O N L I N E
For (London) Fashion (Week)â€™s Sake
Issue #1 Autumn â€˜11 Editorial Team Editor-in-Chief: Ashley Mauritzen, firstname.lastname@example.org Fashion Director: Cheryl Leung, email@example.com Managing Director: Njide Ugboma: firstname.lastname@example.org; Nneka Fleming, email@example.com Beauty Editor: Sally Miura, firstname.lastname@example.org Art Director: Leo Olofsson, email@example.com Intern: Natalia Manning Advertising: Nneka fleming, firstname.lastname@example.org +44 (0)7711 256 182 Ashley Mauritzen, email@example.com +44 (0)7815 744 150 Press: firstname.lastname@example.org Contribute: email@example.com
www.cakeit.net www.twit ter.com/eatcake_mag 2011 Let Them Eat Cake Online: Issue #1 The Colourwords, Unit 206, 2 Abbot Street, London E8 3DP Cover: Photographer: Kristin Vicari Fashion Director: Cheryl Leung Hair: Tomihiro Kono Make up: Thomas de Kluyver Model: Helene Desmettre at Elite Hat: Jean Paul Gaultier All rights reserved. LeT TheM eAT CAke is a registered trademark. No
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A DV E RT I S E M E N T :
ConneCtIons berlIn 2011 tHe CUstoM - MADe trADesHoW For tHe CreAtIve CoMMUnItY bY
tHUrs 20tH/FrI 21st oCtober
CAFe MoskAU, kArl-MArx-Allee 34, 10178 berlIn. FroM 12 PM to 9 PM
It’s lebook lIve!
A W O RD FR O M TH E E D I TO R Marie Antoinette never really said ‘let them eat cake’. Wait, I retract that - because, honestly, who knows? Perhaps she did say it after all: to the royal nanny when discussing what the children should have for tea; or when planning a state function and given the choice between that, the raspberry soufflé, and another bloody jelly. Whatever the case, one thing is for certain: that she never dangled her inedible bon mot before a starving mob on the eve of revolution. No, that story wouldn’t surface until years later when people needed to feel good about having chopped her head off. The origins of our title then are shrouded in mystery. Does it matter? Not really. I, for one, cling to my first imaginings of Marie Antoinette: defiantly, despicably frivolous; clinging to the gates of Versailles with her soft, white hands built for preening, flirting and pleasure; staring unseeing at the crowds; unwittingly putting the art in without a heart; the fatal words dropping as thoughtlessly as seed pearls from her bosom. For five years now Let Them Eat Cake has been delivering you exciting new talent, the best of which is defined by its creative, free and highly productive dynamic with the old. As the once impenetrable walls between past, future and present crumble and embrace so, too, do the entirely manmade lines between the arts. We may be, like Marie Antoinette, creatures of fashion but it is fashion in vivid cultural context. And unlike her, we are in a position to understand and enjoy our own myths. Maybe even to make them. In this, our first digital magazine, I give you a flavor of our relaunched blog and website. Let Them Eat Cake is a cry of revolution but to present our new online presence in these terms would be a contradiction. If the Internet has taught us anything (and it’s taught us a lot) it’s that everything changes and everything stays the same. Put another way, it’s all happening and all at once. Sink or swim (but aim for the former), I hope you enjoy. My laptop is low on batteries, my corset in need of lacing and Marie Antoinette simpers and declares that the carriage is at the door. Ashley M. Editor-in-Chief
1 A BIG PIECE
OF CAKE And some fine features too.
E V E RYD AY Decadence begins at home p h oto g r ap h e r : E k at e r ina Ba z h eno va fa s h ion d i r ec to r : Ma s h a Mo m b elli
Shirt, Ksubi Shorts, Simone Rocha Glasses, Moo Piyasombatkul
Skirt, Tessa Edwards
Make up: Megumi Matsuno at Carol Hayes Management using MAC Hair: Michael Jones using Bumble Bumble Photography Assistant: Maria Gorodeckaya Styling Assistant: Sasha Pershakova Model: Jessica P at Profile Model Management - London
Skirt, Tessa Edwards Shirt, model's own
Shirt & Skirt, Just Cavalli
Jacket, Ashish Shirt, model's own
FA SH I O N W I TH O UT FA SH I O N Trend-spotting behind Cubaâ€™s iron curtain.
In the absence of fashion journalism or, for that matter, any journalism at all, what do you get? On a recent trip to Cuba with photographer Steve Ryan I was captivated by what I found in the absence of our own well-informed brand of fashion security.
T h a n k f u l ly, M i l e y Cy r u s music has m a n a g e d to e va d e t h e Cubans, which can o n ly b e seen as a blessing,
With free magazines such as Stylist thrust before you at tube stations, and high and low-end fashion fixes available in your local newsagent, London is saturated in fashion and celebrity culture. Our disposable income is spent evolving our looks as seasons and trends change, and our personal style defines us to such a degree that even our postcodes can determine whether we are boho or luxe. Havana though, is an entirely different situation. The only newspaper available is Granma, which is not only dull but contains a slew of government-produced socialist propaganda. To say the Castro regime is wary of the free press would be a huge understatement: Amnesty International are still campaigning for the release of journalists jailed in the ‘Black Spring’ dissident crackdown of 2003, and those who’ve been released have to filter their honest and fairly brutal accounts of the socialist regime from exile in Spain. Though we may feel stoic dining out al recessio, clutching our Pizza Express vouchers to our bosoms, we’ve got nothing on the Cubans who managed to survive an economic crisis in the 90’s, known as the period especial, which saw Cuba’s TV chefs touting grapefruit steaks in the absence of anything else to eat. Though the situation has got better most things are state-owned and ‘disposable income’ is an unknown term in Cuba where the average person earns the equivalent of £15 a month. Bars are almost exclusively visited by tourists as few locals can afford them. The main hang out point for everyone is the Malecon with a bottle of rum. A roadside stretch of ocean that runs along the edge of Havana, this is where we captured our shots. In fashion terms Cuba is no man’s land, but in the absence of ever-changing trend and joyful consumerism there is a real essence to Cuban women that overcomes the need for newness and the cutting edge. Firstly, in the heat of Havana you don’t need to wear many clothes at all and, secondly, the nature of shopping dictates the way fashion works. In stores the clothes are hung up behind the counters and there are no fitting rooms. This encourages the ‘one size fits all’ policy, helped by a unified love for lycra, which is worn brazenly (and, I feel, quite wonderfully) on every type of figure. Colour is everywhere, and many women have, unbeknownst to them, nailed this season’s colour-blocking trend. It was not unusual to see a Cuban beauty cross the road in head-to-toe canary yellow.
The 1960’s convertible Chevrolets, though a charming addition to Havana’s cityscape, are a reminder that nothing much has come in or out of Cuba since Fidel Castro ascended to power in 1959. But if you listen carefully some radios play pirate stations from Miami and, bizarrely, bootleg Hannah Montana DVDs seem to be in high demand. Thankfully, Miley Cyrus’ music has managed to evade the Cubans, which can only be seen as a blessing, though this leads to another strong trend: T-shirts and dresses with celebrities emblazoned on them were worn by women of all ages. For kids, the omnipresent Hannah Montana, and for everyone else Christina Aguilera or Shakira held court. It seems that in the absence of any celebrity presence in print or advertising, having pop culture references about your person is considered very cool. Most women were really happy to have their photo taken and, observing their model-like poses, it struck me that it isn’t necessarily fashion and branding that give us our confidence: it is our innate femininity that is alluring. Havana is a place of outstanding beauty and its positivity and ‘make do and mend’ attitude is the life blood that runs through it. Luxury does not exist yet the women are sexier than a wardrobe of Herve Leger. Though I didn’t leave with a suitcase full of new clothes, I think I am a bit sexier in the clothes I have (thanks, Herve) and if you see a girl in London with a rather pronounced bum wiggle to her walk it is probably me.
W O RDS : S A L LY M I UR A P H OTO GR A P H E R : ST E V E RYA N
i t i s n â€™ t nece s s a r ily fa s h ion an d b r an d in g t h at g i v e u s o u r con f i d enc E , i t i s o u r innat e f e m inini t y t h at i s all u r in g .
D I S CO M O M E N T bright light bright light
W O RDS : A SH L E Y M A UR I TZ E N P H OTO GR A P H E R : C HR I STA H O L K A C O N SU LTA N T FA SH I O N D I R E C TO R : JUST I N E J O S E P HS
Before Bright Light Bright Light there was Rod Thomas (as he’s still known to friends, family, interviewers and anyone with an aversion to Gremlins). Growing up in rural Wales, with musical instruments instead of siblings for company and a pronounced passion for Bjork, David Bowie, Depeche Mode and the technically perfect, much underrated Ace of Base, pop stardom must have felt very far away. Today, with 3 singles out, an album due in February and the venues about to get very large indeed, it’s close enough to wink across the bar at and go home with at the end of the evening. Rod may never have been in a band but there’s no doubting he’s a people person – he kept smiling through two years busking on the London Underground, which would test anyone. The upcoming album promises to be an exciting blend of creative voices and disciplines, harnessed by Rod’s firm belief in collaboration and his clear personal vision. Jon Shave (The Invisible Men), Andy Chatterley and Rod’s long-time hero Boom Bip were all involved musically. Set designer Alun Davies, a childhood friend, is Creative Director, and has brought on board various other fashion and creative talents to make Bright Light Bright Light an impressively three dimensional phenomenon. Rod’s third single, Disco Moment, which is out today (that’s 20.09.2011, you readers of the future), is a highly emotional and infectious piece of dance pop. It’s exciting to know there’s so much more to come.
Let Them Eat Cake: How would you describe the music you’re producing right now? Bright Light Bright Light: It’s pop, I suppose, but pop with a soul. I’m not interested in generic pop music with lyrics that don’t really mean anything. There’s always a theme or an idea that pulls my songs together, and then I work around that - tease out an image, or a kind of energy in a song that I think needs to be highlighted. LTEC: How would you define pop music? BLBL: Somebody said recently that pop music is music that follows a recognizable formula like, you know, verse, chorus, verse, chorus, end. And that makes sense. But, I guess, for me, pop is music that really gets into people’s hearts and minds, that doesn’t leave them for a while. It seems simple but it’s actually very memorable and very effective. LTEC: What is a ‘disco moment’? BLBL: I imagine it being like… If you’ve seen any John Hughes films where they have their ‘this is me’ moment – when they disappear into their dream sequence or their dance sequence. It’s a moment, basically, when you feel amazing and you can lose yourself, in your emotion or whatever. This song is about watching someone that you are in love with have that moment without you and how it makes you feel. It’s not a miserable song, it’s really just recognizing that somebody doesn’t treat you well and being like “okay, well, fine, it doesn’t matter”. LTEC: This has been a wonderfully collaborative project - how did you find the experience? BLBL: It was my first time collaborating and it was amazing. I write all the melody and lyrics – I don’t collaborate with that at all - but we work on the production together, and it’s really cool to have someone to bounce ideas off. It’s nice to get an instant reaction, to have someone say “yeah, that bit’s really good”. It’s good to have someone help you to push things on. And it’s a really interesting process because you learn a lot about what you’re best at and what you’re not so good at. You get a lot more selective because there’s a lot more ideas bouncing round. The doors get a lot more open. Doing it on your own, there’s always the opportunity to go a bit stale. LTEC: You’re on the third video for this album, with two others ready for release and more to come. What’s the appeal of the medium? BLBL: The whole collaboration project really struck a chord with me so I thought it might be fun to work with lots of new directors. It’s really interesting to work with people’s visual ideas - just seeing how they respond to your music. It’s exciting to see their interpretation. There’s always a guideline: like a colour palette, or I’ll tell them what the album’s about, and what the thread is,
and that they should maybe keep that in mind. But I’m not going to tell them what to do - you might as well get a cameraman. LTEC: Alun Davis is your creative director - something I don’t immediately associate with musicians? What does he bring to the project? BLBL: A very, very defined vision of how to create and maintain an identity. He’s worked so closely with photographers and fashion directors that he’s got a really good eye. So if I have an idea about what I want something to look like, he’ll know how to achieve that. And because, you know, he’s seen me when I was seventeen, and he’s seen me when I’m twenty-seven, he knows what I mean. We really understand each other, and really respect each other, and it’s a really good relationship to have. Especially being a solo artist, it’s nice to have a partner. I guess Ellie Jackson of La Roux has that with her co-writer and co-producer Ben Langmaid. You never really see him but he’s very much a part of it. I think that’s kind of a cool idea. LTEC: How important is style for a musician and why? BLBL: I think it’s really important – particularly now. You have to do something that sets you apart from other people. Anyone can make their music available but you want to show that you actually mean something. The people I’ve loved over the years are all people with a very strong identity. People like Kate Bush, who change their costumes constantly. Everything she wears is undeniably her. I find it amazing that I didn’t really think about style until we started doing Bright Light Bright Light. Alun’s introduced me to a lot of designers, and I’ve got to know a lot of other designers as well, like Aqua and William Richard Green, who I think have really great style. It’s exciting once you’re all dressed up. It makes you look like a slightly sharper version of yourself. You can see when people look uncomfortable in clothing, or when it’s not quite appropriate. Justine Josephs styled the Disco Moment video, and she’s amazing. I wore a lot of Lu Flux clothing while touring (the jacket was hers in the video), William Richard Green, Aqua, Aquascutum, Acne… Nothing massively avant garde but stuff that’s really well designed and really well tailored. LTEC: How would you describe Bright Light Bright Light’s style? BLBL: It’s defined but everyday. There’s a little nod to the 80s and 90s - like, I really like my pink converse, or a little bit of gold on the cuff of my denim jacket. And I really go for amazing tailored shirts, as well as simple t-shirts. So it’s very casual but in a quietly special way.
I f y o u ’ v e s een an y Jo h n H u g h e s f il m s w h e r e t h e y h av e t h ei r ‘ t h i s i s m e ’ m o m en t – w h en t h e y d i s appea r in to t h ei r d r ea m s e q u ence o r t h ei r d ance s e q u ence .
LTEC: The Disco Moment launch party is on London Fashion Week Menswear Day. Is there any particular reason for that? BLBL: I’ve worn a lot of Acqua as Bright Light Bright Light, and we’ll only be wearing their clothing for the launch. Like I was, hardly any of my music friends know anything about fashion design, so I thought it would be quite cool to host an event to show people what they actually do. And it’s nice that it’s Fashion Week. It’s very important to show that fashion and music aren’t at odds. And that they’re, also, not in decline - that they can work together. To do something fun and to remember that music and fashion are supposed to be fun; that they’re not meant to be always hard work, or always totally exclusive.
Disco Moment is available now at brightlightx2.com.
2 F E E D M E D A I LY: Best of the Blog
MTV has recently reported that Lady GaGa, despite scarcely having finished her monumental Monster Ball tour, is already planning a third concert series. Interestingly, though perhaps unsurprisingly, the same article includes a prominent link to ‘Check Out Sexy Snaps of Lady GaGa Naked.’ Such pandering seems to indicate that the purveyors and consumers of pop culture just don’t understand the fundamental appeal of GaGa. She is, on a physical level, attractive enough, due in no small part to the Jennifer Lopez-ian dimensions of her arse. However, her body does not seem to carry her as far as it does some of her contemporaries – examples such as Beyonce and Nicole Scherzinger (who is really solely propped up by her body) come to mind. It evades simple, crass, sexual objectification. Yet, paradoxically, the wellspring of GaGa’s sex appeal lies in her status as an object – not of sex, but of technology. Contrary to the message of her biological determinist hit ‘Born This Way,’ GaGa was made this way, gleefully so. Indeed, part of the project of being GaGa is a heroic struggle against biology – one involving a daily cycle of birth via reinvention, and death as the persona de jour is shed, never to be seen again. Her infamous ‘meat dress’ seems to be a fabulous expression of this, binding memento mori with a commentary on the fleeting nature of image construction and fashion. GaGa seems to be saying ‘I am larger than, and above life.’
L A DY GAGA: SEX & TH E CYB O RG
8 M A R C H A L ATS I S
In a sense, GaGa’s image is a mirror of modern life as experienced and mediated via the digital world – a mercurial existence of constantly shifting and upending identities, assumed and discarded as readily as a dress of meat. The digital world is so open, so defined by its infinite possibility, that it enables savvy users to manipulate reality itself, something that GaGa has refined to an art. This is all the more apparent when one considers her frequent use of technological accoutrements to enhance her biological body. These range from her decidedly low-tech incendiary bra; to her digital camera glasses, initially one-offs produced by Panasonic, now being rolled out as a consumer product by a recently revitalized Polaroid. These glasses are perhaps among the most interesting pieces GaGa has ever been involved with – digital cameras that function as glasses, with the lenses serving a secondary duty as a screen onto which select images are projected. The concept of ‘image’ is thus elevated to a whole new level, as illuminated images, icons of self-promotion, are dynamically displayed on the body itself. Furthermore, the social nature of the camera enables the user GaGa or otherwise, to inject their happiest memories and experiences into their surroundings at any given time, manipulating the very fabric of their personal reality. The world’s most famous popstar is a cyborg, promising each and every one of us an ideal world of dream and wish fulfillment. No wonder we like to call our gadgets sexy.
· DY L A N & PATR I C K ·
Left to Right: Dylan and Patrick, aged 28, from a little place called Norwich. Just the other day I decided to jump on my bicycle to grab a quick coffee. On my way I bumped into a pair of very good-looking twins, and to top it off they both had beautiful rain jackets on - one red, one yellow. I asked Dylan where he got his from.
K E L LY A N N A
He told me “Present London”. I asked Patrick. He replied “Dylan just has to have everything I have. Mine is an original but he couldn’t find one as good as mine, although I do like his a little.”
P E RFUM E REVIEW II W O RDS : M A R C H A L ATS I S I M A G E : R O B G A L L A GH E R L’Eaue d’Italie, Paestum Rose I never really had much of a relationship with my paternal grandfather. Sure, I loved him, but it was a very basic kind of love. I grew up consistently on the other end of the world from him, and he died just as I was entering puberty, meaning that I never really got to know him in a holistic sense. To this day, he was the loving, kind man, who let me sit up on his shoulders or would wrestle my brother and I, but not much else. I remember his funeral, though perhaps owing to my emotional distance from him, it is less a vivid memory than a smoky, mystical haze. Oddly enough, this feels appropriate – it was the first time that I had ever been in an Orthodox church, and I was in awe of its ikon-encrusted interior. It was also the first time that I had encountered a censer. Up and down the aisles, a clergyman swung his gold vessel back and forth, impregnating the room with a thick smoke, adding an aura of mystery to the brightly painted panels and frescoes. Paestum Rose seems to perfectly capture the entirety of this event for me, in a chronologically disjointed way that complements the haziness of my memories well. It initially begins smelling sharp and boozy, perhaps owing
to the pepper in it, though with the smoky sweetness that characterizes the rest of the scent. In many ways, it reminds me of the shot of Metaxa I took to begin my grandfather’s wake. The fragrance opens up into a bouquet of flowers, mainly roses, though geraniums and others are detectable as it dries down. Rose is, of course, ultimately the star of the show. It comes across heavy - sybaritic and sensual, though with a hard edge; my grandmother’s syrupy Greek desserts, and a sicksweet funeral wreath, all at once. I would be remiss not to mention the heavy notes of frankincense and myrrh that accompany the floral scents. They come as no surprise – Paestum was an Ancient Roman city with many temples; and the perfumer responsible for Paestum Rose, Bertrand Duchaufour, is perhaps most famous for formulating Comme des Garçons’s Incense series. His inspiration here seems to be that of a smoky, ancient cultic mystery, one so obfuscated by time as to be both alien and dreamlike. It was very evocative to me of my own experience with a magical, foreign ritual, conducted in an archaic tongue. And it makes for a wonderful scent on a winter evening.
R O E E THR I DG E
â€œToday we all speak, if not the same tongue, the same universal language. There is no one center, and time has lost its former coherence: East and West, yesterday and tomorrow exist as a confused jumble in each one of us. Different times and different spaces are combined in a here and now that is everywhere at once.â€? - Octavio Paz (Mexican poet, writer and diplomat, 1914 - 1998)
Roe Ethridge, b. 1969. Lives in New York.
路 TO B I A S C ZUD E J 路
F O R C E O F P E RS O N A L I TY R O B G A L L A GH E R
‘Ladies, remember long ago / We asked Santa to give us Christmas dolls? / This year the dolls are you and me, / cheering under the Christmas tree’ - Beyoncé, Platinum Bells (from Destiny’s Child’s 2001 LP/doll advert 8 Days of Christmas)
Ours is an age of collaboration, crossover and celebrity endorsement, of brand synergy, mindshare monopolisation and demographic crossover. It is the age of Cindy Sherman for MAC cosmetics, of Dree Hemingway invoking Bieber from a scent bottle, of designers’ promiscuous dedication of bags and shoes to models, actresses, model-slash-actresses, girlsabout-town and Pippa Middleton. It is also the age, lest we ever forget, of the JLS condom range (which is actually pretty tame by comparison with sometimeDuran Duran guitarist Warren Cuccurullo’s “Rock Rod” range, an assortment of dildos cast from moulds of his own prick). It might seem, with the launch of a range of The Only Way is Essex-affiliated fake eyelashes, like we’re in uncharted territory. It’s to dispel this understandable but mistaken impression that I want to consider the marketing phenomenon that did it first and did it better. That phenomenon is Trilby, a novel written and illustrated by George du Maurier (grandfather of Daphne) and published in 1894. Little read today - mostly because a) it’s kind of haphazardly plotted sentimental tosh b) it’s nastily anti-Semitic, unnervingly jingoistic, haphazardly plotted sentimental tosh -the book was huge at the time. Trilby hats might be the top Google return if you enter that name today, but they’re only called that in the first place on account of du Maurier’s winsome but chesty Irish heroine.*
Insofar as there were stage plays, parodies, foodstuffs, dolls and songs, we might say it was akin to Harry Potter in its scope. If anything, though, Trilbymania was bigger and weirder than that. For one thing, Trilby had a town named after her: in 1896, railroad magnate Henry Plant retitled a sizeable tract of Floridian soil in honour of the fictional woman with whom he was besotted (fittingly, given the novel’s concern with the gender-reconfiguring effects of the bohemian lifestyle on British males, Trilby is home to Sawmill, somewhat pugnaciously described as ‘America’s FIRST gay community’). For another, Trilby was responsible for an extensive and extraordinary upswell of popular sexual fetishism**: more even than Trilby’s ‘lungs’, the novel is fixated on her feet, which provide the occasion for various artistic masterpieces and rhapsodic prose-poems. This obsession bled into the real world, to the extent that audiences at stage adaptations of the novel could cool down in the interval with a footshaped ice cream, while ‘trilbies’ became a slang term for feet. Spin-off scent ranges are one thing, but until you’ve impacted on language, millinery, sexual object choice and geography, you’re still trailing in Trilby’s wake. * It’s also where the term ‘svengali’ comes from, that being the name of the evil Jewish hypnotist who ensnares her (did I mention the anti-Semitism thing?). ** This is all a couple of decades before Freud’s dilation on the nature of fetishism (and, for that matter, Oskar Kokoschka’s commissioning a lifesize model of Viennese heartbreaker Alma Mahler to console him for her marriage.)
3 L O N D O N F A SH I O N W E E K The way we saw it
B A SS O & BR O O K E SS 1 2 Now this is what the ‘90s were really about. Forget Kurt Cobain, forget DMs, what every girl really wanted was Cher from Clueless’ revolving wardrobe. The pastel mini dresses, the preppy knee socks - oh, and the fluffy pen, obvs. PPQ’s Cher is a bitch in a hurry. She’s been to Milan to stock up on gold jewellery and flashy embroidered denim; she met a bad boy and eloped to Mexico, lost daddy’s credit card and resorted to petty crime, concealing her identity behind a fetching bandita mask. Anyhow, now she’s back in Cali and her closet’s better than ever. PPQ can provide the content, all we need now is that mechanism.
W O RDS : L A UR A C L AYTO N I L LUSTR AT I O N : C A M I L L A A L L E N
P P Q SS 1 2 “There [s]he goes. One of God’s own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.” - Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, 1972 Hunter S. Thompson’s acid-tinged musings on man and the metropolis speak of imagined paradises, society turned demonic and a colour palette of lurid psychedelia. Losing all touch with a reality too horrific to bear, the mutant wanders, languid, into a hedonism all of her own… Bruno Basso’s own road trip took him from London to Beijing, across the alienating wilds of Siberia, forcing him to imagine a cerebral paradise with which to juxtapose his brutalist surroundings. Finding their way onto silks and sheer jersey, in a relentless juxtaposition of opposing fabrics and cuts (courtesy of the partnership’s ‘garment architect’ Chris Brooke), his lurid visions see nightmarish crowds atop painterly landscapes and fluoro palms at odds with monochromatic sputniks. Whether Basso’s particular trip required Raoul Duke’s preferred mindaltering substances, is anyone’s guess; but as each garment merged deliciously into the next, the spaced-out models’ dewy skin and matted hair certainly hinted at a wild night or two. W O RDS : L A UR A C L AYTO N I L LUSTR AT I O N : C A M I L L A A L L E N
L I V E I L LUSTR AT I O N By Kelly Anna
Bac k s t a g e a t Jona t h an Sa u n d e r s P h oto s : Holly Hay
SS 1 2
LO U I S E GR AY SS 1 2 P H OTO S : H O L LY H AY
LEUTTON POSTLE SS12 Sahara’s parents always told her she was special. Perhaps that’s why, six years out of indigo school and three years into her waitressing career, she carries herself with such quiet certainty. Though her name may be far flung (it was chosen by her grandmother, the one who slept with Timothy Leary), the closest she’s come to leaving Minnesota is a long-standing passion for Venice Beach and a Japanese pen pal named Cherry.
With her handmade clothes, candy cane house, Joanna Newsom remixes and a tendency to stare closely at the ground before stepping, she’s too eccentric for many of the townsfolk’s taste. Luckily for her, Sahara doesn’t care. She knows the world is wide and full of magic: when she closes her eyes she can hear flowers tinkling and before she sleeps she kisses the stars.
W O RDS : A SH L E Y M A UR I TZ E N I L LUSTR AT I O N : C A M I L L A A L L E N
Inbar SpeCtor SS12 As a child, Demelza suffered from night terrors. Not surprising, perhaps, in that large, dark house, with nothing for company but a broken-hearted father and the souvenirs of three centuries worth of learning, loving, bitter fighting and even bitterer disappointment. Her mother (a breaker of hearts by death and not choice) had been a concert pianist and Demelza resembles her as the children of tragedy always do. Perhaps it was this that inspired a teenage period of intense rebelliousness:
the shaved head, the defiant pounding of classically trained fingers against the walls of shadowy bars. Today, Demelza has harnessed her passions: she is fiercely, eloquently political. Whilst she still seeks solace in strange old movies - nuns breaking out of cloisters, English girls seduced by Sheiks - and elaborate games of dress up, she takes care to seperate them from her public face. No one can know sheâ€™s afraid of the dark.
W O RDS : A SH L E Y M A UR I TZ E N I L LUSTR AT I O N : A n d y B u m p u s
C O RR I E N I E LS E N SS 1 2
Agnes is the consummate hostess. A collector of both artists and art, she is known throughout London for her discerning arrangement of furnishings and guests. No one really knows how Agnes became the arbiter of taste, presiding magnificent, unassailable and quite solitary over an endless stream of salons in her Mayfair apartment. Perhaps she doesn’t remember herself. Perhaps she doesn’t want to. Certainly, there are rumours. Of cross-dressing and of a great passion: a poet sailor who broke her heart, before damning it (and her)
to hell to go native in the Orient. Whatever it was – and perhaps, after all, it was nothing - there’s an undeniable steeliness to Agnes now. She serves food but rarely eats. Exchanges witticisms with poets and philosophers, prime ministers and revolutionary thinkers whilst quietly wishing them pale, still and silent. At the end of the night she sits before a Venetian glass mirror and stares at her still beautiful face. She gently massages it with long, ivory fingers, as if tentatively searching for the edges of a mask.
W O RDS : A SH L E Y M A UR I TZ E N I L LUSTR AT I O N : C A M I L L A A L L E N
M A RY K ATR A N TZ O U SS 1 2 P H OTO S : H O L LY H AY
Mea d h a m Ki r c h o f f SS 1 2 P H OTO S : H O L LY H AY
J u lian Mac d onal d SS 1 2 P H OTO S : H O L LY H AY