Modcloth

Fancy flexing your credit card on some vintage slash vintage reproduction homewares and fashion? Oui oui?

Go to modcloth.

Where is my mind?

On the road unknown.

All photos from we♥it.

Vintage! Vintage!

I can't say I stick to a particular style when I dress, more I am a slave to my emotion that day, choosing to grab whatever clones my mood.

Always one to tread the vintage clothing waters though, I do love a classic cut, a tailored jacket/dress/pant et al, and the way certain clothes envelope my body.

As I grow in age (and retain my modesty), I find dressing to my shape is imperative when I purchase anything. I can't stand people who go outside only to have the world subjected to their gut hanging over their bottom wares. Ill-fitting clothes, or just ill-fitting taste? And leggings! Oh my, why must these be around? They do not suit most people on the best of days, let alone when you're wearing them as pants (bottoms). There should be no public camel toes, something should cover your ass, and perhaps you should throw on a pair of shoes and stop pretending Uggs are for outdoor use. They're not, they're expensive slippers. For indoors only.

Having a relatively small waist, I seek out skirts, tailored trousers and dresses; vintage makes my heart sing, and over the years i've practically recorded an album. I've been so lucky to be able to find some beautiful clothes, some of which include, a gorgeous 1940s blue above-the-knee skirt, with pleated detail front and back, for £10; a collection of summer dresses with button details to the waist, then a broad flowing skirt to twirl in (ranging from £10-45); a lovely brown leather day purse, with short double straps for £15; and many, many more.

Vintage shopping has become part of my travelling repertoire, I do thorough research before I go anywhere, to try and get the best I can get. London has definately spoilt me, though I find it is so expensive here, so don't come expecting a bargain, especially where tourists lurk (like Portobello Rd).

Here are some of my favourite vintage spots in London. They're not a secret, so enjoy.

- Vintage Market
F Block T2 | 85 Brick Lane, London
Every Friday, Saturday 11am – 6pm and Sunday 10am – 5pm

Coinciding with the Up Markets, grab some lovely thai duck rolls, and head up the stairs to the top floor. Here you'll find the professional stall holders, amongst the grots and gits of East London, selling anything from the 20s, right through to late 90s. A treasure trove of one-off things that change from week to week.

- Beyond Retro
110-112 Cheshire Street, London E2 6EJ
Monday - Wednesday 10am - 7pm; Thursday 10am - 8pm; Friday & Saturday 10am - 7pm; Sunday 10am - 6pm

This is the site of the original store, now pratically a chain after its expansion to central London, Brighton and even abroad to Sweden! Situated off Brick Lane, come here for cool clothes, colour coded on the racks and sorted down the line for men and women. I picked up an awesome silk scarve from the 70s, with the entire Waltzing Matilda poem penned on it (plus illustrations). Perhaps come here first, and then head to the many thrifts along Brick Lane.

- Absolute Vintage
15 Hanbury St, London E1 6QR
Monday - Saturday 11am - 7pm; Sunday 11am - 7pm

Frequented by stylists and those who want to pay a little more for their vintage, this medium-sized shop filled to the rafters with cloth, is definately one to poke your head in. Even just to scope the amount of second-hand shoes for sale. I have an elephant foot, though one can always look...

There are so many more thoroughout London, though I suspect these should be stumbled upon by yourself. That way, you can say 'I went to London, and discovered the most amazing little shop...'

Hint: Brick Lane, Portobello Rd (under the freeway overpass, ONLY), Camden Passage parallel to Upper St, and Shoreditch will all provide you with suitable starting points.

Still looking for inspirations, click here for a reliable guide.

Defaults

I have always thought that to ask someone their favourite song, movie, band et al was rather ignorant. Considering we explore creativity through a myriad of emotions, elements and desires, the answer to the aformentioned question would change depending on any number of characterisitics.

Having said that, there always seems to be defaults that we fall back on, not necessarily classing them as our favourites, though we're happy to oblige them over and over again in our short lives.

I couldn't tell you what my favourite film was, though I can divulge that I have seen Sound of Music more times than I have counted. I first saw it when I was a little girl; we had taped it from the TV on our 1980s VCR- I was 4 years old. I went to Salzburg, just to see some of the film set. Sound of Music delivers everything I covet- song, romance, secrets, history, freedom.

I also seem to have a couple of default songs, that I listen to over and over again. One is for nostalgic reasons and the other, well perhaps it's the meloncholic melody uprising that I love to bear.

My mum used to sing 'Little Ray of Sunshine' to me, well for as long as I can remember really. It's from Axiom, an Australian band and was released in 1970. Even now, it features heavily on my playlists. It's a beautiful song, take a listen.



The second song is by Regina Spektor, called 'Samson'. I've blogged the lyrics before, though I thought I'd give you the clip. It's stunningly beautiful, passionate though whimsical. I had the good fortune is see Regina play this live, then fuck up the lyrics, then stop suddenly to say 'fuck', then start all over again. So I have heard the beauty 1.5 times. I could play this song on the hour, every hour and not tire of it.



Care to share your defaults?

Arshile Gorky

One Year the Milkweed, 1944

Golden Brown, 1944

The Liver is the Cocks Comb, 1944

Agony, 1947

I look at Arshile Gorky's magnificent body of work and I get lost in the chasms of colour...and the chasms of disturbance. I am by no means an expert in any facet of art (except in the sense of what I like and don't like), so all my comments must be taken with a grain of salt.

 

Gorky's work is recognisable by its wild lashings of colour and patterns, throwing tradition to the side and replacing it with abstract freedom. I saw some of his work earlier this year at MOMA in New York; it delivered such a sense of wonderment and delight which is ironic, given the pain in his lifetime.

 

Gorky hanged himself at the age of 44, after considerable misfortune. I seem to be drawn to untimely deaths and the sorrow that surround people's lives. I could have almost predicted that I would like the work of someone with such a fate; perhaps you never choose what you like, perhaps it chooses you. 

 

I am in a less than sparkly mood today, so I am reaching for the beauty of Gorky to uplift me. Even writing about this, his expression, will me to concentrate on what I deem to be important. Arguring over trivial matters with work colleagues, not so important. Be gone stress, Gorky is present.

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Wee Birdy

One of my favourite bloggers Wee Birdy, is flying the coop!

Originally from Sydney, she's seems to be reluctantly heading home after a couple of years in London. Her posts are delightful little morsels of shopping wisdom,  and she has an amazing ability to make you feel like one of her girlfriends on the receiving end of a gushing email.

I've posted her sign off below and I commisserate, because I too have had an agonising decision to make. I now know how hard it is to consider leaving London, therefore I have decided to stay for another 6 months.

Oh the love/hate perils you have put me through London. Minx.

Here's what Wee Birdy will miss...

But it's goodbye London for now...

Goodbye riding in the front seat up the top of a double-decker bus
Goodbye getting mugged
Goodbye marvellous weekend newspapers
Goodbye hot air vents on the buses in summer (oh why oh why?)
Goodbye Tatty Devine, Rob Ryan and Alex Monroe
Goodbye 2am bagels on Brick Lane
Goodbye foxes crying like tortured banshees in the middle of the night
Goodbye proper afternoon tea with clotted cream
Goodbye Sherlock Holmes tiles at Baker Street tube station
Goodbye eternal queues at Monmouth coffee
Goodbye University Challenge and the ever-excitable voice of Roger Tilling
Goodbye perfectly formed snowflakes that sparkle in the weak morning sun
Goodbye Central Line, you served me well (most of the time)
Goodbye narrow lanes and hedgerows in the countryside
Goodbye Sunday roast dinners with Yorkshire pudding
Goodbye sugar mice and Parma Violets
Goodbye brilliant, wonderful Guardian mini mag supplements
Goodbye wild buttercups growing outside Greenwich park
Goodbye picking over 400-year old clay pipes on the banks of the Thames
Goodbye incredible museums and art galleries
Goodbye Time Out (and thanks for employing me in the middle of a recession!)
Goodbye lazy Saturday mornings trawling the stalls at Broadway Market
Goodbye skidding on icy streets because the council couldn’t be arsed to grit
Goodbye daily repeats of Friends on E4
Goodbye 'three for a fiver' bunches of flowers at Columbia Road
Goodbye dusty old bookshops (and rather odd owners) on Charing Cross Road
Goodbye 4pm darkness in December
Goodbye glorious Knickerbocker Glory at Fortnum & Mason
Goodbye pretty little blue tits in the tree outside my window
Goodbye limescale sludge in my tea
Goodbye sitting in the bar at the Tate Modern watching the sun go down
Goodbye walking up Piccadilly in the rain
Goodbye having ice-creams in Hyde Park on green and white striped deckchairs
Goodbye robins in the snow
Goodbye peat bog man at the British Museum
Goodbye getting lost again in Soho
Goodbye ring-necked parakeets in Greenwich park
Goodbye car boot sales
Goodbye Tunnock's Teacakes, how do they make your marshmallow so soft?
Goodbye some of the shittiest customer service I’ve ever experienced in my life
Goodbye installations in the Turbine Hall
Goodbye Waitrose and M&S ready-made meals
Goodbye crazy tile mosaics at Tottenham Court Road tube
Goodbye Selfridges’ Christmas windows
Goodbye people who don’t move down into the carriage
Goodbye geese and squirrels in St James’s Park
Goodbye London sales
Goodbye coots on Regent’s Canal
Goodbye Charbonnel et Walker powdery-pink champagne chocolates
Goodbye shiny mahogany conkers in autumn
Goodbye pink petal showers in spring
Goodbye cheese, coffee and cake at Borough Market
Goodbye grey squirrels - I know I'm not meant to like you, but I do
Goodbye South Eastern trains coming to a standstill within inches of the platform at London Bridge
Goodbye to all my wonderful, wonderful London and UK friends, hope you all keep reading… maybe I can treat you to a coffee in Sydney some time?
Goodbye London, thanks for having me. It’s been a treat and I'll miss you terribly (sob!).
 
Luckily, Ms Birdy will be blogging about Sydney- my favourite city! Woo! It's about time someone shared the love.

V&A

OH the glee, the gayness, the splendour!

London's Victoria and Albert Museum are hosting an exhibition entitled Grace Kelly: Style Icon. From the 17 Apr- 26 Sep 2010, lucky visitors will get to gaze upon some of the loveliest haute couture fit for a WASP, who was to become a Princess.

Information from the V&A's website states:

This exhibition shows the spectacular wardrobe of Grace Kelly, one of the most popular actresses of the 1950s. Featuring dresses from her films including High Society and Rear Window, as well as the gown she wore to accept her Oscar in 1955, the display will examine Grace Kelly's glamorous Hollywood image and enduring appeal.


It will also explore the evolution of her style as Princess Grace of Monaco, from the outfit she wore to her first meeting with Prince Rainier in 1955 to her haute couture gowns of the 1960s and '70s by her favourite couturiers Dior, Balenciaga, Givenchy and Yves St Laurent.

Now this is something to pay attention to! The importance of this exhibition, proves the enduring role Kelly plays, both before and after her tragic death. She is truly a classic whose memory is kept alive by her class and stature.

Hot step it to the V&A- tickets are just £6 online.

Iceland

I wanted to share some pictures I took from my most intriguing trip to Iceland.

I came back a week ago, the volcano was crumping into action again, and like an angry old dragon, was blowing hot ash, steam and smoke all over the rocky land.

And rocky it was. Oh Floki, you deceptive Viking you. It may have been a harsh winter when you arrived, though perhaps calling it Rockland would have been a little more appropropriate. Being a hotspot for geological activity and sitting on the Mid-Atlantic ridge, Iceland literally rose from the sea from past volcanic activity, thus rendering it treeless (I didn't quite believe it, though it's true- there are no natural trees).

Reykjavik is situated on a fishing harbour, essentially the lifeline of most Icelanders. Cool air comes sweeping off the sea and the snow-capped mountains surrounding it, sending this Australian shivering whilst traising up and down the narrow streets.

I imagined there to be small bistros serving traditional food, i'd have even settled for fish stew. Instead, there were mainly influences from the American GI's that were here during and after WW2, the diners selling hamburgers, steak and beer. The supermarkets sold Bisquick and squirty cheese. The food was a major bummer, though I did have 'cheap' in mind.

I did dine (I use that term loosley) at sægreifinn, which came recommended through the Reykjavik Grapevine (pick up this free English-speaking rag - it's an absolute must for Icelandic navigation! It's also probably the coolest streetpress, I've ever read). It stated it had weird Icelanic food, for which I was down for. However, asking to see the menu, the waitress pointed at the fridge full of fish kebabs and replied 'That is the menu'. I bypassed the red, dense whale meat and went for the saltfish. It was delicious, but one fish kebab does not make a meal. I was still quite hungry after my meal, so grabbed a cheeseburger down the street afterwards.

The city iself serves three-fifths of the Icelandic population, though it doesn't feel like it. The city centre is extremely small, with the outer surburbs sprawled amongst the rocky terrain. Like any small place, I can imagine Reykjavik to be quite dull if you've lived there all your life. The same people, same places to go. I guess that's why we explore in the end.

Iceland though, is not the sort of place you go to for its cities. Of course, there is the raging volcano that I mention above, that has been huffing and puffing since Apr 20th. And wasn't I the lucky one to have this thrust upon me after I had booked my ticket? I booked a jeep trip to the outer surrounds, getting between 8-10kms away from the erupting Eyjafjallajökull. Eight hours later, I was back at the hostel, dusty, tired and proud to say that I have seen a volcano erupt.

One thing that I can say for Icelanders- they know how to make coffee. I felt like I was home! Having lived in Europe now for the better part of 4 years, good coffee was something I have had to seek out. England, France, Spain, Germany et al all bomb in coffee making skills. They do, I've said it. However, the small, isolated island of Iceland, well it's like they'd all taken a trip to Lygon St Melbourne and received barista training. It was such a lovely suprise, that I ended up drinking far more coffee than I should have. I couldn't help it, their cafes were from the kingdom of cool.

So below are a small selection of pictures from my trip. Enjoy.

The view from the bus, driving back from the Blue Lagoon. This was pretty much the view from anywhere.

This was one of many dead casts within the church, Hallgrimskirkja. It sort of intrigued me, then concerned me as to why these faces were there. There was no explanation, nor were the faces marked in any way. And then I came across this smiling fellow. He looked happy. And then, so was I.

I went to the Reykjavik Flea Markets (every Sat. and Sun), and the most interesting thing was this dried, cured shark meat they were flogging. This is an Icelandic delicacy. It really smelt terrible, though I bought a small sample to try. I just couldn't in the end, and threw it in the bin. A welcome smell for the people I shared a room with.

My double latte. Interestingly, they only half filled it with milk, and sort of looked at me funny when I said fill it up. Hardcore, those Icelanders.

How to keep warm in Iceland- wear an eyeless fox. Creepy.

Norwegian Wood

I picked up Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood in Foyles yesterday. This is interesting to me, because I remember deciding a couple of years ago that I didn't like Murakami's writing style, after attempting to read one of his other novels.

I think I purchased this book on the basis that the film adaptation is due to be released in December of this year (one of only two of Murakami's work to be sold to film). Plus, it's about time I wised up to what all the world already know- that Murakami is a literary genius.

My friend has read all his novels, and gushes over his prowess. I am now up to chapter three of Norwegian Wood, and perhaps it's too early to say. His prose is direct and not at all dense. He flips back and forth, forcing his reader to keep up with the present, and the past. He does inspire me to write, in fact I shall credit him with my 3000 words today.

Has anyone read this novel, (or other Murakami novels) and care to explain his genius tag?

Voting Schmoting

I've wanted to blog so badly lately; everywhere I turn, it seems there is inspiration for an entry. Could it be Summer on our doorsteps (sorry southern hemisphere, I hear it is chilly manilly at the moment!), or just the rad city I reside in? I think, a bit of both.

Time. Bloody time. It hold me back in what I want to do and share with you all. Time can suck.

So I resolve to find more time and just go for it. There is literally post after post I want to share!

The UK general election is today, and speculation of the winner is rife. No one seems to be able to guess a clear majority- I guess we shall see come 2am tonight/tomorrow morning. People have vowed to take power naps when they get home, and stay up for the results...we'll see how long that lasts.

I can't actually vote here, though I have kept abreast of the candidates policies. A lot of people have mentioned that they had no idea on whom to vote for, that they got into the booth and almost waved their hand around, waiting for it to land on a name. Is this a wasted vote? Most certainly. It's not compulsory to vote here (one should, I believe), though if you are going to, then shouldn't you know who you want to be your future leader for the next four years? One would hope so.

This time tomorrow, the UK shall wake up either with a new Tory government whose leader is a floppy-haired, public school educated conservative, or they'll keep their Labour government, led by a stout Scotsman, who comes across gruff, though apparently has a wicked sense of humour. The options are slim.