hours making clothes out of scraps of fabric for them) – but simply out of a desire to wear a ‘pretty colour’.

The link between present and past in this outfit was wholly appropriate, as this is what I wore to accompany my mum on a visit to my grand-dad. In his room, I was suddenly aware of charting the process of me and my brother’s growing-up, following the chronological sets of pictures ranged around the walls. We give my grand-dad a pin-board or canvas of family images every year (most of them now taken by me). Among the home made cards and paintings, I can scrutinise my face and see how it has gradually altered. There we all are – smiling, laughing, preserved in colour or black and white.
Maybe some elements of family life resemble the strange mixing of pink and yellow: peering in from the outside, it might look like a discordant combination of strident differences. But together? It just works.

The thing I enjoyed most about that visit was delving into my grand-dad’s encyclopaedic knowledge of British and world history. Listening to his stories of day-to-day life during WW11 reminded me once again of the detailed embroidery that is our ancestors’ history. Spinning threads loop off through different directions and times. These recent mentions of family on my blog have been stitching an idea for my next post; this set of musings being something of a muslin toile to check whether the pattern fits.

Mum took the photos on the return trip. We hadn’t planned to do an outfit post, but the views on the way back were too magnificent to pass up. The gold belt and vintage sunglasses were gifts, and the ballet pumps are old ones from Topshop. The leather saddle bag was from a charity shop.

On a completely different strand – I enjoyed watching the first episode of Mildred Pierce last night, kindly sent to me by the Sky Atlantic PR team (along with a gorgeous pair of sunglasses!) The outfits and period settings, along with beautiful cinematography (plenty of stills-worthy shots, with framing through rainy windows and the like), makes it definitely worth scheduling into your evening. Kate Winslet’s skilled acting only reinforces the idea that this is a visual feast to savour.

The giveaway winner for the Style Yourself book will be announced in the next post - the entries have been superb. I have really enjoyed reading them all. The contest is open until the 5th July.

Silk revisited: Style Yourself book and Giveaway

2011-06-26T21:13:00.005+01:00

What does recycling mean to you? For many, it conjures up images of compost bins or newspaper and bottle collection days (and possibly a seven in the morning dash because it wasn't left out the night before). However, it's a word that applies equally to styling the clothes in our wardrobes.

I've never been able to understand the behaviour of some affluent individuals who can afford to buy something and parade it once, before discarding it again. For me, part of the joy of dressing is discovering new ways to style long owned items. It's not for nothing that articles are written about ‘versatile’ pieces. The term doesn't refer only to classic LBDs and white shirts that we all know are a ‘staple’ of any wardrobe, but also encompasses anything that can be worn time and time again (constantly being recycled and re-used) – like my vintage dress styled above.

This is the third outing for the sixties silk beauty on my blog. No longer a blushing debutante; this dress is now secure in the knowledge that it is well-used and loved. (Is there a term, like anthropomorphism, that could be used to describe the personification of clothes? If so, I feel I'm in danger of using it). The dress’s Erdem-like abstract flowers have been previously dressed up with granny’s turquoise string gloves and silk stockings; and the print has also bloomed alongside a vintage seventies belt and Laura Ashley hat. It has appeared at the back of the Sunday Times Style Section, and now – in its biggest appearance to date – has been lucky enough to grace the pages of the newly published ‘Style Yourself’ blogger book.

I was ecstatic when, last year, I was asked if I would like to appear in the Weldon Owen published book 'Style Yourself' alongside fashion blogging luminaries such as Style Bubble and Style Rookie. I hastily agreed, and then forgot all about it, as recovering from surgery took precedence. So imagine my excitement when I found out that it was published – and there was a copy winging its way to me from the United States. Now that I have the book in my hands, I can see other favourite bloggers – such as FrouFrouu, Louise Ebel and Barbro Anderson (alongside many, many others) – all featured in gorgeous and varying spreads. My own two pages come under the ‘accessories’ section, which features some images from ‘Wrinkled Silk Stockings on a Blustery Sunday’, presented with a very British ‘Tea Party’ spin.
All I can say is that whoever had the bright idea to create this book was very smart indeed. Blogging is still a relative toddler in comparison with other industries, but it is growing faster than Jack’s beanstalk. These 95 bloggers presented have a collective 500,000 visits a day (thanks to Barbro for that fact!) – Hundreds of thousands of people logging on to see what their favourite bloggers have styled and written about. Cumulatively, that is a pretty large voice.
The book itself is beautifully laid out and structured – full of tips and hints on styling – with ample inspiration. Whether you favour eighties Grace Jones style looks, or dress according to the landscape around you, there is something for everyone. However, one of my favourite aspects is the pages given over to the technical terms for every clothing-related item under the sun. Did you know what a fishing creel bag is, or what a Watteau dress looks like? (I didn’t, but I do now!) Or perhaps you’d like to discover the wonders of a zouave jacket? There’s something quite addictive about pinpointing exactly what type of shoes you are wearing (are they Oxfords, Brogues, Jazz or Saddles?), and learning the exact dart shape used to create the dress hanging on a mannequin. It’s this level of detail, along with the delicious design, that left a huge grin on my face after I had ripped the packaging open.

On this excursion, I styled the dress with coral pink shoes from a flea market stall, a Jaeger belt from ebay (second hand), and a green silk belt-tie worn as bow. The tiny vintage leather saddle bag and the lace top (worn under the dress) were both from my favourite local charity shop. These photos were taken about an hour ago, on the hottest day of the year so far. Yesterday I was sheltering from the rain and wind, and today I have been hiding from the heat.
This dress is recyled in more than one sense - as I originally rescued it from a £1 basket, and took it home to patch up the rips in the fabric. With a now shortened hemline, it is an item that has been given a new lease of life with the aid of a sewing machine...

Giveaway

Now, in a final (magician’s) flourish, Weldon Owen has offered to send a copy of ‘Style Yourself’ to one reader of Clothes, Cameras and Coffee in a giveaway.
I would like to open up this giveaway to bloggers and non-bloggers alike (as sometimes it just seems that only bloggers get a look in), with the same criteria. To enter, please answer the following – if you had to choose one item of clothing you own that sums up your style, what would it be, and why? (Eg – mine would probably be my sixties green and blue St Michael’s mini-dress, because it is vintage, immensely versatile, was bought in a charity shop and represents my love for all things whimsical). If you are a blogger, could you please comment with your answer and email address. If you are a non-blogger, I’d appreciate it if you emailed me with your answer, and ‘Style Yourself’ Giveaway in the subject line. I can’t wait to read some entries. Oh, and even better, the giveaway is open worldwide! The closing date will be the fifth of July.

The book can be easily ordered from local independent bookshops (to help support local business – see Alexandra Therese’s The Demise of the Local Bookshop). However, it is also available on Amazon here.

Living Daylights

2011-06-23T20:26:00.003+01:00

This is Ellen – also known as one of my best friends, and a general co-conspirator when it comes to dressing up. When we were little, the first port of call at each other’s houses was the dressing up box (or in her case wardrobe), where we could rummage for clothes to create fantastical characters. Whether we were witches, orphans or runaways, there would always be a sense of excitement and magic in transforming from ‘Roz and Ellen’ into entirely different people. We may be sixteen now, but we still love assuming personas and making up tales. However now our impromptu sessions lean towards Ellen dressing up, while I take the photos. She might have dropped in after school for a cup of tea, or visited to watch a DVD – and an idea sparks. This is one such instance, where I styled Ellen in something faintly Helena Bonham-Carter-esque, (with matching pale make-up) – creating the narrative as we wandered around our village. I thought it might be an interesting exercise to turn it into a proper photo essay, complete with a short story to complement the ‘character’. Here it is:

Living Daylights: The Tale of Claudia Carter

Claudia Carter knew she had died at 11.17am on a Tuesday. She was on her way home from an early morning meeting. She had dawdled, buying a paper and peering at shop displays. Her heart stopped just as she had been contemplating the ‘Buy One Get One Free’ deal in the Undertaker’s window. She had woken up several hours later, feeling a little chilly and under the weather, to the great (and some said mentally damaging) surprise of the mortician who had been leaning over her. Oh of course she hadn’t been let out of the hospital for weeks after that unfortunate little incident, as she was subjected to the strangest of experiments, as though she were a lab-monkey. The conclusion of these tests? Her vital organs were clinically deceased, and so she should be too. But here Claudia was, still walking around and talking like a well-dressed rag doll. The doctors shook their heads in bafflement, and whispered behind their arms about a word beginning with ‘Z’.

They had to let her go eventually. Claudia insisted upon it – no civilised lady wanted to live a life that started every day with being woken up to have a temperature taken and coagulating blood measured. She was picked up by her husband, and was issued to him along with two cases of pills and promises to “keep an eye on her”. The drive back was not how Claudia had imagined it. Well, her husband couldn’t exactly ask how she was – “technically dead darling, but I’m bearing up”. He avoided her gaze, and instead feigned interest in the radio, listening intently to the news with a crease between his eyebrows. She mirrored his unease by fiddling with her hair. At home, his fingers briefly brushed hers as he opened the car door, but immediately retreated as though they had touched raw fish.
Claudia watched as he heaved her battered blue case into the house, and wrapped her arms around her waist in the cold. Or was it warm? She couldn’t quite tell. However she had grown used to yellow-ish grey tinge her skin had acquired, looking like she had been dipped in lemon juice and left out to dry in the sun.

The next few days were full of evasions. Claudia attempted to ring old friends and arrange lunch dates (which were always “bad timing” she was told), while her husband burrowed into tax returns and gardening. The occasional encounters in the hall were met with wan smiles and nodding as they edged around the corners of the room. They treated each other as Venus fly traps – generally benevolent organisms that bite if something moves too close.

Claudia went away for a few days. “Just escaping to the countryside sweetie, to see the family home and get some fresh air”.
But when she arrived, her sister did not want to see her – and asked firmly if she could come back another time. Claudia felt like she was haunting her childhood village - stumbling back along the path to the phone box, passing the busy shop and school. No-one replied to her smiles or called out to her, to ask how she had been since the accident. The place usually reserved for commiserations was plugged with unbearable silence. She reached the bright red box gratefully, and stepped inside to dial the number.

“Hello Arthur. How are you?”

“---“

“Please could you come and pick me up? There are no more trains today.”
“---“
“Arthur!”
“Oh hello, is that you Claudia? What a surprise. I’m afraid work is busier than ever, and anyway, I thought you were staying over at Emma’s.”
“They don’t want me.”
“Oh. Umm. Well maybe they’re right. We’re still not sure about the state you are in – could be very dangerous if you are indeed the first Z.. a Z...”
“Darling – I am not a zombie. I prefer the term ‘medical anomaly’. I have no desire to start killing and eating people. I’m not on the Dukan Diet! Also, I’m still human, not a living-dead psychopath.”
“Jolly good. Just looking at the diary dear – no space to do a pick up today... Or tomorrow... Or the day after now I think of it. Why don’t you find a nice little place to stay? Sure you understand.”
“Arthur!”
“Got to go – the dog’s.. err.. playing merry hell with the postman”
Click.

Claudia placed the receiver back in its cradle: it smelt of hair grease and grubby fingers. She wiped her own hands on her girlish white skirt and pressed her palms against pale cheekbones. Then she straightened and sniffed twice.
If she still had a sense of smell, then there must be a little life left in her yet...

'Claudia' (or should that be Ellen?) is wearing all vintage - from various sources, including flea markets, charity shops and gifts.

Mayflower

2011-06-18T13:10:00.002+01:00

My mother used to refer to me as her mayflower when I was little - a girl born as the first signs of summer were revealing themselves. Aside from the 'Mayflower' being a historical ship sailed by pilgrims; the encyclopaedia definition is "A name given to several plants that bloom in May" (usually refers to an array of anemones and hepaticas). However, I’m sure that bluebells could be introduced into the mix too.

In the time when I was small enough to be still growing my own roots and shoots, I used to listen enthralled as my dad told me tales of the tree rooted at the top of the lane behind our house. This trunk, with branches held in the perfect port-de-bras, stood on the edge of the bluebell wood pictured above. On nights when I hovered at my parents’ bedroom door and whispered "I can't sleep!", my father soothed me back into dreams through spinning stories about how the tree was a cosy house - complete with a warm pool and a hollowed out room where the rest of my family were waiting for me. What struck me about this marrying of the real and the imaginary was the safety and comfort associated with this 'magical' tree that watched over the surrounding valley as we snored.
The same sense of security is now found in visiting the bluebell wood that the tree is a sentry to. For a few hasty weeks, the skinny boughs are offset with a knitted blue blanket – patch-worked with squares of light in the late evening sun. Whatever worries, fears or anxieties are carried, walking across the field, these are cast aside on reaching the wood. The quiet and beauty echoes the sense of reverence on entering a cathedral – recognition that it is a place bigger and more complex than any individual. But, like picking one of the bell-shaped flowers, it is easy to take a snatch of this serenity with you after leaving for home.

This particular visit, although stunning as ever, was not quite as peaceful as in previous times. I had fallen down the stairs an hour previously – jarring my coccyx (and my nerves), while also twisting my ankle. However, as my mum helped me back into the house, I cried not because I was in pain, but because I assumed my camera had been smashed in the tumble. Some nervous shaking, a big hug and two ibuprofen later, it was back outside for a second attempt. It was only later that my mum noticed that my new shoes (from a market stall) were offset by a not so attractive swollen ankle....
And the camera? Alongside the (more important) full-frame sensor, the body is built like an armadillo. Well, an armadillo with a now quite battered shell.

Kate Bush once sang that ‘Mother Stands for Comfort’. In the aftermath of this tripping over, when I was trying to convince my mum that I was “absolutely fine”, there was something immensely reassuring about feeling her stroke my hair. It was the same sensation I experienced when I was in hospital, being lulled into sleep by my mum’s low voice reading ‘A Rose for Winter’ aloud, her hand gripping mine tightly. I think a large part of comfort is to know that one has someone else to rely on – a person who will protect you at your most vulnerable.

This photo of my mum was taken by me the night before my birthday. It is the second year I have positioned my mum among the bluebells, and it is fascinating looking at the differences between the first set of shots – and this one.

On to the clothes – a portion of the post that I often seem to neglect now. On this occasion though, the outfit is a perfectly appropriate illustration of my ramblings. I often talk of enjoying the way my deceased or older family members live on in their clothes, and this is no exception. I may never have been able to hug my paternal-great grandma, but here her arms are wrapped around me, covering my own in her dusky pink silk bed-jacket. And although I still can hug my maternal 93 year old great-grandma, whose silk blouse (and blue leather belt) I am wearing here, she sometimes doesn’t know who I am anymore. While I stood, with my mum taking photos of me, I realised that I was wearing my very own family tree.

The blue skirt was from a charity shop (I never tire of swishing side to side in it), and as mentioned above, the shoes were from a flea market – they remind me of the dancing shoes in ‘Singing in the Rain’). The little brass cartoon brooch on the bed jacket belonged to, and was given to me by my paternal grandma.

Simple pleasures

2011-06-11T20:53:00.000+01:00

'In Limbo' is possibly the best way to describe how I'm feeling right now. I'm torn between revising for the rapidly dwindling number of exams I have left, or just shunning my exercise books and writing. On top of this quandary, I have been struck down with general un-wellness (alongside a sore throat and ear ache - there's a side ordering of tinnitus).
However, these photos represent for me what was a perfect two nights of camping last weekend. To celebrate a family friend's birthday, we stuffed the car (to the point we were worried it would roll backwards if on a steep slope) with a tent, sleeping bags, far too much food and anything else needed for braving the outdoors, before driving to a campsite in the Welsh hills. Oh, and somewhere among the guy ropes and toothbrushes, there nestled a rather lovely green, floral dress. And some heels. The Scouts' motto "Be prepared" can have a multitude of interpretations...
The simple pleasures of pitching a tent next to a mumbling river, meeting new people and wandering along forest-framed footpaths are unbeatable. As is scrambling over rocks to read the Guardian Weekend in the middle of the racing water. Oh and playing in the sea with my brother and his new found friends - by that I mean I was the 'shark' that they all wanted to splash and squeal at. We took part in every camping cliche that could be mustered - singing Beatles' songs around the campfire, toasting marshmallows on sharpened twigs and plunging into the ice-lolly cold river. I can think of worse ways to wake oneself up.
The added no mobile phone signal starts to make this post sound like the stories you read in a Sunday supplement travel section; where the writer 'reconnected' with the bucolic force of nature and realised that actually twitter/ facebook/ emails aren't that important, and should be replaced with gardening and willow plaiting. My daily bond with the outdoors is still as strong as ever (hard not to be, as I am writing this while looking out at fields and trees), but there was something magical about just being in and appreciating such a lush, green environment. So, green is the word of the day - as it has figured both in this outfit, and in my thoughts.
The colour green can be seen to symbolise many different things. After watching Atonement for the 57th time last night, I was reminded of a quote about that green silk dress worn by Keira Knightley, about which the designer Jacqueline Durran claimed that the particular shade had been chosen to represent temptation. It could also be seen as an embodiment of Briony's envy, or as the Guardian suggested, a "leitmotif" repeated throughout the film. Although I'm sure a whole essay could be written on the various merits and motives of that swoon-worthy bias cut dress (the psychology of clothes - utterly fascinating); what I'm talking about specifically is the power of colour.
As well as the above attributes, green can symbolise jealousy and evil - making it a ripe choice for the Witch in the 'Wizard of Oz'. However, it is also a shade that can stand for qualities such as environmental, natural, wild and cyclical - just think of the 'Green Man' within british folklore. All these conflicting messages associated with just one element of the colour spectrum!
However, the same can be said of all the colours we are surrounded by. Red can be danger, confidence or symbolic of the 'vamp'. Black can remind one of the epitome of elegance - Audrey Hepburn in her rollneck jumper and capri pants - or represent morbidity and death. White can be either purity and chastity, or it can exemplify minimalism. It's all so dependent on context.
In this instance, the colour of the dress is just one of the many shades of green that inked in my idyllic weekend - just another simple pleasure.

Down to the details. The vintage dress was a birthday present, as were the gorgeous Office shoes (from ebay I am told). The little basket bag was picked up in a charity shop, along with the leather belt. The necklace belonged to my great-grandma.

Making Hay (While the Sun Shines)

2011-06-05T20:38:00.004+01:00

Although my blog name suggests I have three main passions (if one can count coffee as a passion?), there is a fourth love that doesn't appear - books. Now that I've graduated from the wonders of children's stories, with a brief skid over the surface of teen novels, before arriving at the 'classics' and literary fiction terminal, everything I've read has led on to a deep appreciation of writing.

Luckily, I got to indulge myself in all things literary-related at Hay Festival of Literature and Arts last week. From meeting beloved childhood authors, to watching debates, with the odd bit of vintage shopping alongside, it was a truly enjoyable (and inspiring) weekend. There is something about the DNA of this small Welsh town that means it would have to take more than cell replication to copy the atmosphere during festival season. Although the weather was inevitably foul, alternating between lowering skies and stroppy downpours, with only the slightest hint of sunshine, it was true that (excuse the saying) nothing was going to rain on this parade.

I was lucky enough to see several writers on the days we were there – alongside listening to Polly Toynbee (Guardian columnist and author in her own right) who chaired a fascinating debate on ‘The End of Ideas’ as part of HowTheLightGetsIn program. It was while sitting there, on the end of a row of mismatched benches; hemmed in on all sides by raised seating areas covered in cushions and interesting looking people; while listening to Peter Hacker talk eloquently about the UK’s education system that I felt I had arrived. It’s a clichéd expression, but by this point I was feeling very ‘at home’. The debate itself was so interesting I will be devoting a whole post to it at some point in the future, when I have more thinking time and less exam-related scientific facts and historical dates clogging up my brain.

The first ‘author’ event I attended was the delicious combination of David Almond and Patrick Ness. I implore everyone to read Ness’s ‘A Monster Calls’, which led to uncontrollable sobbing when I finished it. It’s the perfectly heartbreaking but utterly real story of a boy who has to face his mother’s terminal illness – with a little help from the mythological Green Man.

Together, Ness and Almond talked extensively about what it means to write, why stories are so important, and the process behind their respective books. I wholeheartedly agree with the idea that stories help us to make sense of the ways of this strange world we live in, and should therefore be an integral part of life. That’s why I felt so saddened by all the recent stories about the closure of libraries across the UK.

I felt a similar sense of awe when I saw the great Geraldine McCaughrean two days later. On my childhood bookshelf, alongside Roald Dahl, Margaret Mahy and Eva Ibbotsen, there was Ms McCaughrean. She is the author of such titles as ‘Peter Pan in Scarlet’ and ‘The White Darkness’. One of the best things about festivals such as Hay is the chance to spend a minute or two (okay, maybe thirty seconds if it’s a long queue) talking to the authors whose words you have read and cherished. McCaughrean seemed genuinely pleased to hear that both my mum and I valued her absolutely incredible use of description and imagery in her work – which is often rare in today’s book market. I loved hearing her describe how she heard words and phrases, as one might “hear music”.

Finally, the author we got up extremely early to see, Owen Sheers. His novel ‘Resistance’ is one of those books where you’re not sure whether to race through the pages at a speed of a hundred knots to find out what will happen, or to eke out the chapters slowly in order to fully enjoy the writing and story. Set in an alternative World War II, where the German army are occupying Britain, it details the events in a very remote Welsh valley. I read it while recovering from surgery; and hearing Sheers talk about the characters and plot took me straight back to days full of snow falling outside the house, while I lay in front of a continually burning fire. ‘Resistance’ is a must read on all accounts, and is being released as a film in autumn.

Although I have talked about individual authors, it was the overall feel of Hay that made it so magical. This is a town in which shelves of second hand photography books housed in a castle can rub shoulders with a circus and a shop selling everything from war medals to velvet hats. The crowds were drawn together by a mutual love of thoughts, ideas and the written word. Oh, and talking once more of my blog title, I did have some excellent mocha coffees – thanks to the wonderfully named ‘Bean and Gone’ Coffee Co.

If you want to see pictures of what I wore on my first day at Hay, you can see Jill’s post here. In a moment of serendipity, we ran into each other on a street corner – but you can read the whole story on her blog.

This outfit has a very tenuous link with Hay festival, as I wore the long cardigan (a birthday present) on my second day there. Unfortunately, this was the day when it was very rainy indeed, meaning that said cardigan spent much of the day being held up to avoid being dragged in puddles. Here I layered it over shorts and a grey top – both charity shopped (along with the bag) – all kept in place with a second hand belt. My legs do not have some strange disease I may add, but the brown floral tights that looked great in the flesh did not translate well in front of the lens. The beautiful Office shoes were a birthday present too, along with the vintage sunglasses. The hat and faux-pearls were my great-grandma’s.

The blog has been eerily quiet of late, as a result not only of exams, but also a delightful camping trip – full of roasting marshmallows and jumping in the cold, welsh sea. I have only two more weeks of school left, and then I can blog to my heart’s content.

To Die For

2011-05-27T19:58:00.001+01:00

I turned sixteen last week - something of a milestone. However, where my future is full of choice and decisions, if I had been living in, say, Uzbekistan I might have been forced into mandatory cotton picking. This is just one of the jenga-like stacked pile of shocking facts found in Lucy Siegle's new book 'To Die For: Is Fashion Wearing Out the World?'
This is an eye-opening read from an ethical journalist and commentator, that covers everything from the appalling conditions of the workers who sate the desire for 'fast fashion', to the environmental impact of newly purchased jeans; concluding with suggestions for wielding our collective consumer power thoughtfully. I must admit, my dad picked up the stylishly austere, monochrome copy I had been sent by publisher HarperCollins, with an exclamation of, "Is this subject as heavy as it looks?" Well yes, it is - this is not feel-good, happy, airy-fairy bedtime reading. However, it is gripping and persuasive. This is one of those few books that has the capacity to change awareness - which can change lives - thereby making it essential.

I don't want to write a post nearly as long as the original book, so in brief: the main thing to be taken from Siegle's writing is the need to provoke debate through acknowledging truths. One of these truths is that our clothes are made by living, breathing people who are paid a pittance. Look down at what you are wearing. I am making a broad suggestion here, so in advance, I don't mean to cause offence. Are any of the items mass produced, low price, high street garments? If so, have you ever thought about how many hands created that fabric, turned it into a piece of clothing and possibly embellished it? The number of fingers that ran over the surface of the cloth? How many air miles it has racked up? The amount of money the worker recieved for his/ her handiwork? (If I am working from the book, this would mean about 1.5p from a £4 t-shirt). Because the life-cycle of a single item of clothing is both fascinating and chilling in equal measure.

Now, I have never proclaimed to be an 'eco-warrior-who-will-smite-you-if-you-so-much-as-mention-synthetic-fibres' and therefore do not want to preach. In fact, my usual ethical style contribution is to buy mostly from vintage and charity shops, while treating the High Street like an elderly aunt. By that, I mean I rarely visit because it would involve a car drive of forty-five minutes, and I invariably end up disappointed. However, I can wholeheartedly state that Siegle's evaluation of the world's favourite 'fast fashion' chains has made sure I will think even more actively about what I purchase in the future.

Another of Siegle's observations I found fascinating is that all too often, a fashion brand can claim to be 'eco'. What she points out is that there is a world of difference between introducing re-usable bags or cutting down on packaging (admirable, but very much like changing the book cover without altering the content), and taking the ethical step of re-structuring the whole process of clothes production. She defines 'ethical' as being a "holistic" approach, that incorporates everything from creation of the fabric through to the item being displayed instore. Siegle basically urges us to re-assess our consumption of current fashion.

Siegle's writing is urgent, highly compelling and absolutely timely. My reading tastes usually veer towards classics and contemporary fiction, but I couldn't put this down. I was also very glad to know that the writer was not approaching this from a vehemently anti-fashion viewpoint (as is all too often the case in mainstream media). Although the book can be a little overwhelming at times (the depth of detail, and the breadth of knowledge is incredible); I think sometimes we need to be shocked into action. By this I do not mean placard waving and riots on the high street. I merely want to suggest that we think about where our clothes come from. If we bought just a few less items a year, how much difference could that make? Our role as consumers should be active rather than passive. This book has the potential to do for the clothes industry what other publications have highlighted about fast food. If you are interested, you can read an extract here.

A final point that struck a chord was Siegle's acknowledgement that our consumer habits have undergone an evolution of sorts. Where in the past, a piece of (very durable and high quality) clothing might have been bought for a higher price, and gone on to become a mainstay in the wardrobe for many years - being mended and re-mended until it became unwearable; now we are all too happy to let our clothes have a shelf life of two-to-three months before ditching them. This is not always the case, but it has certainly become a more prevalent habit in recent years.

Along the same lines, here is today's outfit - which aptly involves my great-grandma's housecoat. As beautiful as it is, housecoats were used to keep the 'proper' clothes underneath clean and stain-free, making them the equivalent of a fabric dust jacket.
I put this housecoat over a charity shopped blouse, and added a vintage briefcase. The green velvet high heels are second hand Office - a birthday present - and the belt is second hand Jaeger.

As mentioned above, my purse strings, tastes and ethics have led me towards buying in charity shops/ markets. I'll always be a passionate advocate of second hand and vintage. However, as a girl who is also fascinated by contemporary fashion and designers, I was really pleased to find the links below...

Orsola De Castro creates amazing clothes from the remnants of fabrics that would otherwise be thrown away.
The IOU Project offer individually created clothes that are spun by expert weavers from India, and assembled by European tailors. I want one of the Vivienne Westwood-esque blazers!
Estethica (which recently celebrated its five year anniversary) showcases the work of up and coming eco concious designers
People Tree needs no introduction - as I'm sure everyone knows about this website that sells and advocates stylish and sustainable garments
Livia Firth's Green Carpet Challenge charts the process of wearing ethically sourced (and often bespoke) clothes on the red carpet

On a fluffier note, I joined Twitter yesterday, and you can follow me on @ClothesCamerasC or click here.

Leopard Optimist

2011-05-22T22:33:00.000+01:00

What does every girl need? I'm sure there are a variety of practical/ ethical/ philosophical answers one could give, so no doubt a 'leopard print turban' is not the first thing to spring to mind. However, when I visited Bath with one of my friends a few months ago, I found the allure of this particular turban so strong that it ended up coming home with me. On picking it up from a vintage market stall, my head was clouded with images of Clara Bow, the Ballet Russes and Paul Poiret - rather than say a batty, old lady surrounded by cats and tapestry cushions. However, it does add a nice touch of eccentricity to any situation - along with providing a conversation starter.
This a rather Bath-centric outfit, as the sweet little jumper also came home with me after the outing. I bought it in a great shop called Black & White boutique, which I can highly recommend! It was, in the majority, made up of second hand and vintage high end labels. And what is the name on this particular label? Could it be yet another addition to the sprawling collection of vintage Jaeger? I liked how unprepossessing the biscuit and black colours looked on the hanger. To use a rather longwinded simile, this jumper was Jo (as played by Audrey Hepburn) in Funny Face - something that most people will pass by, until the potential is finally noticed. And although this sweater hasn't quite turned into a bird of paradise, it is a rather nice addition to my already bulging drawer of woollen clothes.
Back when we were enjoying the warmth of Spring, dad took some photos of me in this outfit in London. To the items already detailed, I added some customised silk shorts (roughly cut and hemmed from a pair of beaded pyjama trousers), and charity shopped shoes and belt. The sandals are second hand Zara - and yet they remind me of thirties or forties filmstar footwear.

I found a great post on the brief history of the turban as a fashion item on Knit on the Net here. From its original cultural use, through to being adopted as the fashion item du jour during the twenties, to its resurgence in the sixties, it seems to have been enjoying yet another surge in popularity this year. I love the idea that the etymology links back to variations on the word 'tulip' - as suggested by the folds and curves of fabric. And although leopard print is not usually something I'm drawn to, for me this hat was something of a tonic - working best in a small dose.

Before I drag myself off to bed (revision is not kind - especially when it involves covalent bonding: Chemistry!), I wanted to draw attention to two posts for anyone who might not have already seen them. Firstly, I was both moved and inspired by Pearl's second post on living with Rheumatoid Arthritis. And secondly, I was full of nostalgia-induced love for Lucy's Perfume Bottle design.

Dressed Down Saturday

2011-05-14T21:46:00.001+01:00

In keeping with my new 'study mode' attire (meaning today a massive vintage Betty Barclay Mondrian inspired jumper and black jodhpurs), I thought it only appropriate to post a more 'dressed down' ensemble. Occasionally, certain sets of photos are styled, taken and chosen - only to languish for several months on my computer's hardrive, waiting to see the metaphorical light of the internet. This is one such outfit, which only makes the posting all the more satisfying.

This look was made up of ripped skinny jeans I have had for several years (they magically still fit - I have no idea how), second hand Topshop shoes, my mum's woollen top and a Charlotte Taylor jacket. The leather bag and belt are both charity shopped, and the vintage gloves were my great-grandma's - along with the silk scarf in my hair. The locket was given to me by my paternal grandma.

Now, let's go back to the mention of Charlotte Taylor. What's that? Is it a reference to one of my all time favourite up-and-coming designers? The same Charlotte Taylor whose autumn/ winter collection is her best yet?

I was given this jacket after modelling for Charlotte's s/s11 collection. Although you can't tell from Claire Pepper's skilful photography, I was in the last stages of scoliosis when I went down to London - meaning my body was more than a little twisted out of shape. However, the whole team was incredibly gracious, and it is the perfect memory to have of my last modelling stint before surgery. These were two of my favourite lookbook images:

However, what I would really like to talk about is Charlotte's latest a/w11 collection - described as being inspired by "snippets of African, English Heritage and Hungarian Gypsy". Anything that involves the phrase 'English Heritage' immediately grabs my attention. What I particularly love is the way she has built on the idea of her trademark prints - this time with the addition of ants, elephants and lobsters. Having one of her scarves myself (styled here and here), I can testify to the way it makes me feel happy every time I don the mad yellow penguins on a blue background. Below are a couple of headshots from the Autumn/ Winter lookbook - so pleased to see the re-emergence of the penguin. However, it is the red ant print that gets me itching to see and feel the collection up close.

Photographer: Claire Pepper Model:Jodie @ Models1

There is something quite special about prints - whether it is jolly robots marching over the Charlotte Taylor silk playsuit (pictured on me above), or the sixties geometric shapes on one of my own vintage dresses. Some people are interested in colours. Others appreciate shape and structure. And then there are those fascinated by print. Although I tend to mix all three, I was particularly struck by the idea of prints when I took a trip with my mum to one of my favourite vintage shops last weekend. My eye was drawn to an impeccably chosen line of forties and fifties garments - all with varying patterns. Whether it was a see through blue dress covered in delicate white leaves, or the linen fifties housecoat peppered with sprawling hot pink flowers, I wanted to buy them all and stuff them into my already overflowing wardrobe.

I have some very well loved patterned pieces already, including: a vintage silver dress with a pagoda and blossom trees print, a full length vintage sleeveless evening coat covered in metallic zig-zags and second hand blue skirt with ambling clouds and seagulls. But if we are playing the 'dare to dream' game, then I would jump at the chance to get my hands on one of the absolutely incredible Mary Katrantzou ss11 designs, that were printed with images of rooms and impeccable interiors. Maybe I should just get a big, lacy lampshade and use it as a skirt to emulate her ideas...

Do you have a particular favourite print - vintage or otherwise? I'd be interested in hearing some descriptions of well loved patterns.

Also, blogger seems to have deleted some comments on the previous post. I have no idea if they will reappear, but I would just like to say that I read and appreciated them all. Oh, the woes of technology...

The secret life of bees (Part 2)

2011-05-09T18:54:00.002+01:00

I find it strange to be posting photos tinged with damp grey, while the light outside is cascading in through my bedroom windows. Nevertheless, the golden tone sprinked over today does match the spring-like feeling of these images, which make up the second part of my bee-inspired behind the camera shoot. I saw Shona again the other day, and enquired as to whether she might be interested in modelling again for me sometime. Her response? "Only if it's warmer". I can second that, especially when I remember how much my fingers resembled ice blocks by the time we had finished.
I pondered for a while about another bee related title, and after discarding the notion of calling it 'Flight of the seven million bumblebees' in homage to Black Books (a fantastic British comedy - if you love Dylan Moran, make it a priority to watch), I settled on something a little more literary inspired. I really enjoyed Sue Monk Kidd's book 'The Secret Life of Bees', and now own a wonderfully battered copy that was given to me by Jill. This, along with an iD Beekeeper inspired shoot that I have just remembered, makes this a post that is black and yellow and striped all over.
I guess it's one of those slightly cliched things, but I think there is something a little romantic about the idea of having a beehive or two in an orchard - alongside some meandering chickens and a vegetable plot. A typical rural idyll I guess - doesn't really relate to my life in the countryside much. We do have a small allotment, but the only thing it is growing at the moment is weeds. However, my mum and I were talking to a good friend yesterday, who said that although bee numbers are meant to be dwindling, he has had a ridiculously large surge in his swarms - to the point that he has had to donate a swarm to a neighbour. Very hopeful!

Now, to one lone (and rather elegantly dressed) bumblebee - Shona.

In the first few photos, she is wearing an underskirt from a charity shop, layered over her own black leotard and my yellow tights. The little gold shrug used to live in my dressing up box, and the gold shoes are from ebay. The necklace and belt are both from charity shops. One again, I enlisted Shona's very handy ballet skills for the photos.

The second ensemble was created from a customised dress (it used to be a floaty skirt, that I then cut 'arm holes' into), a woolly vintage scarf and a Laura Ashley charity shopped striped hat. The belt was given to me, the shoes were from ebay and the jewellery is vintage. Oh & the gloves are another remnant left over from my dressing up box - because everyone needs a pair of sparkly gold evening gloves.

The third is a yellow poloneck from a charity shop, along with a vintage necklace and the same gloves.

Now, I'm sure the ginger cat pictured is the closest I'll find to the 'Cheshire Cat' from Alice in Wonderland. Either he craves human attention, or is publicity hungry - as he methodically followed Shona and I all over the sprawling arboretum that I'd chosen as our location. Sometimes it was a case of running to one spot, quickly snapping some photos before the cat could catch up, and then moving on. Well Cheshire Cat, if you wanted some internet exposure, then here you go.

My first GCSE exam is tomorrow, so from now on the blog might be a little less active. Hopefully all the revision will pay off, and come the middle of June, I can start living again - although maybe with a few days for rest and recuperation first. I am looking forward to finishing highschool and heading off in the next phase of my education to a dynamic sixthform.