A blanket statement

If you live in East London you own at least two of the following: a fixed gear bike, a vintage camera from a Berlin flea market, a screen printed t-shirt from a Central St Martins student, an unaddressed case of body dysmorphic disorder, a pair of stereo headphones (for your iPod), a blue Ikea Oyster card wallet, Adobe Creative Suite

Givenchy A/W 2008

Religious iconography, textural black-on-black, impossible shoes...








I believe tears fell from my eyes the first time I saw this.

Source: Marie Claire (UK)

Shozo Shimamoto

Holes, 1954

Source: Tate Modern (UK)

Dirty Christmas knitwear

Lucy and I saw Ted (the jumper guy) at the Macbeth tonight, which is sick because I remember reading about him in print and thinking he would be a nice guy to be friends with.



Source: Vice (UK)

Thursday circuits

Art opening at B Store in Saville Row with the model scout, some architecture previews in Brick Lane and a light installation in Old Street with a Portuguese graphic designer.

I love Thursday evenings best of all. As long as you're dressed and sociable, the city seems yours for the taking. All the galleries are open and they're flooded with free drinks, snacks and fashionable people talking about fashionable things and how tiresome being fashionable is and what's going to be fashionable next and how they know the next big thing (and they must introduce you sometime... can they have your number?).

Shoreditch House

A night with Carly and the girls at Shoreditch House, drinking wine by the roof top pool, overlooking the city in a sea of sparkling lights.





As amazing as the whole place is, my favourite spot is the Games Room, which is walled on one side with bookshelves of large format hardcover photography books and on another with a pool table. In the middle are Space Invaders tables with chairs facing the inset screens, and at the back, a wall of apothecary jars filled with candy, yours for the taking...

Source: GIS, New York Times (USA)

A friend of Sacha Distel

Date with the installation artist that I met at Bistroteque after a trendy Hackney art show. We went to Nobu and spent more on mojitos and maki than Jo and I do on a month's rent, listened to The Rolling Stones on his iPod at a seedy member's club in Soho where Damien Hirst pays for his drinks in doodles, and took horrendous shots of butterscotch and liquorice vodka at Ghetto following iced coffee off Greek Street.

We met early at Green Park station, me in t-shirt as a dress, gold chain circlet and four-inch Oxfords, him in white jeans, grey tee, cowboy boots, and a weasel skull on a chain as a necklace. He is part Chinese (from his former Olympian father) and wears his hair long, black and glossy like an Injun chief. We spent most of the night talking about anthropology and primitive religion, and at one point he admitted that he was bummed because his parents had sold their summer home in Edinburgh to be converted into a hotel. I can relate.