in abundance, galore

The day I met Paulina, from Russia, I was just leaving the V&A. It feels like another lifetime ago, but it was just maybe two weeks - maybe less - during that glorious heat wave. One of those perfect, blissful, cinematic days, and I was alone so I could write. I had to plan to be alone. But I wasn't alone: I was just surrounded by all these happy beings. I want to show you what it was like, but I'll save that for another post.

This one is all about the girl in the white lace go go boots.



Just as I was leaving, at the entrance to the courtyard, I saw her boots first. They're white cotton stiff but soft looking crochet'd lace. The shape felt so iconically Sixties: Go Go boots. That's a shape and silhouette I haven't seen much of - it's almost like Uggs have temporarily ruined the shape for us - but it just looks so great with bare legs or, in winter, tights and short sixties shaped dresses.



Paulina told me she got them in China - Beijing - really cheap, and she doesn't know the brand. I've looked online and can't find them anywhere. We were both going in opposite directions and I didn't even ask where she got her dress, and I know most of you are thinking only in terms of jumpers, coats, warm layers, but right after this, I saw the Marc Jacobs/Louis Vuitton Paris show, or rather, I should say, when I was visiting my good friend Barbara Clapham, who is 98, and she told me about the 'all white show' I then looked it up. It so captured my imagination and is everything I"m obsessed with at the moment: I love that large scale lace motif, in interior design, in everything. It's probably my favourite show that I haven't seen.

What's yours?



I've just discovered, (thank you, wikipedia), that the term 'go-go boots' is derived from the French expression à gogo, meaning "in abundance, galore",[1] which is in turn derived from the ancient French word la gogue for "joy, happiness". Which brings this post, shot in London, of a girl from Russia, with boots from Beijing, full circle to Paris, where an American recently did a catwalk show. With an abundance of happiness, and joy.

And there's not more that you can say, really, can you?

juxtaposition 22.09.11: dots and spots

Shot within 20 minutes, consecutively. Was meeting my friend Georgina (The Glitter Bird: you've seen me post her before - she is brilliant in every sense, and her tweets make me laugh so much - she's the one who found the fashion week on acid post). I was early and this group of fun women came up to me to interview me for something, on film (I don't have the literature - and I haven't heard from them since!) and while they did - and I took some fun shots of them - they found this Girl in the Polka Dot Dress. I'd already shot a girl at LFW in a similar dress - her post is next - but I didn't get a chance to meet her, because she was being filmed, and I was meeting Georgie.

Who was sporting these leopard print trousers, and sparkling new, back to school shiny loafers, from Office. I only realised afterwards, the black/navy/white spotted proportion to warm, burgundy brown made for an interesting juxtaposition. IMHO.

Speaking of glitter: has anyone else noticed, the hysteria for glitter shoes, as brought on by Miu Miu, has reached epic proportions. I see that Office has a pair of brogues, in blue, for £62, but my friend Estelle had her pair for much less, from Primark. Actually... her post is next, the polka dot trend will just have to wait.

OMG! I just noticed, Georgie's shoes - the DILLY MILLY, in Burgundy Patent - are now on sale, for 32 quid. I want them. Don't tell George.

unique: i'm not talking

Because I'm too busy laughing my head off. If you have a minute, click here on this vice.com post ('london fashion week.. on acid!') then come back to me, please, and tell me what you think. Am I crazy? Or is that like the most hilarious post you've ever seen?

Unless it's true.. and that would be sad. : (

Photos by me, of Naomi Campbell with Sir Philip Green and what I'm assuming is his daughter, Chloe. Altho you know what they say if one ASSUMES: one makes an ASS of U and ME. Shot at the Topshop Unique show, 18 September 2012.

stellar

I don't know when I first met Stella, of Stella's Wardrobe, but I'm pretty sure I've shot her before, at previous fashion weeks. She's also in a recent post. She also might look familiar to you if you've been to other blogs, because she's gone global all of a sudden. 19, and she's like everywhere, including yesterday's Evening Standard. I've done the classic top to toe 'streetstyle' shot of her the previous day (will post eventually)but this time, I've chosen, just to mix things up a bit, to deconstruct her look.

The thing about Stella is, she's really really nice: just one of the sunniest souls I've ever met. She became part of a group of lovely friends that we hung out with this week, had lunch, etc, and I kept forgetting her name. 'Stella', she'd say, again, with a smile, and I thought of a trick to remember: Marlon Brando. I coulda been a contender. Except that line's from On the Waterfront, 1954, and when he's screaming Stella! in the street, that's Streetcar Named Desire, 1951. Neither of which film I've seen in its entirety. Yet.

The definition for 'stellar' is: stel·larAdjective/ˈstelər/
1. Of or relating to a star or stars: "stellar structure and evolution".
2. Featuring or having the quality of a star performer or performers.

Stella is wearing: Christopher Kane skirt, Topshop fur cape, and shoes by Kurt Geiger.

Check out her blog. She's brilliant, and mark my word, she's gonna be a serious contender.

so many different suns: the man with the feathers in his hat

All through the vigil that I held - helpless to do more - while all my family and countless cherished friends waited, with humour, courage, and in some cases, indifference - to see if the hurricane that was headed in their path would, indeed be the 'hurricane of the lifetime' - or if it would end up being downgraded to a tropical storm. An over reaction. And all through that time, one song kept going through my head:





With my father already gone, my brother had found himself, like that old cliche, to be the 'man in the house', and had to make choices about where to take his daughter, and our mother. And I felt for him, and supported whatever he chose, and he made the right choice. And all that time, waiting for the storm to come, and to pass, this song, continually playing through my head, because he is my only brother, and because I love this song.



The same day we went to Kew Gardens, and took the photos of me in the pale green dress, I stumbled on this man, in the feathered hat. I have no idea what he was doing with that iPad - I had just stepped out into the sunshine, and he was part of a very large group from somewhere in Africa, speaking a language I didn't understand. I just followed him for a few minutes, trying to see what he was seeing, and photographed what I thought he saw.







I remember watching To Kill a Mockingbird with my parents, and my baby sister, before my brother was born. It was the first film, first grown up film, I saw, and my dad was so like Atticus Finch. So my memory of the line 'you don't really know a man til you've walked in his shoes' is forever blended between coming from Atticus, or my dad.



When Frida mentioned me doing a post on Kew (ONE post - these just go on forever, it seems), she asked me to mention about the 'different worlds' exhibits. And - since this was just the day after Irene left my loved ones alone - all I could hear, over and over, was this song.

And I will probably never know this man's name, but I will always remember him, fondly. I have a new word for the day: empathy.

goodnight, irene

This song has been playing in my head, nonstop, for like the last five days, so I'm giving you just an assortment of my favourites, to illustrate this post:





It's scarier, sometimes, being where something ISN"T. Just as when we had left the cat alone in London during the riots this summer (with a wonderful girl from the vet coming in), were concerned for all our friends and felt so helpless, while staying at the beach house on Long Island. And then: that very same beach house, and my mom, were basically sitting ducks for Hurricane Irene. It was just such a scary weekend. Holding vigil. So many, many people that I love, friends and all my closest family, just sitting right there, in her path.

My brother, having taken the cat and his daughter to my mom's beach house had to take the decision: stay put (downside: it's on water, high up, all that glass), house on top of a mountain upstate (dirt road, guaranteed at best to lose electricity, even on a good day) so they opted for his apartment in the West Village, NYC. They basically did a reverse evacuation: having heard Mayor Bloomberg's instructions, they drove, Saturday morning, right into town. One block from the evacuation zone. Then stocked up on water, got lots of blue tape (I love that it wasn't red) and taped up the windows, then cheerfully, bravely, like millions of others on the Eastern coast, waited and hoped for the best.





It all went well, of course. There were real tragedies, loss of life, and it would be disrespectful to the families who have lost loved ones to belittle this, but this was nowhere near the tragedy it could have been.

And I've got to say: for a few days there, I couldn't care less about fashion, or posting, or blogs. It really hit me, what matters, and what was at stake, and what I could have lost, in a heartbeat.

My husband - being all English and 'pull up your socks', was on a rant yesterday at how 'irresponsible' the media and, basically, the United States government were, for 'overreacting'. I could tell it was one of those situations where it was pointless to argue with him, but he wasn't going to give up until I 'took responsibility'. For what, I asked. My fellow Americans? The City of New York? The Media, he said. So - because sometimes, in a marriage, it's better to be happy than right, I sighed and said 'Okay, honey, I apologise on behalf of the Media, and take full responsibility.'





So to celebrate, we finally - after holding onto these tickets since last July - headed to Kew yesterday. I have so many photos I want to show you, I don't even know where to begin, so this is a start. KEW GARDENS is simply amazing: it is probably my favourite destination in London (just outside, actually, but easily reachable by tube). HUGE thank you to Frida, for contacting me and sending the tickets, and for your patience (we meant to go before our holiday - it was never the right time - yesterday was the right, the perfect, day). We couldn't have been in a better place to celebrate life, and nature, and all that is good and beautiful in this world. Can't wait to return. More - better, perhaps - images to come. I'm well aware that these aren't the most flattering shots - this isn't even one of the many outfit changes I'd brought for my shoot - but who cares. It's just good to be alive, and know the many people I love are alive, and well.

Goodnight, Irene, goodnight, Irene, I'll see you in my dreams.

Shot entirely at the Royal Botanic Gardens, in Kew.

back to black

Having never met Amy Winehouse, I can't tell you any anecdotes*, nor take credit for any of the photos in this tribute - apart from doing some painterly things to the last shot in this post. While looking around online for images and youtube videos, I found that most of the images of Amy Winehouse were.. exploitive. Catching her looking bad, out of it... you can do that with anyone, you know. I've shot people and caught them in half blink and they don't look great. For someone who lived her light in the spotlight, it seemed the hunger for her looking her worst was.. oh it's just so sad. The whole thing.

*(But Russell Brand did: and he told it beautifully, here, as just retweeted by a friend).



She was only 27: it seemed she was around so long, and had disappeared from public view for so long, but like other stars who burned brightly, and briefly, she seemed to cram a lot of living into such a short time (did you know that everyone who died young - Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Kobain, Jim Morrison.. ALL 27). We always knew she wouldn't last forever, although we hoped she would - which is perhaps why her vulnerability mixed with her seeming toughness to make something that was so tragic, but also quite beautiful. And her taste in music, her friendship with the brilliant producer Mark Ronson, the musicians she worked with..



It wasn't just her talent: she also had such a strong brand. Was she a style icon? I can't tell. She wasn't a role model, like an Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe or Jackie Kennedy.. but the way she took certain iconic ideas of the Sixties Motown girls.. the big eyeliner, bee hive hair, but it certainly wasn't period dressing. The shorts, tees.. what can I say. She was her own person. The love child of Diana Ross and Billie Holiday. I'd have loved to see her do a remake of Lady Sings the Blues.



My last video for this little tribute is, ironically, from a concert sponsored by our new, current, all time favourite phone company, Vodaphone. We can't sing Vodaphone's praises enough. And it was at Somerset House: home to London Fashion Week. This is what Freja, who uploaded the video, said:

"Amy Winehouse live performance "Back To Black", Vodafone Somerset House, 2007. She was sober, sounded amazing, and this is really impressive and amazing performance. She insert a part of Shangri - Las song "Remember (Walking In The Sand)" during the song, as she often does."



Someone wrote that she said if she died today, she'd be happy. No regrets, coyote.

And I've just discovered: this North London, white, Jewish, middle class girl's birthday was the day after mine.

Rest in Peace, Amy, though I have a hunch you're still giving them hell, wherever you are. In a voice that's a gift from God.

Amy Jade Winehouse (14 September 1983 – 23 July 2011)

scrunchie givenchy feather chain cuff

The other day - yesterday, actually - I asked the Universe to identify the cuff in Nia's friend's bracelet (also friends with the girl in the Sunshine post) because it was driving me bonkers. My sweet virtual friend, Maya, from Soviet Georgia, now a wife and soccer mom in Hendersonville, Tennessee (Soccer Mom Style), came up with the goods. It's GIVENCHY. And it costs $738.50, on StyleBistro.

Which, to my mind, means it's just SCREAMING OUT to be DIY'd.




Now, I'm not a very good DIYer. I should be - my mom was the best nursery school teacher, and she was always trying out these crafty projects on my sister and I at home (my favourite - mom if you're reading this, do you remember we wrapped balloons in string dipped in glue and when it dried, we popped the balloons? Why??? Don't tell me: another phantom memory that never really happened).



Anyway.. (and don't you love her shorts btw? I love faded studded denim shorts with long sleeved black tops - I just love that look). I thought, hey, I've got chains, and I've got feathers - I bring them home for the cat, who eats them whole, so I hide them in drawers.. and then I realised - pack rat that I am.. I also have SCRUNCHIES! Remember in Sex and the City, when Carrie says she doesn't want to eat at a restaurant that serves people who wear scrunchies?

So for your viewing pleasure: Polka Dot's DIY Tip of the Week: the Scrunchie Givenchy Feather Chain Cuff!

like a rainbow

When it rains, it pours.

Having such a fun chilled night, multi tasking: Mr. Dot keeps trying to get me to watch Wimbledon with him, and my attention was diverted with tweets about Christopher Kane's 2011 resort collection, which got me so freakin' inspired I started playing around in photoshop some MORE. I'm grabbing the opportunity of him talking on the phone to post this, against the background of Wimbledon highlights, at high volume.

It's uncanny, actually: I SWEAR to you, when I started going in this direction with David Koma's line from last September last night, I hadn't yet seen Christopher Kane's rainbow designs - which I've then adapted to what I was already doing. Sorry if that doesn't make sense: the tennis is on really loud. Claps of thunder in the Centre Court, the roar of the crowd.. 'what a way to lose the game', as the announcer just said.





I don't know if they still do this, but when we were younger, we'd do these paintings we called 'scratch boards'. I started the day chatting on facebook with a friend from school, and another from work, about our favourite Crayola crayon colour (periwinkle, hands down) which led me to thinking about how we'd draw rainbow colours on white board with crayons, then paint them with black paint. Then you scratch away the paint, revealing the rainbow.

And lo and behold, I'm ending my day seeing it manifest before my very eyes, with these gorgeous lace numbers:





While I don't love everything in this collection - he's not a god, after all - I just cannot decide which of these looks shown here I love more. There is a genius to this man. But David Koma, for me.. oh, let's face it: both guys are simply wonderful. I tip my hat to you both.

pool koma

Hope David doesn't mind.. having Fun with Photoshop, using my shots from last September (S/S 2011, David Koma, Somerset House).

the truth

While I don't spend much time on Twitter - life is too short - I do have favourite.. Twits? Tweeters? And one is definitely Poppy Dinsey (@PoppyD). She just cracks me up. (AHA: she just tweet msg'd me: SHE DID THE POST! click here, it's brilliant).

Something she said yesterday ('Now that I've lost my festival virginity, I want to write a really honest festival fashion guide. Because all the ones in magazines are LIES') got me thinking: I don't know about you but my inbox has been absolutely INUNDATED starting in March with festival style this, festival style that. Every high street brand has been flogging all kinds of wares in the name of 'festival style'.



And the truth is, while granted I haven't been to a music festival yet this year, judging by the more cerebral (or, so you'd think) Hay Literary Festival, I can say that the whole whispy wafty look.. you just can't really in practice pull that off in the UK, without catching a very serious cold.




So for your viewing pleasure.. my guide, for the moment, consists of this:

• dress warm

• pack rain gear: waterproof hooded thing, and ideally, wellies

• bring a wafty kaftan type maxi 70s thing if you like, but don't come crying to me if it gets ripped, stained, or muddy

• wear whatever you'd like: truly, anything goes

and when in doubt..



• leopard is is always a classic

As this guide is a work in progress, I am open to suggestion. And how timely is this, just in from Reid Peppard ('why i hate festivals'):

nerds' night out

We were hanging out with Alex (formerly Bingo), at our friends' Emma and Andrew's house, this really cool tall house in the middle of Hastings Old Town: five stories, white wood painted halls and stairs (we did that too, before we knew they did - probably around the same time). Andrew had made this great salsa and they ran out of corn chips, so I went outside to get more chips, and beer. It was twilight, early Saturday night in Hastings, and the style on the street... it looked like a Diane Arbus photo album, really atmospheric and moody.



So I came back, with the beer and the chips, got my camera, went back out, and ran into this lot. I asked Maria (above) why she and her friends were wearing over the knee socks - was it a coincidence - and she said 'we're having a nerds night out!' That's when I realised: they all had glasses on, which is bizarre for me in itself, considering that this week, in a 24 hour period, I was contacted by three unrelated people and brands - invited to do all kinds of interesting things to do with eyewear.

Anyway, it soon became clear I was not going to get that moody, Diane Arbus vibe, but hey, that's okay: what I love about life is, you absolutely cannot plan ahead. Just gotta go with the flow.













As I waved them goodbye, I didn't have any cards on me, so I just said 'google streetstyle London, you'll find me' and Maria said 'I really hope we can remember' which - I can't explain, it was the way she said it - was hilarious. So.. earnest. I really hope she does.

After the guys went to sleep, Emma and I were up, chatting, til 5:30, when Honey, the dog, decided she wanted to play catch up the top of the hill, above the town. I have never laughed so hard, not in a long time: Honey was relentless. She's in training, apparently, for some kind of 'fly ball' dog show in Bexhill. That is one ambitious dog.



Totally knackered now. I am too old to stay up all night. How was your weekend?