in the dentist's chair

It is funny really that we hand over forty quid or more for the joy of having our mouths wedged open to accommodate various unspecified machinery. I can usually cope with it by blocking out the heavy breathing of my bemused dentist and the metal tray of very questionable tools, by drifting off to chew over some thoughts.

What annoys and bewilders me is my dentist's assumption that I know what he means when he points at various fuzzy shapes on my x-ray and mutters technical words that I'm apparently meant to understand; concluding I must surely need a filling. I retort that I am sure I don't. He injects my gum so I feel like half of my face is at a severe disadvantage should I need to smile and converse intelligently in the next half an hour. As we all wait for it to numb, the dentist and his assistant sit poised with various invasive (and in my opinion somewhat suspicious) looking instruments. I surrender to their hopefully experienced and well trained hands whilst my mouth locks open and my spine shivers from the drill.

I could probably have retained my dignity even after I gesture like a wounded bird at the pain, and attempt a stifled reply from behind the protruding drill whilst I'm cross questioned about my career path, - but as I feel a cold line of dribble running down my chin my former self takes one look at the sorry mess I've become and bolts out the door.

1am encounter / a spiders tale

I can't sleep.

A spider, that would have frankly been more at home in the Amazon, was loitering by my bookcase just underneath an oversized edition of 'Degas by Himself'. Very suspicious. I tried a humane capture, honestly I did, despite his obviously evil intentions. I ushered him towards a cup sternly, but he was having none of it and promptly bolted across the terrain of carpet.

What else could I do but honorably bash it on the head with last weeks Grazia?

I text K, who informs me that spiders come inside to mate at this time of year. A great comfort- fucking hell I'm probably providing low- level accommodation for the entire extended family. They are probably all in mourning for dear uncle Pete, unceremoniously murdered south of the washing basket. It's typical, I can't help thinking that the prickling feeling on my feet is not just my duvet, but an army of angry relatives, getting in to position to preform a complex 'coup de main'.

Taps dripping too. Will my torment never end?

___

I was waiting for Larry, (earwig/ renowned drunk.) We sometimes take a walk at the weekends, get away from the kids. Landlady never seems to notice. She is usually pissed at the weekends anyway so even when I've almost run over her foot she is oblivious. So she spots me. Starts yelling "look, if you come quietly i'll release you outside by the wheelie bins." Well, sod that, it was raining hard and I was due back for dinner. I made a run for it. She's half blind anyway without her glasses on so I thought what the hell. Then THWACK! I'm squished uncomfortably between the god awful brown rug she brought last tuesday and a flimsy magazine. Luckily her hearts not in it, but she screams shrilly and I play dead whilst she parades me around the house to prove I was a terrifying threat. Soon as she puts me down I'll send the signal. They'll attack at dawn. Shame I'd paid the rent already.

Manhattan murder mystery

The unmistakable dry wit and subtle observations expected of Allen’s writing make for a film full of tantalisingly funny punch lines, one of my favourites being;
“For our twentieth, I got her some very beautiful handkerchiefs ... I didn’t even know her size.”

The plot line is relatively straightforward – a middle-aged Manhattan couple, Larry (Woody Allen) and Carol (Diane Keaton), are intelligent, cultural and comfortable. They begin to suspect their neighbour of killing his wife. Yet the intricacy of how he went about it and the entwined subplots of marital uncertainties and struggles, carry the film past being duly predictable and in to a comic thriller of unfolding discoveries. It may be occasionally over-dubbed by fuzzy jazz records, but there are moments as thrilling as Hitchcock’s Psycho, diffused by Allen’s nervous disposition and turmoil of discourse with the over imaginative and inquisitive Carol.

Their interactions begin with the suspicious husband next door, and his soon-to-be-dead wife. One evening they begin chatting in the hall and soon find themselves dragged away from their cosy plans and sitting through the formalities of polite small talk. Allen complains afterwards, having faked a scrupulous examination of the neighbours stamp collection: “Yes it’s my favourite thing in life - to look at cancelled postage.”
We are quickly integrated in to the scenario by the comfortable banter and squabbles between Larry and his wife. They chat unreservedly with friends, revealing an air of worldliness and self-assurance that come with middle age. The rift between Larry and his wife being that he is reluctant to believe her mad murder theories and rebukes her rash behavior. He jealously notes that his friend Ted indulges her in the mystery with open encouragement and leering ulterior motives. Carol meanwhile, snubs Larry’s glamorous work colleague Marsha, who seems intent on solving the mystery herself and impressing both men in the process.

“We could be living next to a murderer Larry!..”
“WELL NEW YORK IS A MELTING POT, GET USED TO IT.”

One of my favourite Allen films/ witty, engaging, delicious.

current article taster

Let’s keep it short.

It has slowly come to my attention, more vividly than the usual acknowledgement and complaints from ‘adult’ observers, that I find myself on the cusp of a generation that cannot be bothered; to cook, (order fast food) to read, (skim the net) to wait for a film, (instant access online) to write, (just text) to talk, (just email) - it goes on, and the underlying thread of all this impatience is technology. What has fast paced living done to our language? What of the habits it has induced in an entire generation that no longer even care to articulate a full word, let alone a full sentence?

...

fall reviews

check out http://www.phoenixmag.co.uk/ for the latest from LFW - and if you happened to grab a copy of Phoenix magazine this week then eyes peeled for my reviews on the upcoming East London Design Show and 'Future beauty: thirty years of Japanese fashion' __ if you missed it read them here __

The must-see exhibition this winter is certainly the Barbican’s - entitled ‘Future Beauty’. It is the first European exhibition to survey avant-garde Japanese fashion from the 1980’s to now, exploring the work of Japans most renowned fashion designers in relation to Japanese art, culture and costume history.

The eighties saw conceptual fashion emerge in the limelight, with the likes of Rei Kawakubo and Yohji Yamamoto, whose extraordinary work questioned conventional fashion, creating looks that were more than just clothes but works of Art. The exhibition explores the innovation of traditional Japanese garments, contrasting with a unique look at current Japanese street style and its interaction with high fashion.There is a specially commissioned series of photographs by artist and photographer Naoya Hatakeyama, and a chance to see pieces by Issey Miyake, Kenzo and Junya Watanabe, to name a few. A refreshingly angled exhibition and crash course in the fascinating and often overlooked, history, culture and fashion of Japan.

showing from 15th October 2010 -6th February 2011, barbican Art gallery, London

Situated in spacious walls of Shoreditch Town Hall, the East London Design Show is an annual event, gathering the best of fresh UK design talent and laying out their work in a creative frenzy of delightfully original art, craft and jewellery, all just in time for Christmas. A relievingly different shopping experience; you can dip in and out of the stalls (late night shopping on the Friday), stop for a coffee or attend the creative hat-making workshop. To personalise your gifts Fabrications Haberdashery have beautiful eco-friendly solutions and give you the chance to create personal bows and tags from vintage lace, scarves and ribbon.

The VIP reception and design awards take place Thursday 2^nd December 2010, public shopping on the 3^rd/4^th/5^th at Shoreditch Town Hall
380 Old Street,
London. For further information visit http://www.eastlondondesignshow.co.uk

book reviews

'Sleek. Chic. Notoriously guarded. Welcome to the secret world of Gabrielle Chanel.' We all have Chanel fever this year, and if two film releases and some breath taking collections from the iconic fashion house aren’t enough, then pop out and grab ‘Coco Chanel- The legend and the life; a fresh and engaging look at the personal life of fashion’s most recognisable figure. Justine Picardie writes of ‘Coco’s turbulent relationships and the startling reality of the struggle and perseverance it took to go from orphaned convent girl to smart, savvy business woman and all the loves and adventures in between. Sourced from exclusive interviews with friends, relatives and employees and a lot of rummaging in Chanel archives, Picardie gives a frank and heartfelt revelation of the woman behind the famous interlocking C’s. Released 16^th September, just in time for fashion week! Published by HarperCollins, £25, hardback.

Blow by Blow: The story of Isabella Blow Isabella Blow spent thirty years achieving things most of us dream of, she began as Anna Wintour’s assistant, worked as fashion director at Tatler and as Fashion Editor of The Sunday Times magazine. She nurtured talent from Alexander McQueen, whose entire first collection she brought at the drop of a hat and Phillip Treacy, whose hats she wore with unapologetic English eccentricity in the most recognised photographs of her. But beneath this she struggled quietly with depression and her abrupt and death in 2007 sent ripples of shock through her adoring admirers and friends. Journalist Tom Sykes and Detmar Blow, her husband of twenty two years, write an intimate and intriguing story of her life and work, revealing not only her personal unhappiness and unrelenting perseverance despite this, but an exciting look at the fashion world through the eyes of the talented Isabella Blow herself. An inspiring and riveting read for every fashionista. Detman Blow and Tom Sykes, Published HarperCollins, 2^nd September 2010, £20 hardback

Chasing butterflies

A passing, elusive flutter

Flirting in the edge of your eye.

Delighted, needy, you grab-

It slips away, oblivious.

You wait, persistent.

Creep up slowly, your in control now

Quietly, softly…

Move like your own shadow, hands cupped.

Reach! Clinging, desperate heart,

A brief relief at recognition.

Words hang in the air, unspoken, caressed and in that moment of quiet illusion

Pounce, open up and pour forth your stream of truths.

Fingers achingly extended, a scare connection,

A silky, sting of contact.

Then gone.

Over.

Dejected, Still.

Eyes closed. Still.

A warm breeze scrapes your cheek, once, ignored, twice, skin prickles,

Alert now.

New, hopeful wings beating softly.

Begin again.

"what attracts me in such a manner of seeing is that, as far as the eye can see, it recreates desire." _ Andre Breton, Mad Love, 1934

'In a sentimental mood' _ acrylic on board.

i'll love you forever/ i'll like you for always.

The Surreal House

The most delightfully crass piece was contemporary artist’s Noble and Webster’s ‘Metal fucking rats’ (2006), in the Panic Space room

I am more than partial to the tantalising fantasies of Salvador Dali and the baffling explanations of Freud so I took myself along to the Barbican’s Surreal House exhibition to savour the delights they had brought together.

The pieces were located in various ‘rooms’ of the house and you explore, stopping to examine various installations, paintings and film footage, constantly feeling excited and on edge. I was studying a remarkable sketch by Dali of a obscure face, propped up by poles and prodding a female breast, whose head looked not dissimilar from a light fixture, when a loud crash of distorted piano notes echoed from deeper inside and tore me away to investigate. A baby grand piano hangs upside, suspended from the ceiling and the keys horribly bent and stretched, emitting off key twangs before returning to its un-tampered form until another two minutes had passed and so it repeats itself. This was Rebecca horn’ Concert for anarchy,(1990).

It was beautifully curated in the way you were swept unexpectedly on to the next room by a flicker of light from a film, or a glimpse of a half finished staircase ahead. It felt rather like that nervous, enchanted tickle of apprehension you get at the start of a rollercoaster ride or at a poignant moment in a horror film. It made itself particularly known in the small dark space showing Jan Svankmajers’ ‘Down to the cellar’ (1982), where a small blue eyed girl explores an underground cellar. There is coal everywhere, one man scrapes it over himself to mimic a duvet, a woman breaks eggs and mixes the sooty concoction in to black cakes, and the little girl watches, entranced. This nightmarish quality where you can’t quite tear your eyes away encompassed the entire exhibit and brought some remarkable pieces to light – a must see this season! It certainly got me thinking about dreams and their distortions and rationalising of the obscure in the subconscious.

C.Pettman

The Surreal House, Barbican art gallery 10^th June- 12^th September 2010