Tag Archives: magnificent

One Hundred

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I’ve spent the day peeking at the rain through the window, dancing to Kimya Dawson, using an umbrella as a ukulele and wearing different coloured socks, drinking rose tea, eating a slice of banana cake, then another, and then a bite before putting it back in the fridge. I turned on the TV and put it on mute, put on Emiliana Torrini, danced a bit more, swapped the umbrella for an invisible microphone, and sang on top of my lungs about big jumps. I landed on the green chair in the corner of the room, and stood there for a minute or two.
This is my 100th post. 100 magnificent somethings that I shared with you, 100 steps towards… well, I don’t know where we are heading; and just between us, it was never about that. It is about the journey. It is about a quest to find something, something that will add to a collection of somethings, a magnificent something. The search is still on.
Thank you for sticking with me. Now it is time for some more invisible microphone-living room dancing (and banana cake).

Love

G

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The Magnificent Something for Time Out London

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I had to make a list; then shorten it; then add to it; then shorten it again; sigh, huff, puff, frown, add a few more and look at it again. This is going to be impossible.

When Time Out London asked me to do a piece with my Top 5 Secret Spots in London, I felt a strange mixture of panic and happiness. I was at work, so I could not fully express either, so I just combined both: my feet did a happy dance under my desk while my chest was trying to control an incoming hyperventilation.

Pen, paper, and a few pages afterwards I was back at square one. What is a spot? What is secret in London? I opened every London app, website, map, newsletter and contact list I had. Secret spots; spots that are secret; spots with secrets inside. I started making lists of places that even though they were new, and relatively unknown, they did not really represent me. I don’t want to make a list just to list places; I want to make a list of places that are important to me. A spot that is secret; a spot with a secret inside.

And then it hit me. My secret spots are not going to be secret because they are not known; they were going to be secret because they contain a secret. They will be personal. They will be my secrets. I took a gulp from my (now cold) latte, bit the lid off the pen, and started writing the list again.

I chose the Cuming Museum because I really think that it is a collection of magnificent somethings; of objects that regardless of monetary worth, we’re valuable to the Cuming family. They meant something to them, so they mean something to me.

Hobbs is the only place that I can say I fully trust with my volatile reactions when it comes to haircuts (plus, the pulled pork sandwich really helps).

Homemade brought back memories of breakfast before work, good coffee, and bacon with Maple syrup pancakes. It had to be in.

The ‘There are no Prostitutes’ sign was not in my initial list. However, when I was trying to find another spot (I think people do not realise the extent of my lack of orientation), I bumped into it, and remembered how much it made me laugh when I first saw it; it was my first year in London, and for some strange reason, it added a little bit of magic in my view of this wonderfully weird city.

And finally Gay’s the Word is so close to my heart, and I genuinely believe that it keeps inside the best kept secret in London: Jim Macsweeney and Uli Lenart have to be discovered from anyone that enjoys an intelligent discussion, a good book and a hearty laugh.

You can read the full post here. Below you can find some more pictures from the spots that could not fit in the Time Out blog, but thought I would show you anyway.

I did not want to just make a list of secret spots; I wanted to share places, people and things that need to be discovered.

I really hope that you enjoy it.

Love,

G

Follow your heart or do what is right?

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I usually write my posts in cafés, on my ipad, with coffee in a paper cup and a cheeky slice of cheesecake on the side. But not this one; this one is different.

I am at home, listening to a Joyful Noise by Gossip, drinking a cup of lukewarm liquorice tea out of a chipped pale yellow mug. I have my laptop on my lap, my feet dangling from my window, stepping on a blue and pink sky.

I got some DMs on Twitter and a message on Facebook about my ‘cryptic’ last few posts. What happened in Greece? What did I mean in Red and Gray? Is everything ok?

So here I am, with all the answers. Today has been a challenging day, and I feel like sharing.

Earlier this month, I had to deal with two deaths in my family. Irvin Yalom said that the thought of death is an ‘awakening moment’, as life’s alarm clock. Realizing that we are mortal wakes us up; and losing two people in the space of 2 weeks is a rather loud wake up call.

I don’t know how I cope with the thought of death. My grandmother died 4 years ago, and it is something I don’t think I have processed completely. I don’t remember why i didn’t go to her funeral; distance, coursework, denial. One day I was walking, and I saw someone that looked like her; I turned the corner, buried my face in my hands and cried for 20 minutes. I am dreading the moment I get a call about my other grandmother. I think I dread the thought of death, its consequences to others, the finality of it, the normality of it.

I had to go to Greece for the funerals, hence the being Greek post. I cried in both funerals. On the plane home, I was reading gossip magazines and eating Maltesers. Life seems so surreal sometimes.

So, I came back to London. I swapped my T-shirt and flipflops for a coat and an umbrella, walked down streets taking pictures of corner shops and having icecream in the rain.

I am working part time, and doing a part time internship in a magazine as well. So, in one of my internship days, I was preparing a file, when I heard a ringing sound. An alarm bell that I had been ignoring for some time. An awakening moment that stayed dormant as I kept pressing the snooze button. So, I decided to listen to the sound, wake up, open my eyes and see what is out there. What do I want to be spending my time on? And I knew.

Through a truly lovely person, I found an opportunity in one of my favorite magazines as an intern. In addition to that, I found some freelance work to an amazing up-and-coming fashion brand. Cue anxiety. This was becoming real. Do I quit my job to pursue a full time internship and freelance work? Leave what is certain for a possibility? Do I dive in or keep floating?

There was a moment in me, where I had to choose: do I follow my heart, or do I do what is right? I spent five days thinking about it. My head felt like a televised political debate: on the left, my carefree do-what-you-like self was urging me to leave as fast as I can, start pursuing my goals at this moment-seize the day! On the right, my suited-and-booted self was looking at me in disbelief, in awe of how immature I was being, leaving a certain job to chase a dream. The television set was running all day, and I found myself going through the motions, smiling mechanically as I was contemplating who would win the elections. What would my choice be? On the fifth day I woke up, and I knew.

I quit. I walked in my part-time, steady job, and I quit. I made a decision, and trust me it was really hard. In the end, I followed my heart, and did what was right; what was right for me.

But quitting suddenly and in an unfortunate time causes ripples, and sometimes this might blur the image underneath. Since then, and for a variety of reasons (mostly personal), these ripples have been intensified, and it has been progressively harder to move on. Today was one of these day. I still have two days left at this job; I feel like I already left, like I am not a part of it anymore- maybe because it stopped being a part of me. And in its place something else, excitement mixed with another feeling -fear?

I have this internal fear of moving on. What will happen if I don’t get a permanent job after the three month internship? What will happen if I suck at it? What will happen if the freelance work stops? What happens when you are within touching distance of your dream and it feels too good to be true?

I am taking a chance. I am diving head first; and it feels right. I need to do it, because I can not keep wondering, asking myself when my dreams will take form. Dreams don’t come true by themselves, you have to work hard, pursue and persevere.

And that I will.

It is now dark, and my tea is cold. I hop into the living room, and turn up the volume on my iPod dock. Beth Ditto says she is in The Right Direction; and so am I.

Thank you for being a part of my journey,

G

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Gilbert and George: the LDN pictures

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The weather seems as undecided as I feel today. Clouds of rain are separated from bursts of sunshine with an invisible thread, that I seem to be pulling every time I decide to walk outside.
I am now sitting in a table in the middle of a really crowded Starbucks. I got a skinny latte and a blueberry muffin, and spent the first 10 minutes absent-mindedly taking it apart as I was focusing on the large window; focusing on what was behind it, who was behind it. Everyone slowing their pace when the sun came out; speeding up when the first signs of rain appeared; dancing awkwardly around pools of water on the street. A choreography that kept me hypnotised, a performance that no doubt would be taking place in every London street.

Thinking of the city makes me shiver. Londoners are a different breed, living in a different rhythm, with different rules. Highly competitive, extremely creative, moments appearing like fireworks; sudden bursts of light, and if you don’t know where to look, by the time you turn your head, they are gone.

One of these firework moments for me was when I first saw a Gilbert and George piece. I was walking in Tate Modern, lost in my world, notebook in one hand, camera on the other. I passed the door to the hall where it was hanging, and stopped; turned around; and just stood there. Moments later, I found myself standing in front of it hypnotised. I did not know exactly why; I still don’t. But it had this Gilbert and George quality of waking a very strong emotion inside you, behind your heart, a feeling of unease and excitement blending in the same exhale. I left without taking a picture of it, just with its title scribbled in my notebook: Red Morning Trouble.

A few months ago, I did a piece on HIV AIDS day awareness. As I was writing it, I was trying to think of the image that I would use for my posts. I stood in front of the screen, closed my eyes,and saw the picture. I grabbed my jacket and my iPhone, took the first bus and rushed through the maze of modern art, to stand in front of it and take a shot.

Last week, in one of these rare moments that I had the time to sit on the sofa, with a hot cup of echinea tea, I was leafing through Time Out London, scanning through the art listings, when I saw it. White Cube. Gilbert & George: London Pictures. Jacket, iPhone, first bus.

I first have to address the White Cube space. The first look upon arrival forces you to stop on your tracks, if not take a step back. Looking like it materialised out of thin air in the middle of the busiest point in London, it appears to be a part of a David Lynch movie. Minimal, sharp, slick, and immensely impressive, there could not be a better space to house the exhibition. I walked in, greeted by a lovely gallery assistant, and walked in the space.

Gilbert and George are pioneers in what they do. They were present in the birth of experimental art, art film, and conceptual art. They are universally known for their large scale structural pieces, placing pictures in symmetrical frames, and constructing a larger picture out of many, smaller ones. They use primarily black and white tones, embellishing the backgrounds with red and yellow, and the foreground with neon (or sometimes pale) prints of the artists themselves in various different poses.

Their work in the White Cube follows on the same path. However, when I stepped on the ground level of the gallery, I felt a tingling sensation. This work was similar, but different altogether. I sat on the wooden bench in the middle of the room, and looked at the space in front of me, next to me, behind me. I knew there was something thumping on the back of my mind, but I could not really understand it. And then I went to the lower ground of the gallery, a vast space filled with more London pictures. I was overwhelmed. The work had the kind of raw power that I felt when I saw their first piece, but this one was completely different. And then I knew why it had this effect on me.

I have a background in psychology, and more specifically, research. I love quantitative and qualitative designs, theorising and disproving, analysing and explaining. I love that we feel that we can truly understand, or predict human behaviour. I love the complexity and simplicity of the human psyche, and the glimpses you get by trying to analyse it. And while I was sitting in front of the work, I felt that Gilbert and George tried to do just that; offer an insight in the different aspects of their subject’s mind. Their subject? London.

For almost 6 years, Gilbert and George painstakingly gathered exactly 3,712 newspaper posters (the ones seen next to your local newsagent, used to give you a small but enticing snippet so that you buy the whole paper), and then grouped the titles in subjects, that then fell under categories. This meant that the size, title, and even subject was defined from the category itself (for example, with alphabetical or numerical classifications) -instead of the artists making am aesthetic decision. By doing that, their art making transcends ‘art making’, and provides a depiction of a reported reality: a gloomy, violent, impulsive, sorrowful, but always hopeful London. London, and the artists themselves, are the backdrops in portraits of humanity, taxonomy, and the never ending effort to classify, and understand the human factor.

However, there is another truly interesting bit for the psychology/linguistics nerds. Gilbert and George do not only look at the phrases and words behind the main news, but the content and classifications that are implied under them. For example, they visit the concept of gay and/vs straight, often classifying subjects under one or the other. The reason why this fascinated me is that this underlines the divisive and often irrelevant use of the adjective ‘gay’ as an intended insightful description of an act or person (something that lately has been debated about social issues like adoption, or marriage).

The exhibition runs simultaneously in the 3 White Cube galleries ( Bermondsey, Hoxton Square and Mason’s Yard), and is housing all 292 of the London Pictures. However, if you can not make the trip to the galleries, there is an amazing catalogue documenting all of them, accompanied with an essay by Michael Bracewell that was published by Hurtwood Press.

I left the exhibition feeling lighter. I just felt like I read someone else’s love letter for a person I love too. And it is the kind of all-round love, the love of the good, the bad, the ugly, and the unimaginably beautiful.

Love,

G

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Gay’s the Word: The Epicentre of the London LGBT Written Word

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I decided to take the bus today. I had time to kill, a book to read, and a headache creeping up, the reminder of that third glass of wine from yesterday.
The sky was a darker shade of grey when I looked up, and I was near Kings Cross. I checked the time on the screen of my phone, took a deep inhale, and pressed the stop button.
I got off and made my way across the street and into the British Library. I went to the ground floor cafe, queued for a lemon and poppyseed cake, took my latte in a paper cup, and found a table in the corner. I sat in the admittedly uncomfortable chair and turned my phone off.
About two hours later, when my cup was almost empty and my plate licked clean, I decided it was time for a walk. I gulped down the rest of my coffee, got up and wrapped my scarf around my neck as I was walking towards the exit. I knew where I was headed.

I started walking towards the Brunswick centre. I used to live close about 4 years ago, so I knew the streets and shops relatively well. A few more steps, and I would stand in front one of the most important shops in LGBT British identity. And, sure enough, there it was.
Sandwiched between an Internet Cafe and a spa, Gay’s the Word looks a little out of place; a little queer. The blue sign, the wooden frames, the charm that it exudes making it look like it just appeared out of nowhere. If there ever was a gay version of Harry Potter, this would definitely be the Ollivanders Wand shop.
Greeted by a bell on the door and a warm smile at the counter, GTW can not disappoint. It is a literal literary tardis, housing in a relatively small space a plethora of LGBT work: in its shelves, one can find the latest queer studies, academic work, non-fiction, fiction, magazines, DVDs, postcards and small gifts (for others; or yourself; or bought for others, but kept by self).
The space’s relaxed atmosphere is partly due to the clever layout and quirky interior, but mostly to the mesmerising presence of Jim Macsweeney. Cool blue eyes and a knowing smile, Jim greets people that walk in as if they used to know each other from a different past, a different life. He radiates a disarming warmth, his face lighting up when talking about the space, the events, the customers.

I tell him about the first time I saw the store. It was my first year in London, and everything seemed so vast, so chaotic. Apart from my conviction that it was really cool to wear only red and black when going out (the delusions of youth), and that Topman was the centre of the universe (the source of the delusions of youth), I was pretty lost. I was out to my friends from home, but as I was making myself at home here, I did not know where the outside was. I was walking down the street from my student halls with my Sainsbury’s bags, and there I saw it. I stopped; walked past it; stopped; went back to it; inhaled; and walked in.

You see, like for many GTW customers, visiting this shop was a small brick to building my gay identity. It is not a badly lit bookshelf in the corner of a sex shop. It is not a pile of books next to displays of double dildos. It is an actual bookshop, a place where it is ok to be out: out in public; out in press; out in writing; out to the world. I bought a couple of books, went to my room, and read them at the same night, sat on the green rug next my bed, my phone on silent, my eyes sponges soaking up all the words. Since then, I would visit the store almost every month: from my AXM and Attitude copies, to references for my MSc dissertation, I knew I would find everything I wanted there.

Jim smiles. He tells me how the customer age group ranges from 16-85, and how just the other day, two young guys came in the store; the more confident was bringing the novice to browse. We started talking about the importance of a bookshop like this one in the normalising process, and he told me that after 32 years, GTW is the only remaining LGBT bookshop in the UK. Not surprisingly, it was in the Top 50 Independent Bookstores list, and was shortlisted for the Best Bookshop of the Year Award.
What really impressed me though is the unyielding positivity that Jim has. ‘Yes, customers are happy, we are happy, sales are great, everything is fine!’ he says. I look at him suspiciously. ‘What about ebooks?’ I say, ‘surely that must worry you. It is worrying most of the publishing world for their future’. Jim looks at me cryptically, tilts his head and says ‘I prefer to stay in the present. We have survived a lot of other things, and I am sure we will survive this one; ebooks can be something we can look for the future, but for now, life is good as it is.’
A constant LGBT presence, it must be a bit unnerving for him to see popular outlets like Waterstones and HMV to have a G&L section now, after GTW gave a fight for all the years that these stores would never commission LGBT literature. ‘Not at all’ he says, ‘I actually think it is brilliant. It makes LGBT literature visible. It makes it accessible. I would much rather prefer young people walking in their local Waterstones in Cardiff and finding LGBT material available’. He smiles. I am amazed, and a little speechless.

Here is a man and a store that have survived 32 years open, during which they have had their shares of threats and misfortunes, from rent raises to political boycotting. Even after all this, they choose not to be bitter, or miserable, or short-sighted. They choose to celebrate life. They stuck with it when the going was tough, and even if people do not necessarily realise it as they dance in clubs, or hold hands in public, or tell their colleagues they are gay, we owe a lot to this little store.

We close our discussion with talks about community: apart from a weekly Lesbian Discussion Group and monthly Trans Discussion Group, they now have a monthly LGBT Book Club, discussing works that are not necessarily under the LGBT umbrella. And if all this was not enough, Jim tells me how excited he is about the March events, and the work that GTW customers can explore:

First, the fascinating work of psychiatrist and criminologist Donald J West, who 55 years after publishing Homosexuality, can write openly as a gay man about his own experience of marrying a ‘deviant’ sexuality with a ‘mainstream’ career. The event centres around his new book Gay Life, Straight Work (01/03/2012, 19:00-21:00), and is absolutely free.
Then, the new and exciting voice of Justin Torres, in his new coming of age debut novel We the Animals (22/03/2012, 19:00-21:00, £2 entry); and Patrick Gale’s sold out event for his new book A perfectly Good Man. If you want signed copies of the books but can not make it to the events, fret not: just drop them an email at sales@gaystheword.co.uk, and they will find a way to make it happen.

LGBT History Month is almost over. I read a lot of material on the press, about the adversity and difficulties we go though. The discrimination, the pain. I have felt it as well. I know what it feels like, the taste it leaves in your mouth. I know how important it is to put it out there. You know that. However, I think that once it is out there, it is even more important to show the next step. The step of acceptance. The step of moving on. Of celebrating life. Of focusing on the positive. Of looking at the world through rose tinted glasses, that you chose to wear on a cloudy afternoon.

I have mine on now; and the world looks a little bit magnificent.

Love,

G

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A Charmed Life: Miracles and Charms at the Wellcome Trust

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I am in a wooden box. I am wearing an aviator hat and cocktail glasses, both clashing with my bright yellow life vest. I look straight ahead, and the flash goes off 4 times. Then, the velvet curtain is drawn back, I get out, and re-enter the world of superstition, prayer and everything in between.

Of course I am talking about the Pilgrimage event at the Wellcome Collection, the place where science and art met and fell in love. Greeted at the door by a woman made of clay, stricken with fear; a little further ahead, a man is frozen in time amidst a step on the ceiling. He is upside down; or maybe we are.

The event started at 18:00, and people were swarming inside, queuing for the booth, wondering around the magnificent Miracles and Charms exhibition. After getting my pilgrimage passport, I made my way to the photo booth, and a few snapshots later I was in the gallery.

The exhibition is divided into two themes: the first one is the ‘Infinitas Gracias’, with over 100 votive painting across the room, and artefacts from two sanctuaries close to the mining communities of the Bajío region: the city of Guanajuato and the town of Real de Catorce.

In its entrance, there is a mural of all the paintings, and it is striking to see their reversed evolution: initially drawn by professionals, they were gradually done from the family or person asking the favour, enriching the painting with a raw emotion, with a unique mixture of practicality (a request) and aesthetics (the visual appeal for the divine recipient). The space continues with more devotional artefacts, news reports, photographs, films and interviews, going much further than purely exploring the depth of the votive tradition in Mexico. It transcends that; when you are standing in front of the wall of the Señor de Villaseca church, with all the drawings and pictures and stories of the people of Mineval de Cata’ trusting their lives to their God, it is quite humbling.

Then you move almost seamlessly to the Charmed Life exhibition. Felicity Powell selected 400 amulets from Henry Wellcome‘s collection, to literally be the centre of the circle that she draws with 10 pieces of her own art. The amulets, ranging from simple coins to carved shells, dead animals and elaborately fashioned notes, live in harmony with her wax drawings on mirrors, films (including an MRI scan), haunting images that seem familiar yet definitely strange.
It is fascinating to think that the exhibition is effectively a collection within a collection; Felicity Powell is showing Edward Lovett‘s life collection, and creates a mystery around the objects and the man. A banker by profession and obsessive folklorist by nature, Lovett is a man that embodies paradox: a Chief Cashier at the Royal Bank of Scotland collecting nails, teeth and mole feet; marginal figure in the academic circles, popular in the curatorial ones; dismissive of the magic that the amulets held while making one for his soldier son against the danger of the World War I. Maybe the objects held a different meaning to him; maybe he was intrigued by the testament to how desperately humans need to feel that they have a small part in controlling life, health, fate, divine powers. How they try to please their God with shapes made of paint and water. Try to ward off evil with possessions that have nothing more attached to them but an intention.

I decided against taking pictures of the paintings, or the wall, or the space; the reason is simple: I felt like I was evading someone’s privacy. The objects were not mere items. They were stories.
You can not just see them as images, pictures, dried ink on paper because of the meaning attached to them; the purpose; the pain; the hope; the longing. The feelings of the person leaving the picture on the original location. That longing for things to change, for something to happen, for life to happen, things to come back to normal whatever that was. The longing. That breathless longing, that feels like your heart is racing out of your chest, as if you are in a car that is moving too fast and someone just hit the breaks. You see, it nice to see these objects as artefacts. Become anthropologists for the day, and examine that weird and wonderful species that paints pictures, or carries lucky coins in their pockets and have two hands and two feet and one heart and one brain. Let’s examine them. Like monkeys in while lab coats examining other monkeys. I observe, therefor I am different. Well, I am not.

There was a moment that I found the content of the exhibition overwhelming. It was as if the energy, hope and despair that the owners bestowed on the items is still floating above them, a cloud of unmet expectations and short-lived compromises.

These items are the silent witnesses to the deepest fears, passions and hopes of the people that once relied on them. Heart-warming, heart-breaking and absolutely fascinating.

A must see.

Love,

G

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Under the trees of Cleaver Square

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Cleaver Square is a paradox. Sandwiched between two busy streets, it provides a sense of eerie calm rarely seen outside of a Hitchcock movie. Shielded from the outside world with perfectly aligned houses and shaded by tall trees, the square is a regular host to boules games, providing the perfect soundtrack for a peaceful afternoon: the sound of the metal balls hitting the ground; the air rushing through the leaves; the sound of hurried footsteps on the gravel. Just sit on a bench, and observe.

Observe how it can become a social hub, hosting fantastic street parties (like the one for the royal wedding -last picture-); or celebrating the Cleaver Square Fete, a block celebration with live music, great food, and smiley neighbours.

Take a look at the art crowd in between classes from the nearby City and Guilds Art School, talking about life, death, art, and the daily drama that comes with being a tortured artist.

Sit still and see how it is adapting to the world all the time, with a carpet of leaves in the autumn, a snowy pavement in the winter, and a cool shade in the summer.

I am not saying that it is essential London viewing; however, if you are in the area, and you need some time alone, or a quick chat with a friend, or to just lose yourself in the presence of strangers, then I would strongly suggest that you pick a bench, take a deep breath, and open your eyes. You will see something very familiar, but altogether different.

Love,

G

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On Friendship

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I am not sure if I am a good friend. I am not sure what constitutes a good friend, or even a friend for that matter.

From childhood friends to Facebook friends, and work friends to frienemies, I feel like I am reading an IKEA instruction manual: looks so easy at the pictures, but you can not help but feel that you are missing something.

This whole subject started on a rather bleak afternoon, as I was freezing with a friend on a bench at Trafalgar Square, looking at people feeding pigeons, and children playing in the empty fountains. She told me she thought I have a lot of friends; I did not agree – I have a lot of acquaintances. When she shrugged, I asked her what constitutes a ‘friend’ to her: ‘well, if you do not have your wallet with you at Pret, they will lend you money for a sandwich, or if you are sad, they will try to cheer you up’.

That for me is not the definition of a friend, but of a human being. Behaving in a friendly way is not a sign of friendship, but of manners. Listening to someone or cheering them up is a natural part of the everyday, not a badge to be earned.

You see, I personally do not open up easily. I am friendly with everyone, but I would not necessarily consider them my friends. I seem to be a magnet for people on bus stops who want to escape their truth by sharing it; who want to share their problem at a party without wanting to hear a solution. To them, I am their friend. To me, they are people I know.

It is about what meaning we want to assign to the word ‘friend’. Are we expecting our friendship to be a snippet of a sitcom like FRIENDS, or One Tree Hill? Or are we realising that each person understands the title in his/her completely different way?

For me a friend is a person that you call when you don’t want to talk to anyone; a person that takes a chair next to you when the shit hits the fan; that will love you despite and because you are yourself; that is happy for your happiness, and sad for your sadness. A friend comes without an agenda: s/he loves and accepts you for who you really are, and not who you could be; someone you can co-exist with in an effortless way.

While I have more than 500 Facebook friends, I have no more than 5 true friends. People I call on my lunch break or amidst a breakdown; smiles that make me feel warm inside; memories of falling asleep together on uncomfortable flat-pack furniture, and discussing reality shows as if they were international NATO summits over rose tea and home-made cakes.

My point? The superficial is lovely (I am generally a big fan of it), but staying there is not the beginning or end of the world. Dig deeper, and you might find a human connection under the code that makes your like button.

Love,

G

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Walking on a thin red sole: the Javari.co.uk Shoes for Show Exhibition in Brick Lane

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From Cinderella to Dorothy, shoes always hold a special place in the female psyche. Finding prince charming, or just the task of going home follow a similar footpath, paved with heel-marks, unusual shapes, and shiny red soles.

So, how can something that starts as every girl’s dream become every woman’s nightmare? Wearing heels is a sadomasochistic paradox for most women, with phrases like ‘they are killing me’ coming in the same breath with ‘but they are so gorgeous’. It is the moment when the pumps come out of the bag to replace the heels, that you can encounter the most interesting mixture of relief and sadness in a woman’s face.

I can not deny that shoes sometimes surpass the aesthetically pleasing and become an object of beauty; an object that could exist in the realm of art. It is indeed quite interesting to think of the heel beyond the functional, the aesthetic, and the necessary; to open the mind, and see it as an art form.

The javari.co.uk Shoes for Show exhibition did just that by exploring the sculptural art of high heels in a thought-provoking, awe-inspiring, and perfectly curated show (by Shonagh Marshall).

Hidden in the Old Truman Brewery in Brick Lane, the space was absolutely magnificent. Jaw-dropping designs were housed in the metallic nests (four-dimensional hypercubes that required an exact formula to be assembled) created by artist James Bowler; perfect structures demonstrating the perfect proportions the designer has to work with when creating the heel.

The gallery was divided in three sections: the catwalk spectacle (with special mention to Roger Vivier, the visionary creator of the stiletto); the couture clients (Yantorny, a shoe-maker who was choosing his customers based on their own style and elegance); and finally, the artistic (the one devoid of all function). Guess which one I loved! :)

It was absolutely amazing to see how shoe design is now turned into art and experimentation: my favourite by far was the collaboration between John O’ Connor and Emily Crane (in their ‘return to Oz‘) experimenting with the phenomenally beautiful chemical reaction of materials by covering the shoe with Sulphate crystals; thus allowing the show to grow beyond the designer’s control (amazing!). Another show-stopper was the Louboutin pair of the ballerina pumps (not the comfortable ones), with a vertical heel, a logical step for the perfect pointe, designed especially for the English National Ballet. (click here for a picture of a dancer actually wearing them!).

Even though the exhibition is now over (lasted for just 4 days), it is worth checking the javari.co.uk twitter account for any upcoming events.

Until then, have a look at some snapshots that will make your Converse look a bit deflated (but very, very comfortable :) )

Love,

G

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**UPDATE**

The magnificent IG followers loved the exhibition pictures as well, with a total of 200 likes in less than 6 hours. Wow! Thank you everyone!

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Claire Nixon: an Oasis in the High Street dessert

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Whoever said that knitting is for grannies has clearly never met Claire Nixon.

Sitting comfortably in a high chair and high heels, she looks at home holding two giant needles and knitting peacefully. That is if you consider ‘home’ the windows of the newly open Oasis Store in Argyl Street (click here for an impressive time lapse from the Oasis blog).

Nifty Claire rests her leg on a giant ball of yarn, in a white cardigan that matches the giant sweater she has behind her. Amazingly, she has even created the lamp that stands besides her.

Oasis collaborated with the textile graduate to celebrate their launch, filling Argyl street with yarn, balloons, and helpful staff that made the cold week a bit more …magnificent.

Looking forward to more amazing events from both of them!

Love,

G

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**UPDATE**

it looks like you guys loved Claire and Oasis, as the post made it to the WordPress list of Featured Fashion Items!

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It also managed to get 61 likes in less than a day, making it the second best liked post of The Magnificent Something!

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Thank you for all the support, and really glad you liked it!

Love,

G