In 1975. Total babes. NB.
Bill Cunningham New York finally made it to London this month. I saw it with Polly last night at the Curzon in Mayfair and I’ve only just realised it was exactly a year to the day that I saw it with Joanna in New York.
This is not a film about fashion so much as a story about dedicated artists, about legacy and passion and finding unexpected beauty. And it’s just as remarkable and heart breaking on the second viewing as the first.
Hanging in the bath. No biggie.
Photograph by her husband,Â the Earl of Snowdon.
Editta Sherman by Andy Warhol.
1000 hand painted rainbows by Mike Mills. Now available on pillow cases at Third Drawer Down.
We set our alarms for 3.45am for a flight at 6.15. It’s a small price to pay for a weekend of sunshine and sangria in Barcelona.
Our first stop wasÂ Mercat de la Boqueria,Â where we wandered past fridges of tripe and lamb’s heads, mountains of strawberries and baskets of mushrooms.
Jane Birkin never really liked perfume. And until Miller Harris asked her to create a signature scent, she always preferred to carry pot pourri in her pocket.
Her brother, director Andrew Birkin, had a perfume lab set up in his house in Wales where he was experimenting with scents as research for his next film. So she joined him and created Lâ€™air de Rien. A scent she describes as â€œa little of my brotherâ€™s hair, my fatherâ€™s pipe, floor polish, an empty chest of drawers, old forgotten houses.â€ All evoked through rich notes of oak moss, neroli, amber and vanilla.
L’air de Rien, for me a scent that recalls a slow walk through a dark Rothko exhibition, impromptu beers on cold Tuesday nights and the safe comfort of my chosen family, translated roughly means, as if it were nothing.
[photo of this photo, credit unknown]
Jacques Polge is Chanel’s Master Perfumer.Â To create Chance Eau Tendre, heÂ reimaginedÂ Chance in a “constellation of tender and vibrant notes, fruity and airy, intoxicating”. He probably had a girl in mind who’d wear it too: someone with kind eyes, hands so nice that people notice, talent to match her passion.
He couldn’t have imagine how it’d Â really be worn though. That I’d buy itÂ in a rush in an airport before a trip that would change things in ways we couldn’t have expected. That it will always remind me of two sleepless nights in the Hudson Hotel, of dark foyers, hairs standing on end, of Â May in London, of white roses in bloom on the streets near my house, of feeling like things are always getting bigger than I want them to.
Maybe it’s better that way.
I first smelt Viktor and Rolfâ€™s Flowerbomb when I lived in a heavy city. The sky there was always so close, all over everything. I would go into Selfridges and put it on and imagine things were different, better.
I finally bought it when I made the decision to leave and now when I wear it, I donâ€™t smell freesia or rose, jasmine or the background of patchouli. To me, it smells of indecision, of loose shoulders after a weight has lifted, of a morning in the mountains of Morocco, of the end, the end, the end.
We went to Romania a few years ago. We caught two buses and a train from Transylvania to Bucharest and walked through dusty, dug up streets to our hostel. They buzzed us in. We pushed open the heavy door.Â And suddenly, out of nowhere I was hit, thrown, blown off my feet by the smell of the place.
The smell of this sunless stairwell in an old mixed-use building near Aleea PrincipalÄƒ was identical to the cool, white marble foyer of my grandmotherâ€™s apartment in Melbourne. A place Iâ€™d not visited since sheâ€™d died 17 years earlier.
But suddenly, there I was again: a clumsy 10-year-old spending a hot, restless afternoon naming all the goldfish that swam in the indoor pond, running a small hand along her green velvet sofa, becoming aware of my parents as children of others, seeing my Dad cry for the first time.Â In that apartment, I understood things about the world for the very first time.
As we climbed up the stairs to the hostel, I dug through my bag for my phone so I could text my Dad to tell him where I was. Not in Romania, but in another time, visiting a place I’d all but forgotten. My skin prickles when I think about it now, this tiny holiday.
Aug. 13, 1969: â€œData processing cards joined ticker tape in paper blizzard,â€ read the caption on this photograph, which was published the day after the three Apollo 11 astronauts paraded through New York. The Sanitation Department cleaned up 300 tons of paper the following day. Mayor John V. Lindsay hadÂ urged employersÂ to give their workers time to watch the motorcade. The cityâ€™s public events commissioner said the turnout was â€œthe biggest everÂ in the history of New York.â€Â Another articleÂ quoted an 8-year-old from Connecticut. â€œThereâ€™s a lot of confetti down there,â€ he said, â€œbut I donâ€™t see any astronauts.â€
TheÂ Lively MorgueÂ posts photos from The New York Times’ photo “morgue”, complete with archival notes and story captions.
[via simon poett]
The perfect Sunday always begins with breakfast atÂ Leila’s Shop.
Opened in 1839 on a wooded hill, Highgate Cemetery is exquisitely overgrown, full ofÂ Victorian mausoleums and ivy covered gravestones.
I took these photos on a guided tour of the west cemetery last Saturday. On the first real day of spring with the snow drops blooming and the sun dancing through the trees.
Yesterday was the 29th of February, a day we get for free once every four years. I decided a few months ago that this leap year, I’d like to use my extra day for something special.
So I walked around London with my friend Kevin and talked to strangers. Twenty-four of them. I took their photos, got them developed and now they’re on a website with a logo designed in less than 24 hours by my dear friend Steve.
29th February, 2012 was:Â An Extra Day.Â
Say hello: victoria . hannan @ gmail.com
Creative portfolio: victoriahannan.com
The picture of the queen at the top of this blog was drawn for me by Irana Douer.
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