lovedifferent2018

[lovedifferent2018]

The Basket Case Files | Palma de Mallorca

I have had a penchant for straw bags since I was a teenager. Anachronostic against bleak British skies, raffia shoulder-bags, beach bags, totes, all crafted from a basket-weave in far-flung holiday destinations, formed an integral part of my year-round wardrobe, a ray of sunshine on a gloomy day. 'Touch wicker' became our superstitious alternative to 'touch wood'; the straw bag became a tactile talisman. Home is now Mallorca: Wicker Bag Mecca. Here, the intricately-weaved sandy bolsas with long tan leather straps are the island's IT bag. However, this 'baskit' bag is no trend, it is a way of life, a part of the island's cultural fabric, the very best of basic. Bobbing on the shoulders of locals, of all ages, the capazos de mimbre (wicker purses) are so popular due to their practicality - a brilliant, sturdy alternative to the plastic carrier, the bane of planet Earth's oceans. There are many reasons why this is, by far, the most carried accessory on the island: firstly, it's cheap (prices range from 15e, depending on size and quality; although we picked up a beautifully woven bag with lean leather shoulder straps for 1e at a second-hand market); it's kind to the environment due to its reuseability and forever shelf-life and appeal; its durability lends itself to dual functions: as a day attaché and a stead for supermarket hauls (no split-plastic-bag-smash-crash-wine-disasters here then); the natural tones go with anything, therefore aesthetically very pleasing; by buying, you are supporting artisanal craftsmen; and lastly, this bag can be worn more than one way: slung with insouciant nonchalance over a shoulder or doubled as a backpack, if you wish to keep your hands free for climbing down mountains to secret golden coves. Any Mallorquin beach is dotted with wicker handbags that camouflage with the sand: towel, sun cream, books, water all fit perfectly within the spacious main compartment and some have zips which keep all things precious safe. By night, a silk dress or wide-legged trousers, in any colour, are set off by a tan and a woven clutch, particularly when paired with an espadrille which forms a natural balance. The basket bag comes in many different forms: the bucket, clutch, envelope or round, with a variety of straps in terms of length or colour - tan, soft caramel, oak, butterscotch, oh my! - with linings in the native ikat material; or, there's the garden basket - a la its true pioneer, Jane Birkin. Perfect whatever the wicker, man.

Mimbrería Vidal

Calle Corderia, 13 07002 Palma de Mallorca (Illes Balears)

Open since 1955

Birkin Bag Heaven

Mallorquin ikat material

Further reading: http://www.refinery29.com/basket-bag-trend Melanie Wilkinson's, 'Weave this Way' Fashion Gallery on The Guardian reveals the best pompommed, coloured basket bags on the British High Street: https://www.theguardian.com/fashion/gallery/2017/may/08/weave-this-way-the-10-best-wicker-bags-in-pictures

[lovedifferent2018]

Unpicking Pandora Sykes' Personal Style | Topshop Edit

Pandora Sykes, The Sunday Times' former Wardrobe Mistress turned freelance fashionista and journalistic wordsmith, who is as enchanting in her prose as her posh pixie-vintage chic, has joined the esteemed ranks of top stylists and fashion editors to offer their edit of Topshop's latest wares. Fashion Heaven for modern girls and boys in their yoof, Topshop.com nominates monthly an influencer, who is in-the-know (with a massive Instagram following), to curate a one-off bespoke edit of their most cherished, and characteristic, current Topshop pieces. Unduly admired for her peacock-slash-magpie aesthetic, I couldn't help but wonder if there were any underlying formula to Sykes' delightfully mishmash mode of dressing - is there method to her madness? Clearly Sykes is no stranger to a daring print, and screaming colour; her wardrobe reflects her treasure trove namesake. And what better place to begin the deconstruction of her style than the collection of her (supposed) favourite SS17 pieces from our best British treasure of a high street store, good ol' Topshop. What fun. Screw 'classic basics': IT'S SUMMER. Let's go heavy on prints - stripes, checks, animal, floral - and colour; throw in an abundance of fuss n' frills; go low on minimalism; Sykes' personal style mirrors the exit of Celine's brand of low-key and ushering in of Gucci's loud maximalism and eccentric character - more is more! Wear everything at once, and smile. Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you the capsule wardrobe to end all capsule wardrobes...

Ruffles

Stripes

Checks, Mate!

Power Dressing

YELLOW

Oriental

Sweet Summer Dresses

Masculine and Oversized and Warm...

Basic A.F.

The 80s, Revisited

The New Clash: Orange and Red

Pandora Sykes

http://www.pandorasykes.com/ http://www.topshop.com/en/tsuk/category/we-love-432/pandora-edit-6559039/N-25ruZdgl?No=0&Nrpp=20&siteId=%2F12556&intcmpid=BELOW_WK38_THURS_PANDORA

[lovedifferent2018]

CULT Palma: Marina Abramović: May 2017

LAST NIGHT, Palma's La Lonja was brought to life by the wailing screams of performance artist and icon, Marina Abramović, whose The Freeing Series opened at Galería Horrach Moyà. The weird and wonderful were wowed by three black and white video works titled: Freeing the Mind, Freeing the Body and Freeing the Voice. Preserved on a roll of film for over 30 years, Abramović howls in monochrome minimalism, for nigh on three hours, and jiggles naked for 5, to an African drum with her head bound sadistically, in black. All three politically-motivated performances from 1975 saw Abramović lose her mind, balance and voice. Outside the grandiose gallery, disputably the most illustrious in all of Palma, buzzed the island city's B.Y.T.s, a beguiling tangle of dappers, punks and flower children. Abramovich, clad in a monasterial black robe, was swathed in signature Gothic to complement her alabaster skin, which at seventy, shines as bright has her well-publicised stardom. The exhibition runs until 14th September 2017.

'Freeing the Mind'

'Freeing the Voice'

'Freeing the Body'

Galería Horrach Moyà Sadrassana Plaça de la Drassana 15 - 07012 Palma de Mallorca

http://www.horrachmoya.com/

[lovedifferent2018]

Made in Spain: Palma Shopping

If Passeig des Born is Palma de Mallorca's Rodeo Drive, then Carrer Unio is its younger, more rebellious sibling. Bimba y Lola, the self-proclaimed 'ironically irreverent' boutique, has recently received a store revamp, in which its stark white interior allow its typically colour-blocked SS17 collection to really pop off the rails. Vast citrus leather shoppers line the shelves under bright lights; muted tribal printed tunics and geometric dresses, from the #ThisIsMaasai SS17 campaign, dance on the racks, embodying a youthful sense of modernity, and a welcome relief from gingham saturation. The popular, and more affordable, accessories and jewellery - brash, clunky and gold - shine loudly and brilliantly in the glass cabinets; the multi-coloured printed scarves beg to be bought and tied coquettishly, immediately: the perfect accent to any classic look.

Across the street, Castañer, newly nestled in amongst the other glorious shoe shops, is famed for selling the ultimate in summer Riviera style footwear: the espadrille. Flat, wedged, platformed; embroidered, red, black or pom-pommed; peep-toe or covered; for men, women or even brides. The humble espadrille - once the practical footwear of peasant which dates back to the 14th century - is available in an array of styles. There is something about the way that an espadrille feels on the foot: raw, natural and secure. The flexible sole is made of esparto rope, whilst the upper is crafted from canvas or cotton. As fashion legend has it, the espadrille's wedged sole was first championed by Yves Saint Laurent, who discovered the Spanish espadrille maker at a trade fair in Paris in 1970s Paris. The wedged espadrille was born today and remains fashionable, whether on the streets of Monaco, Palma or New York.

The Espadrille: Past (on Grace Kelly in Key Largo)

The Espadrille: Present (on Alexa Chung)

Other Mallorquin High Street Hotspots: Uterqüe: Zara's cooler, more elegant and well-put-together older sister, similarly owned by Inditex, is housed in a space to rival its neighbours, Louis Vuitton and Rolex. Best for: leather, prints and its sales. All garments are made in Spain. Camper: The Mallorquin footwear brand, which originated in Inca towards the north of the island, has been brought straight up-to-date with its editorial SS17 campaign by creative director, Romain Kremer, and starring Lily McMenamy, covered in what looks like wallpaper paste.

http://www.bimbaylola.com/cms/?lang=en https://www.castaner.com/ https://www.uterque.com/es/ https://www.camper.com/es_ES

[lovedifferent2018]

Grey is the Word

Diane Keaton's joie de vivre on last night's Graham Norton show sealed rising suspicions that: a) you can be 71, tiddly, and fabulous; and b) grey hair is no longer the dreaded monster that looms in every ripening girls' future, the inevitable storm cloud or wrinkled elephant in the room. Fuelled by an innate self-assured confidence, and iced red wine, Keaton sparkled on a sofa of stellar Hollywood stars. Her shoulder-length silver bob corresponded with the mass of silver chains and crosses around her neck, black frames, and a simple black jumpsuit with a huge waist-cinching belt. Never has silver looked so magnetic, desirable or youthful. Luckily there were no magpies in the audience at the time of filming, otherwise Keaton might have been whisked away, like a piece of treasure. The colour grey has finally found its place on the modern day rainbow spectrum; it is now a covetable colour choice for the home - popular shades such as PANTONE's aptly named Cool Gray 10U and Garden Stone by Clark and Kensington are testament - and cars in the U.K., where grey is the third most popular car colour - to white and black respectively - with silver falling in value to a lowly number 6. Grey - considered a mere mousy mixture, in limbo between strong symbolic black and white, neither here nor there - has oft been associated with misery, doom and gloom: think atmospheric Lowry paintings and British skies, concrete, liturgical ash, Theresa May, battleships, industrialisation, and the business suit. In historical terms, the garments worn by medieval peasants' were grey, for the reason that the cheapest available material was undyed wool. In 19th century Paris, borrowing gris, the French term for grey (and, interestingly, drunk) as the root word, grisettes referred to low class prostitutes: inspiration for E.L. James' protagonist perhaps? There has been nothing aspirational about the non colour typically associated with poverty, boredom and old age. Synonyms for the word, 'grey', or 'gray', are haunted with negative connotations - ashen, dingy, drab, leaden and clouded. In literature, the only 'grey' that adds a touch of dazzle to an otherwise bleak landscape is Wilde's wildcard, Dorian. Stormy grey skies or approaching storms are often used by writers to reflect  a characters' inner turmoil or an unravelling of events and minds, melancholy or madness, through the literary device known as pathetic fallacy. Grey, in short, is a metaphor for all things pathetic, weak and ill. The colour grey burdens many of us on a daily basis. Women spend a small fortune on the frequent colouring of their hair, in order to disguise rogue white sprouters which grow sporadically and erratically. Expensive and time consuming, what is seen as an obligation for a women - in conjunction with hair removal and other regimented beauty regimes - is usually shunned by men who are unafraid of being left to mature and ripen, their skunk hair adding value, wisdom and distinguished charm. Instead of transforming into 'biddies' or 'cottonwool heads', men are generally thought to become more appealing, elusive and attractive hence the term, 'silver fox'. Men are allowed to showcase their silvery streaks whereas women are snubbed, like Kate Middleton who was named and shamed for daring to walk in public with a hint of ashen root. This open acceptance, or positive flaunting, of going back to one's roots is nothing new, but it is becoming more accepted. Peppery poster girls include: Linda Rodin, Vogue's Sarah Harris, Joan Didion and Sophie Fontanel. Instead of 'grey' we could attribute other adjectives with inviting and seductive sounds: slate, silvery, oyster, pearly, peppery, smoky; we can also equate the colour with grey matter, and thereby, all things intellectual. Isn't this the kind of clean honesty that all women, of any age, deserve?

Sarah Harris

Linda Rodin

  Diane Keaton

Winkie, Rodin's cherished poodle

[lovedifferent2018]

Monachopsis: The Subtle but Persistent Feeling of being Out of Place

CHAPTER ONE

“I come from nowhere.” Legend has it that Andy Warhol coolly rebuffed invasive questions about his personal past life with these four monosyllabic words. Educated and inspired by the ways of the Warhol (his biography devoured the interest of my 21 year old self, having picked it up in a vellichorous moment, at a dusty bookshop, in a wilting seaside town), I adopted this sentence in a bid to stop lame chat-ups in their tracks, whilst secretly hoping to cultivate a whiff of mystery, and mainly, to punctuate delving questions with a firm upheld hand stop sign. 

Why? Quite frankly, I hate the kind of small talk that society forces upon the human species; you get badgered into chatting, against your will, with someone you have no interest in speaking to, and this opening question frequently crops up, and you stand there, with narrowed eyes, feeling that it's none of their business. At unfortunate times like this, I wish I could throw my hair back and respond, with nonchalance, “I was born in St. Asaph Hospital, North Wales.” Bullseye: with a sniff of stale disinterest, my 'interviewer' would likely move on, in conversation, and in body, to twitter at their next unsuspecting victim, at whatever art opening, or bullshit small-talk convention it is.

Sure; sitting cross-legged, face to face, barefoot in the park, with someone I love, several glasses through our second half-full bottle of wine, I am more than happy to divulge my birthplace, and indeed, entire life history. Sometimes I will be plain willing to expose myself to anyone, and everyone, who will listen. More often that not, though, I'd rather just not talk about it. Not that there's anything to hide. I guess it's just my bullish pigheadedness, my bête noire. Like when someone strolls over on a beach to ask where your tattoo means: “Hey.... I was just sitting over there with my wife and we were wondering what your tat says..?”

“It means, 'fuck off,'” I say silently, rolling over on to my other side, with a synchronised roll of the eyes.

Would you class me as a misanthrope? I just don't like people sticking their disinterested noses where they're not wanted.

[lovedifferent2018]

The Clash

Batten down the hatches! If #StormDoris - the all-kicking and punching heavyweight currently battering the U.K. at 100 m.p.h. - were a person, she would be a Trunchbullian brutalist clad in fifty shades of grey with a penchant for whips. Perhaps the universe's way of punishing us for our sins? And stoic she stands, drab and dismal, with no sign of abating. Penned inside, protected under fuzzy blankets and a monochrome Lowry sky, howling gusts seek frantic refuge down the chimney breast, reduced to strangled screams; the heart and mind hope for a flash, a glimpse of sunlight. Bright pops of colour burst out of an upmarket travel magazine cover - exotic, standout, enticing. It is like stepping out of sepia-toned Kansas City into a Technicolour Oz, sporting glittering red slippers. Oh, the colours, the colours! Cartagena's lush greenery mingles seductively in the heat with blues crumbling into fresh aquas veiled in a dappled light, ripe and fruitful; a rainbow of pollen yellows and saffron reds, where ornate silken saris are framed by fragrant garland in Jaipur. Tornado. Tempest. Tyrant. Most evocative are the pinks: berry, watermelon, sober salmons and hot fuschias projected through pastel sunsets, chalky walls and exotic flowers of paradise. "A rose is pink" wrote Christina Rosseti; Steven Tyler warbled that, "it's like red but not quite." Flamingoes, panthers, bubblegum, juicy lips, Himalayan rock salt, Wes Anderson colour palettes, prawns, blisters, Percy Pigs, the soft velvety nose of a horse, naked flesh, Marie Rose sauce, a bleating newborn, neon strips, roses, Cadillacs, Skips, a little girl's puffy princess dress, raw meat... And now the prissy bubblegum flush normally reserved for the bedrooms of Barbie fans is being worn by grown ups, acceptably. Pretty in pink, Pandora Sykes toughens up her deliciously alliterative and contemporary Petar Petrov suit with grimy plimsolls in Why I Love a Pink Suit for Man Repeller; Natalie Portman revives Jackie Onassis' tragiconic pink Chanel suit and pillbox hat splattered with shocking, angry red. When juxtaposed against its descendant primary, pink assumes a toughness, its saccharine froufrou frill diluted. While pink suggests a fluffy candyfloss delicacy, red screams danger, violence, passion. Many moons ago, Princess Diana braved this jarring colour combination during a visit to Kuwait, when my infant self passed her some bright blooms, wilted by heat. Considered an unfashionable combination then, and now; but loved - with red and pink heart emojis - by those in the know. Powerful paradoxical colours that command attention in the eye of the storm. Hang on to these brights before you get sucked into the mucky greens and mustards of A/W. Have a nice Doris Day.

[lovedifferent2018]

Some Girls

HBO España's arrival was nothing short of a joyous miracle akin to the unveiling of the Holy Grail. Having struggled persistently through terribly grainy, jumpily-streamed episodes of Girls via dodgy websites, the time had come when I could happily lose a few (more) hours of my life re-watching every episode of every series without interruption. Sacrosanct. Lena Dunham's principal objective was to create a show that reflected real females living real lives and experiencing real problems. A friend recently commented that, upon her maiden voyage along the choppy seas with Lena Dunham, Jemima Kirke et al, she found the characters were exasperatingly unrealistic. The implication, I believe, was that the Girls girls were too lofty, hoity toity and blessed to be 'real' women, British women in particular. And that no Blighty-born babe would put up with their irritating whining and unashamed narcissism. Put simply, these Brooklyn millenials weren't keeping it real. Growing up on a range of 90s US TV shows - Friends and then Sex and the City - the female characters were generally presented as attractive, and thereby aspirational, but not without their flaws. Although Rachel Greene, quite unbelievably, lucked out as a buyer for Ralph Lauren, she paid her dues by waiting on tables and suffered enough trouble in love to be loveable and slightly believable. But was she a feminist, representing real women's issues? Though I fawn over her, Carrie Bradshaw - quite literally - spent her life obsessing over men; and when the obnoxious Big bailed on their wedding day, what did she do? Cried and mourned. And then got back together with him. Was she a feminist? Or a naïve romantic more suited to a Victorian novel?

In spite of all her criticism - some of which is unnecessarily savage - Lena Dunham has produced, and pulled off, a series which sheds light on the darker secret life of contemporary young women, presenting well-rounded, multi-faceted women and men. Conversely, Friends and Sex and the City, though hearttuggingly melancholy at times, were much more superficial in their examination of women's issues.

Sure, Rachel Greene became pregnant towards the end of show's life, but of course, she had the baby and abandoned a dream Parisian career prospect to consciously recouple with Ross to (probably) live happily ever after. By contrast, Jessa's abortion was dealt with in the first few episodes of Series 1 of Girls: late for her appointment, the dreamy mermaid-haired nonchalant ends up a bar drowning her sorrows in creamy White Russians pre-procedure, ends up meeting and cavorting with a guy before realising that she isn't pregnant after all. Hannah's uncomfortable battle with OCD must have been a relief for those suffering with the same symptoms: a relief that this common condition is being culturally represented, warts and all. Marnie's ex-boyfriend Charlie went from tech hero to junkie zero and in Series Five's wonderfully filmic episode entitled "Panic in Central Park", she discovered needles in his jeans. Apparently Dunham based this latter narrative on the personal story of a friend who had recently passed away for that very reason. I can't imagine the writers of Sex and the City or Friends tackling such a harrowing reality, for fear of alienating their escapist, blinkered audiences.

Surely I speak for many when I say that I can't wait to see where Hannah, Jessa, Shoshanna, Marnie, Adam, Ray, Laird and Elijah are at in Girls' finale. At a tumultuous time which is facilitating a new wave in the global women's movement, Dunham's writing remains brave, thought provoking and, for me, wholly real.

[lovedifferent2018]

Stationary Travel

I'm supposed to be writing a travel article for a competition I spotted on Instagram. You know the kind: write 1675 characters and win a "scholarship" with some guy that has had couple of pieces published for the New York Times and an all-expenses paid trip to the Balkans. It sounds inspiring. And a good reason to pull myself away from You Tube videos and back into flexing my flabby writing muscles. The obvious destination choice is, of course, Palma, the Spanish island that I currently call home. Cast away in the Med, it is quite sadly saturated with snap happy Air Bnb-dwelling tourists for over half of the year but on the upside, home to a stunning streak of beaches and World Heritage worshipped mountains. When considering my article's audience and tone, it is important to consider the diverse demographic who visit Mallorca each year: firstly, the package tourist, who - with or without Scouse brows - arrive on low cost airlines raring to go, fuelled either by alcohol or pure desperation to set sight on the cabbalistic orange globe in the sky; secondly, the more cultural visitor, who might actually have a stroll around the cobbled and crooked Casco Antiguo, the Old Town, in their comfortable shoes, and admire its historic offerings rather than just bypassing the capital's essence for Brit Abroad Destination of Choice, Magaluf; thirdly, the yachtie luvvie, who will have packed his (or her) nautical stripes, chinos and deckshoes in conjunction with some stylish sunglasses to prop up their wind-beaten, slightly crispy tanned nose. If the island were a person, he or she would have an undoubtedly schizophrenic personality. When considering the facets of Mallorca's character, one of the most immediate traits is its sleepiness, its association with Bohemia and home to Bob Geldof. An hour or so drive north from Palma to the north coast is magical and magnetic, Deia is a traditional sandstone village nestled deep in the Tramuntana mountains. By day, sample fresh fish under the sun before submerging your senses in the crystal-clear ocean. By night, dance barefoot under the stars with bohemian beatniks and Bright Young Things from the worlds of art, music, and fashion.  Sixty minutes east of the capital is Es Trenc: a two-kilometer stretch of white, sandy beach frames the tropical, turquoise shore where hippies and naturists recharge and relax under the beating sun.   Conversely, Arelluf is the imagined teenage offspring of Arenal, the German tourist haven, and Magaluf, the hard-core haunt of young Britannia. Under the cover of darkness, hot young millenials mingle in pumping clubs under bright neon lights, seeking hedonistic thrills and adventures. So, now more procrastination... as I debate my angle and most successful pitch... or would Morocco be more exotic?

[lovedifferent2018]

Whatever Happened to Wonderland?

'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland' opens with naïve young Alice chasing a tardy, waistcoat-wearing White Rabbit down a rabbit hole: "Down, down, down. Would the fall ever come to an end?" What she eventually stumbles upon is a land in which nothing and no one make sense: keys are too small for the large locks of the many doors with which she is faced; neurosis-riddled nonsense spouting animals are lurking around every rounded corner; bottles adorned with "DRINK ME" labels lure the little girl to guzzle its contents and as a result shrink her in size; currant cakes have quite the opposite effect, causing Alice to ponder the immense distance of her feet from her face, and how on earth she will send them a new pair of boots every Christmas? The plethora of puzzles and riddles flood poor Alice so much that she almost drowns in a river of her own salty tears, before swimming upon a Mouse whom she inadvertently offends with her mention of her own pet cat, Dinah. Then come the Dodo, Duck and Eaglet.... but that's another tale (or tail?) completely. Alice's quest through this nonsensical world in which the sublime morphs into the ridiculous, but where the illogical never reverts to the logical, could quite easily be a metaphor for our ludicrous "modern" times. Overwhelming and ubiquitous absurdities fill our lives, our media, and our conversations; lunacy, contradictory messages and paradoxical ideas dominate what should be our main sources of solid fact and information. We are being told to separate rather than unite; come apart rather than together; pick fights as opposed to peace; our representatives are not representing us, they are endangering not protecting. Instead of uniting in a bid for utopia, which surely everyone would love to inhabit, we are faced instead with a dire, endless fall into the depths of a dystopian hell. Extinct ideas are returning to haunt us; who wouldn't prefer the resurgence of a feathery friend like the Dodo? Puzzling question after puzzling question block our every exit and entrance; our cries for help fall upon ears as deaf as the big blue Caterpillar's, who is psychedelically smoking a hookah on top of a mushroom - a hint at a more peaceful existence..? Or is this the beginning of the end? Perchance we are all going to wind up as insane as the grinning Cheshire Cat, as wearily inspid as the dopey, dozy Dormouse that the colluding March Hare and Mad Hatter try to stuff into a teapot; or as dead as a dodo.

[lovedifferent2018]

Make It New

As January digs her begrudging, razor-sharp heels into the hard, stony ground volleying a rather rotund December to the wayside, so real life resumes. With it comes the stark realisation that it hath been a full moon's cycle since any interwebwriting has come to fruition and glancing back over previous posts, one realises that oh, how the tides have turned. It has come to my attention that every time a new blog post is born - or starts to twinkle in one's eye - previous posts suddenly appear dull and redundant, like crumpled Christmas wrapping paper. In line with the circadian cycle, my tastes and obsessions change at least as often as the moon's shape. Like 2016, my former loves have been kicked to the kerbside, accommodating the new new and the brilliant - I am a fickle sort. Evolution is an apt symbol as this year shrugs and stretches to life. Positive political and social reform there may not be - as yet - but an adjustment to the way in which we all live - caused by the deceptively harmless  but inherently evil portmanteau and monosyllable duo Brexit & Trump - is inevitable in the next few months. Like it or not, transformation is key to us all and its embrace has been achieved in various degrees of success - or not, read: Madonna Case Study - in our path for progress and satisfaction. In the mercurial world of fashun, a shift has been ushered in by houses such as Gucci and Gosha Rubinsky, though whether or not they are here to "Make it New" is a question in itself. Overjoyed am I that the era of  Celine's minimalism is over. Fashion's throne has been rightfully regained by the Maximalist, whose aim, rather than Making It New, it appears, is to Take the Old and Make it New. Michele is breathing life and colour  into a dying house by creating garments that are fun, free and a busy stand against the grey modern world's miseries. Having always doubted Chanel's less-is-more mantra - "Before you walk out the door, look in the mirror and take one thing off" - (normally when standing frowning in front of a mirror) it is encouraging that Gucci's raven-haired, silver-ringed spiritual shaman at the helm, like a smiley and more likeable John Wilmot, is championing a clashing, jarring and melding of bygone eras to create a whole new template and aesthetic. You don't have to buy ostentatious Gucci to be a Gucci girl, simply mix up pieces that you already have - that old psychedelic shirt with that old silk scarf and sunglasses and accessories and bag and... Paint and pimp pre-existing jackets with flowers and studs. Do like Vetements and sew together various vintage assortments. Like Hedi Slimane borrowed from the Grunge Girl, Michele is placing the old English Eccentric Granny on the catwalk and on everyone's lips. Each girl is different; she represents a character, an individual (unless you're on the FROW wearing top-to-toe). Vintage and market scouring and schizophrenic dressing is, finally, de rigeur. Don't take a piece off - blah, bla, blah - pile it on and create your own aesthetic: bright colours, prints, checks, polka dots, monochrome, silk, velvet, turban, jewels, sportswear, leopard, leather, denim, oh my! - whack it all on; like you just don't care. Be brave, be bold, be resolute;  be a butterfly. Gosha Rubinsky has taken a similarly stance with regards to forward-facing nostalgia but with a strikingly different aesthetic: an austere, reinterpretation of the 90s sports look (collaborating with hasbeens Kappa, Fila et al) which when sported by pale, lithe Russian boys takes on a new meaning. Anyone can try it. So when I pull on my new Adidas leggings with a pair of black ruched pointed 90s boots, faux-fur trimmed coat and humungous sunglasses  in a bid to protect my bones from the bitterly biting winter cold, I can shun what my boyfriend calls my "hungover celebrity style", and rename my cobbled together "look" my metamorphosis: the Gosha/ Gucci Girl. Favourite original, fearless pre-Gucci Gucci Girls: Pandora Sykes Anna Piaggi Anita Pallenberg Margot Tenenbaum Bay Garnett Camille Rowe Sharmadean Reid

Pandora Sykes

Anna Piaggi

[lovedifferent2018]

DECEMBER DING DONGS

I am filled with glee - and Jamie Oliver's Good ol' Chilli con Carne, sin carne - because in Spain this week we have not one, but TWO fiestas (days off, holidays, jollies). Yesterday was a dia libre and in typical Spanish fashion, we have another: mañana. As a consequence, work and life in general is upbeat, cheery and bloomin' wonderful - ho ho ho.

December DING DONGS 1. Embracing my inner teenage girl ("HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME/ HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME") and watching Vlogmas every single day. My favourites are: Lizzy Hadfield's:

Sunbeam Jess':

Mindless viewing at its best, but strangely engaging and addictive. It's like The Truman Show. Though I am new to the Vlogging Game, and there are several You Tube channels that I dip in and out of - a bit chilly at this time of year - out of morbid curiosity more than anything. Usually I find though, that the unattainable pristine perfection of some of said vloggers' lives gets right on my wick; though I am still weirdly drawn to the inane - takes one to know one... Example: Tanya Burr (perfect house, perfect dog, perfect lips). The other two girls keep it real a little more (although they drive an Audi and Mercedes respectively and receive familial gifts like vintage Chanel backpacks, so undoubtedly unrelatably relatable).  

2. The thought of having Time-to-Myself, to do What-I-Want is an abstract and alien concept now and a wonderful warming thought

Gym, Run, Write, Read, Family, Dog, Home, English, Easy, Later Mornings, Smile, Breathe, Yoga, Christmas, Roast Dinners, Christmas Films and Telly, Ahhhhhhhhh.

3. Three Weeks' Holiday: Berlin & Wales are on the snowy, frosty horizon

Poles apart in so many ways, I am incredibly excited about my mini-jaunt to visit my mate Mel in Berlin and then on - via Manchester - to the mothership: North Wales, where it will inevitably rain cats and dogs by day and night; nevertheless there will be so much warmth at home, that I will barely even notice (hopefully).

4. Hygge in the Mediterranean

I have been put off buying winter candles - alas, dear clove, cinnamon and gingerbread, adieu - after being frightened by the scaremongering articles in the press. Plain ol' candles it is then, with a smattering of red/ white LED lights to create cosy warmth in an uninsulated, high ceilinged apartment. This fuscia and red blanket adds further clash of Christmas cheer.

Zara - reduced to 9,99e, yes: just NINE NINETY-NINE!

5. Skin Slathering Saviours Sun reigns by day out here, but early morning motorbike rides to work at 7.25am (woe) demand some serious T.L.C. for the face (and some seriously comedy outfits). New favourite - God bless Kiehls testers - is the Daily Reviving Concentrate ("A revitalising Blend of Ginger Root, Sunflower and Tamanu Oils") and it does what it says on the bottle. Oils are my new favourite thing, having also discovered the Midnight Recovery Botanical Cleansing Oil - essential essential oils. Dreamy.

http://www.kiehls.es/productos-faciales/serums/daily-reviving-concentrate

http://www.kiehls.es/productos-faciales/limpiadoras/midnight-recovery-botanical-cleansing-oil

6. Christmas Windows in Palma:

Perdone, Puffins...

:

Puffins Hard at Work at Louis Vuitton

Paseo del Borne, 19 / Passeig del Born, 19 07012 Palma de Mallorca

Natural Nativity at Rialto Living        

C. Sant FELIU 3 07012 Palma de Mallorca

http://rialtoliving.com/en/

DREARY DECEMBER DRAGS: 1. Kat Von D's Tattoo Lipstick and Eyeliner Black Friday brought out the devil in me in Sephora. In hindsight, I wish I had remained angelic and stayed away from there - and the free cava in Le Corte Ingles - because there is NOTHING long-lasting about either lipstick or eyeliner. Eyeliner is non-existent after a 9 hour day and lipstick smears in a very unbecoming manner. More drag than dreamboat. 2. At this time of year I lament the loss of London (and its cherished inhabitants) from my life. In its honour, I bring you a snippet from the dreary but lovely Waste Land by Eliot. Reading this then makes me feel better about not being in London and thankful that I live here.

Unreal City,

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

Unreal City,

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/the_waste_land_722 Toodles.

[lovedifferent2018]

Christmas Time | Let's Get (Over)Loaded

With cold, crisp Christmas fast approaching, the dreaded time came for me to face the impossible. Begrudgingly, I heaved my sacks of winter wear down from our 'trastero', replacing the temporarily relieved void with a small truckload of flimsy sunshine garb. As a consequence, my poor wardrobe is packed full and fit to burst: gasping, puffing and straining under the weight of glitzy trousers and shiny skirts; spewing psychedelic pointy collared pop shirts; choking on chunky comfort cardigans, velvet floral jumpsuits, faux fur-trimmed bits and bobs, metallic this and that, and - you get the picture. Winter's coming and my wardrobe's getting fat. Admittedly, my closet is a bit top-heavy at best in summer - Dear Father Christmas, Please could you install me a ... - and so, with the oncome of chilly air and the human body's need for cover, my humble chiffonier stands absolutely no chance. Not with the plethora of chunky knits and oversized cardigans, husky knitted and mohair tops poking out of every nook and cranny; its already portly silhouette crying out for a pair of Spanx, to cover its lumps and bumps, like an overstuffed turkey. Sure enough, if I were in a quick-fire question round or given the choice, I would totally plump for summer as a favourite season over winter; however, there is such a snuggly comfort in winter dressing that can not be unloved or ignored. Plus, it seems that, even in such a low-key understated fashion situ as Palma, a metallic can work quite surprisingly well as a basic, without getting too many funny looks on the street ("Que iluminante!"). In her recent blogpost, Pandora Sykes noted comparable conclusions in 'The Preppy to my Zshush' - so that's how to spell 'zhush' - in which she pairs proper shiny gold trousers with a bookish houndstooth jacket, thus achieving a rather spellbinding 'neutral' effect. Likewise, my current most worn 'basics' (bitch) are a pair of silver boots (Zara) and a pair of gold X tailored pantaloons (Malene Birger) - perfect for day n' night. The next newly acquired and newly treasured item in my overburdened dresser is a long sleeved vintage teal dress, complete with exaggerated black Peter Pan collar, black buttons and a small black belted waist - cartoonish, slightly Santa's helper with a twist and a hark back to Japanese school uniforms - kawaii. The Christmas Dress - the new Christmas Jumper - courtesy of the concept store, Lupita, that resides beneath my humble abode in Palma's lovely, crumbly Old Town. And, the holly sprig dusted with icing sugar on top of the Christmas cake? My new piercing in my left ear: three in a row - lucky for some - embracing my inner punk in a compliant world full of rules. Merry F***ing Christmas, you filthy animals.

C/Cordería 28 Bajos Palma de Mallorca

'Inside the Wardrobe' - stylist extraordinaire Bay Garnett delves into the considerably more sophisticated, luxurious and better-equipped wardrobe of Yasmin Sewell.

[lovedifferent2018]

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

It's that time of year again when I start getting frantic messages from my mum begging for Christmas gift ideas. Every year, I reply: "Nothing, thanks; being at home with you all is all I want for Christmas", before hastily racking my brain for something that I really want, or something that I really need: my age appears to be inversely proportional to my dream present wish list. Through rose-tinted fog I recall the joys of Christmases as a kid, writing letters to Santa asking for a bike or a CD player or a horse. And always being happily surprised; the wondrous world of gift possibilities seemed endless as a whippersnapper. Now my imaginative capacity for present ideas has been stunted, which is odd for someone with a shopping habit. It's as if my brain has dried up with the autumn leaves. Books, clothes and M&S vouchers. That's all I can muster. By contrast, my younger brother - the king of bespoke and genuinely amazing present buying - appears to have an extensive list of Christmas wants. Is it because I no longer live in London that I no longer have the compulsive urge to buy, buy, buy/ have, have, have? Or is it because the shops in Palma are terrible in comparison to the UK's vast offering? Or is it simply because I genuinely love going home to Wales for Christmas, and that's really all I want? In my family, the close of the Christmas period is symbolised by the writing of the Thank You card. All of my female maternal relatives, especially Mum and my Nana, have been huge fans of the written note: handwritten letters, postcards, birthday cards, love letters, Valentine cards, Easter cards, Christmas cards, thank you cards. Lovely to receive and enjoyable to write (unless you are 9 years old and you have to write dozens of handwritten letters  to dozens of generous relatives). It is a family tradition that I hope continues in other families around the world for ever and ever. Realistically and rather sadly though, this spontaneous desire to sit down, with a pen in hand, in front of a pack of beautifully decorated stationery, to scribe a heartfelt message, has become as sour-tasting to some as a stamp: highly unlikely and entirely unmodern. In an age of emails, where most of my loved ones reach me via Facebook, Instagram and Whatsapp, why would anyone choose to take the time to sit down and write a letter? Along with an army of scribblers, I am prepared to wage a war in favour of written communication. My better half considers my compulsive card-sending is insane; quite evidently sending tangible messages is not as firmly engrained into Spanish culture as it is tattooed on my British sensibility.  I must be the local tabac's most frequent stamp purchaser: popping in almost weekly to buy a little square sticker bearing King Felipe's face, to commemorate my nearest and dearest's birthdays and the births of their offspring. Nevertheless, I am jousting with my pen from an island in the middle of the Mediterranean - postcard heaven! - vying to resuscitate letter writing, by instilling it into my students, who have never ever written a letter, nor will they ever sit down and write one outside of the classroom. Quite ironically the exam paper now asks for emails, not letters and thus the humble letter has even died a death in exams of our younger generations. Adios, memo. Never mind written expressions of gratitude, but the simple 'thank you' also appears to have dwindled into extinction in recent years. You might give a gift or do someone a substantial favour and be awarded with.......................................................... tumbleweed, nada. Is it just the British who expect a return of thanks? Or am I being oversensitive? In any case, irrespective of whatever wonderful gifts that I will give and receive this Christmas, I will be going out of my way to be indelibly grateful.

[lovedifferent2018]

NOVEMBER: What is 'Aving It & Not 'Aving It

In honour of my Scorpion friend Melody's birthday month, I have dedicated this post to: "'Aving It and Not 'Avin It". Translation: What's Hot and What's Not. The title phrase is inspired by the Chav Idiolect, which we often seek to recreate in an ironic way, whilst all-the-while resembling Chavs in a non-ironic way. Being the total oxymorons that we are. 'Aving It 1. Pink Hats Having recently lost a cherished claret beret at the weekend, I anxiously rushed out to repurchase and lo-and-bloody-behold found a new and improved PINK version.  Some things just happen for a reason. 2. Red Wine Essential, vital and compulsory now that Winter has so rudely and abruptly arrived. 3. SLEEPING (!) during a Full Moon. Everyone, their irritating Facebook post and its dog has been howling on about the SUPERMOON, oh the SUPERMOON, that didn't light up our skies due to rather rude and mistimed cloud cover yesterday evening. Surprisingly though, for this highly lunar sensitive couple, sleeping through the night during the SUPERMOON does not seem to be an issue. Crater go. 4. Tights with Heels CANNOT WAIT to embrace both Nora Battys and strappy shoes in bid to resemble bonkers yet comfortable bin lady who has just found a pair of shoes in a skip. 5. Riley Keough Binge-watching The Girlfriend Experience drew some gasps, but also inspired newfound fascination with Elvis' grand-offspring who not only has incredible bone structure, but an equally enchanting onscreen presence. The new Kristen Stewart.

[lovedifferent2018]

Halloween Homages, Hankerings and Horrors

HOMAGES:

An Ode to October Sun;

Autumn brings (relatively) fewer tourists dilly-dallying around Palma's Old Town, less chance of your bus home being overstuffed with pink people in sandals and shorts and more sand space at the weekend. By the end of summer, the blue skies reign victorious over the twinkling sea, rejoicing at moments of peace. Plus you can still swim and get a tan at the weekend. Long may this last. According to reports, the population of Mallorca is due to grow by 30% in the next 15 years, which means 25 people per metre of beach here on the island. Saturation at its worst.

To 'In Bed with Madonna';

The 1990 documentary film of her Blond Ambition tour (executive produced, polished and manipulated by the queen, herself) which I revisited on Monday this week. Madonna's fascinating beauty, disarming charm and kick-ass wit shine; and proved a brilliant mundane Monday pick-me-up. Her fabulously bitchy dancers also deserve a re-watch/ mention. The cruel and taunting press love to flog and flaunt Madonna's current supposed 'fall-from-grace'; however, this film this celebrates the dancer, singer and artist at her greatest, coolest and most subversive. Seriously, one of the greatest female icons, ever (even usurping Kate Moss).

Early memories of Madonna madness include dancing and lip-syncing to 'Holiday' with two similarly enthusiastic tweens at a morning school assembly in front of my Welsh primary school at the age of around 9. The moral lesson we wished to convey through our performance, I have no idea.

Next flashback I have is to a flat in Gijon, in the north of Spain. I am listening intently to my yellow Sony Walkman, Madonna's 'Immaculate' Collection blaring in my ears, furiously transcribing her lyrics, most of which were probably wrong, and hilariously incorrect. In my naivety, I probably didn't understand what most of the words or phrases were insinuating. Ironically, in fact, I remember grimacing at the 'adult stores' closeby the flat in which we were staying, whereas they were probably cleaner than some of the lyrics that I was listening to.

Recently, a friend walked down the aisle to 'Vogue' - Madonna lives on.

To a short film which was screened here in Palmavat Fran Reus Gallery last Friday: 'No es Homosexual Simplemente el Homofilo sino el Cegadopor el Falo Perdido';

From what I could glean with my terrible Spanish, this short film is a modern interpretation of an unpublished script written by the poet, Alberto Cardín, in 1976. The film champions an awareness and acceptance of homosexuality with some beautiful imagery, showing a relationship between a handsome black man and his raven-haired lover. Interesting, shocking and explicit. Like Madonna.

https://vimeo.com/173867279

http://www.galeriafranreus.net/

HANKERINGS:

Kenzo X H&M;

Although I can't get away with skipping school anymore, at home-time on Thursday I will be heading straight to H&M to see if any of the shouty bright designs are left on the shelves. Supported by a campaign shot by Jean-Paul Goude, I'm hoping that the acid-folk-psychedelic printed delights will be shunned by the more conservative yacht crowds of Palma.

Favourite Men's pieces:

H.E.A.R.T.

Most Hankered After Women's:

So many lovely bows to their Japanese roots - well done Carol and Humberto!

HORRORS:

Halloween hysteria - Nowadays, I prefer the dignity and meaning behind Dia de los Santos... which also happens to be my beloved parents' wedding anniversary (36 years!). A reminder to appreciate and be grateful for the true wonders in life.

Facewipes - don't do it!

The clock change here in Spain: no more after-work beach visits.

Off to persuade the boyfriend to watch "The Shining" - the clock change is playing havoc with our partying impetus.

Happy Halloween!

[lovedifferent2018]

Pass Me The Zappa

Frank Zappa and I share the same view: neither of us want(ed) to work. There is so much more in life to accomplish. For Zappa, composing began because he loved to draw music: he loved the way that the notes danced upon the stave on the page (though he admits he didn't have "the faintest idea" how his doodles would sound). For me: I would appreciate having some time to think, some time to experiment, perhaps composing thoughts as opposed to music. This brings me back to last Friday evening, perched on a bar stool, having an animated conversation  with a grey ponytailed head in my hood who incidentally once hung with Bowie in Berlin in the 70s (apparently). He was asking -read: ranting - about what had happened to zee Avante-Garde?!Unfortunately, I didn't have an answer. I don't understand why I have a longing, such a sense of nostalgia for a time that I have never ever inhabited. In German, I believe that this sensation this pining, is termed: :"Fernweh" - a longing for a place that you have never visited. An eternal search for the Holy Grail. A Catch 22 that is never caught. "If you wanna tell someone to get fucked, that's the best way to tell 'em." Frank Zappa in Watch Eat That Question.