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As 2012 draws to a close and 2013 waits excitedly in the shadows, it's a good time to reflect.
Material Whirl was viewed about 1,800 times in 2012 - amazing! The very clever people at WordPress have put together a smashing report of what's been happening in the world of Material Whirl.
Click here to see the complete report.
Thank you to everyone that supported me in 2012. I look forward to seeing you in 2013.
Wishing you all a very happy and prosperous New Year.
x
A lonesome road trip across midwest America, painted yellow lines swallowed up by a speeding vintage Chevrolet. Polaroid pictures and sepia negatives faded pink by the sun.
Coachella and Lollapalooza. Sienna sunsets and indigo black nights. Amaranthine light.
Battered old pickup trucks leaving trails of desert dust in their wake. Pulling up to a busted old parking lot with tin cans and glass beer bottles scattered around '94 Chryslers. Dressed in indigo denim and arenaceous brown boots, striding up to a smoky bar with the muffled sound of raw blues rock coming from inside becoming clearer with each dusty step.
Filthy money and ten cent pistols with a large shot of dry whiskey. The clack-clack of billiard balls on a stretch of cobalt green baize. Ex-girls and next girls. An intimate crowd in dreamy languor with nodding heads and hand claps.
Ostentatious slit drapes and glitter slash curtains, spotlights that illuminate musicians in the dark. Augmenting the pulsating thump of drum with velvet tones and sweet melodies. Raw, intense guitar riffs.
This is what I see when I hear this band's music.
The name of this band is The Black Keys.
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6k8es2BNloE]
I am a thirty-something London girl. Fashion lover / blogger / music maniac. CPFC South Londoner residing in E17, London. Music is in my blood and so I am very proud to write gig reviews for the prestigious Jazz FM.
Samuel Johnson once said that when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford. I agree with Sam - London through my eyes is extraordinary and so I document all the exciting things it has to offer.
What is Material Whirl?
My blog started as a A Collection of Thoughts in 2010 and evolved into Material Whirl in November 2012. It was intended to be only a fashion blog, but instead became the platform where I could capture my adventures in life and the thoughts, ideas, memories and inspiring images that constantly swirl around in my head.
Material Whirl is where I share my love of fashion, photography and art and where I channel my passion for music and literature. I am a loyal London lover but also an intrepid traveller and so my blog is also my travel diary.
What do I promise?
As a blogger, I am fortunate from time to time to receive gifts and products to review. I promise that I will only feature stuff that I really, truthfully like and that fits with my interests and beliefs.
We are living in a Material Whirl - so essentially this blog documents life and all it has to offer.
Thank you for sharing it with me.
For all enquiries - nicolagreenbrook@hotmail.com Follow me on - Facebook - Twitter - Instagram
"The only real elegance is in the mind; If you've got that, the rest really comes from it"
"Very often there's a kind of nostalgia built into a photograph by virtue of you taking it. You've taken the photograph and its immediately a thing of the past the moment you press the shutter".
I think that everyone needs to be told a visual story by Tim Walker through the medium of his photography. Even if you choose to detach yourself from fashion and remain unconcerned by who designed what, or when, it does not matter. Walker's work transcends fashion and design and takes you to a world that you could not in your wildest dreams have imagined.
Tim Walker is a London-based British photographer and moving film maker whose extravagant and romantic photographic stills have entranced his followers for many years.
Born in England in 1970, Walker worked as a freelance photographic assistant in London before he moved to New York City, working as a full-time assistant to Richard Avedon. On returning to England his initial focus was portrait and documentary work for UK newspapers and at the age of twenty-five he shot his first fashion story for Vogue.
I recently went to visit the Tim Walker: Story Teller exhibition at Somerset House and was treated to a visual delight for the senses. The major mid-career retrospective is sponsored by Mulberry and marks the launch of his second book, 'Story Teller'.
The exhibition is flanked by wooden floors and stark antique white walls that encourage the magnificent colours to pop out of the photographs. The fireplaces and radiators are also painted white and there are gigantic snails on the wall and lifelike clockwork dolls that make you feel as if you were trapped in his exuberant imagination. Wooden boxes frame photos of various sizes and there are huge red and yellow jelly cases displayed like hats on a hat stand. This is the best grown up's tea party you have ever been invited to.
Come with me on an adventure into some of Tim Walker's beautiful work.
Walker has re-imagined fashion photography in terms of its own rich history and Britain's cultural past. In the exhibition a life-size spitfire in blue and black and white whistles through the interior of the bare white room as if it has just fallen from the sky in front of you. These photographs portray a vivid reinterpretation of Neo-Romantic cinema: the doomed pilot of A Matter of Life and Death (1946).
Walker's photographs are often rooted in childhood and tinged with a very British nostalgia. He is accomplished at telling stories conjured directly from a very youthful imagination.
Princesses take wing in lilac clouds. The swan, symbol of grace, purity and love syncs its sad song at twilight.
To its earliest audience the most magical aspect of photography was that it opened windows onto the world: it provided images of distant landscapes, undiscovered people and exotic flora that had then been as remote as the stars. It remains absorbing and a platform from where adventures come alive.
"Everything is contrived; nothing is real. You try to make your own real moments. And then you go home and make sense of it".
'What I'm photographing is an imaginary place that never existed but is often connected to something that has already been."
A sense of loss underpins Walker's work and the impermanence of youth and beauty. It is difficult to look at his work without feeling a wistfulness of what will disappear. None more so than his portrait of Anna Piaggi who died at the age of eighty-one in August 2012 and who is already missed by the fashion world.
'Really I only photograph what I truly love. By this I mean I only get involved with and place in front of my camera what moves me uncontrollably deeply.'
Walker is the master of creating fictive worlds and a parallel world where he sees the world through a child's eyes - in evocative fashion fantasy. This is not a real life though, but a second dimension, where the beautiful and monstrous come alive. He reminds us that it is perfectly acceptable to dream and look beyond what we know in our own time.
"And when everything comes together and you look through the viewfinder, there is a window to something magical. You see something you have never seen."
Walker creates pictures that should be impossible to construct and have an illusive aspect to them. They evoke an enormous feeling of wonder.
"I don't want to sound mystical but sometimes when you take a picture - when the sets are in place - then something takes over and leads you. It's this sense of extraordinary luck and chance. The shoot is blessed and charmed, and you make pictures that you couldn't in your wildest dreams have imagined. That is the magic of photography."
In Walker's photos nothing is as you might expect. When I look at his photographs, I feel like Alice in Wonderland and wonder if I fall down the rabbit hole, will I keep on tumbling forever? Magic is transient dissolving like shadows and dust in twilight.
Walker is able to draw out a narrative strand in his photographs, as well as showcase beautiful couture. He is also able to construct fictive worlds that are enchanting, sometimes impossible and always alluring.
'The way I work I have to have a mood in my head, a feeling for something, almost like a set of directions, a map of how to gt through the day".
In the end, Walker exults in fashion photography's pretends. The mystique and the charade, the luxuriant drape of cloth, the flowers and the decoration and the happiness of it all - the unmitigated joy of a works, even when it tries to be normal, just can't ever be ordinary.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops, this is the world of Tim Walker.
Tim Walker: Story Teller runs from 18 October - 27 January 2013 in the East Wing Galleries at London's grandiose Somerset House and is a visual delight for the senses.
Well, can you believe it? It is the twenty-first anniversary of the release of Blur's debut album, Leisure.
Blur, in case you did not know, are an English alternative rock band comprising of Damon Albarn, Graham Coxon, Alex James, and Dave Rowntree. They burst onto the scene in 1989, christened Seymour, but as the Blur we all know and love, have remained at the top of their game ever since. To mark twenty-one years of Blur, Blur 21: The Box was released in July on Parlophone featuring the band’s fine body of work compiled and gathered together. In addition, Blur 21: The Exhibition documents their career as one of the most influential and successful bands of the past two decades.
These commemorations roused two different emotions within me. First, utter joy. What a band! How do I buy it / when can I go? Followed abruptly by heel-skidding shock. Whaaat? Twenty-one years you say? How did that happen? When did I get so old?!
Unquestionably, Blur rocked the music world but they did more than just rock my world - they heavily influenced my formative years and provided a social and musical commentary that was the soundtrack of my 1990s.
I was thirteen when Leisure was released back in 1991 and can remember feeling spellbound on first hearing She's So High. Its haunting melody and strangely beautiful lyrics spoke to me in a way that I could not really understand at the time. I was intrigued, but not fully committed - this was the Grunge era after all and I was into a certain band from Seattle who had a tortured lead singer and a very nice drummer named Dave.
A mildly petulant and experimental teenager, I wore dreadful long, flowery skirts with all-the-way-down buttons, shapeless cardigans and heavy black boots. I sighed a lot and hang out at the local youth club, listening to Nirvana and trying to make sense of the world as my hormones raged on madly and I thought modern life was rubbish. I went to the obligatory teenage parties and tried hard to impress the boys I liked by head-banging to metal and grunge, resulting in the unfortunate predicament of only being able to move my head with the aid of a sharp burst of Deep Heat.
I listened to There's No Other Way and prayed for something interesting to happen. My Mum prayed I wouldn't get a nose ring.
My fifteen-year old self crawled out of bed, sat up and started to pay a little more attention. I liked the celebration of British heritage, the absorbing but cheeky lyrics and the attire that screamed posh-geezer. I was enamoured by Damon's face and had a penchant for Graham's glasses. Yet, it was the music that was transfixing me. It was melodic and lush, intertwined with punk rock, frazzled guitars and fast drums. I listened to Chemical World on repeat; that recurring guitar rift and Damon's hypnotic voice.
My eyes and ears loved Blur but the sounds of my streets spoke of something else – I had begun to go out to ‘night clubs’. Yet, I would stagger home and listen to For Tomorrow in my headphones until the early hours of the morning. It gave me what I needed; effervescence; a little sparkle.
Then Parklife was released and it was obvious that nothing would ever really be the same again.
Quite simply, Parklife contains two of my all time favourite songs. To The End is one of the most powerful love-songs ever written.
End of a Century is two minutes, forty-five seconds of pure genius. The opening lyrics She said there's ants in the carpet. Dirty little monsters. Eating all the morsels. Picking up the rubbish still gives me goose bumps.
Walking through London now with this song coming out of my headphones, something strange happens. The landscape around me starts to slowly slide away. It collapses and morphs and suddenly I am enveloped in the red, white and blue of 1990s Great Britain. I am eighteen again, in blue jeans paired with my trusty blue Adidas Gazelles. I am proudly sporting a white and blue knitted zip-up cardigan, in an attempt to emulate the casual sportswear look of my heroes. My old pink Fiesta is parked in the drive and I am studying for my A ‘Levels, working two jobs and bursting with boundless energy.
It feels like I am part of something revolutionary and very important, and although me and my fellow teens are drinking far too much and infatuated only with ourselves, it is all OK. We are part of the Cool Britannia movement and with its huge cultural significance that is enough for me. It is irresistible.
I did not see Blur live at Alexandra Palace in 1994 (although I did buy the now chunky looking Showtime VHS) but I did make it to the gig at Wembley Stadium with my sister Michelle and our friends. We worked our way right to the front to get a suitable view of Damon and the boys.
The crowd was rowdy and preparing to mosh, the noise was deafening. The heat, the power, the intensity was all-consuming - girls around us started to faint and others waved frantically at the security guards in need of a great escape. My younger sister Michelle said she was off and was helped over my head, followed by both of our friends in quick succession. For a while that left only me in that slamming, pulsating crowd. Soon, the heat became too much (I blame the cardigan) and so I dejectedly waved for help to the burly security man. Strangers' hands lifted me along the crowd to safety, but all I could do was stare transfixed at the stage.
Momentarily, it was perfectly silent. Just me floating up in the air, watching the instruments move and Damon's mouth opening and closing but no noise coming out. It was hypnotic. Suddenly the music was intensely loud again and I was thrust back into reality and directed to an empty seat in the stands. I was alone for the remainder of that gig but it remains one of the best I have ever seen.
Tonight sees Blur headlining a special concert to mark the Closing Ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics and if their headlining gig in Glastonbury in 2009 is anything to go by, it is bound to be a fitting farewell to the greatest Games the world has ever seen from arguably the greatest band the world has ever seen.
Blur are the perfect choice to play to the country's current state of beautifully frenzied patriotism. It is almost like being back in red, white and blue 1990s Britpop. It really, really has happened.
I would never claim to be the biggest fan; I was not there in the mud on that historic Sunday night at Glastonbury and although I desperately wish I could be there tonight, I will have to make do with listening to and watching the euphoria live instead.
Despite this, I will probably follow them until the end. (Jusqu'a la fin).
Whenever that may be.
Rejection - it is an appalling word isn't it. Defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as the dismissing or refusal of a proposal, idea, the proposal / idea being dismissed and refused in this sad case is me.
In my search to find a suitable new role I have sent off countless applications, networked tirelessly and Tweeted, Linked In'd and Facebooked ferociously. For my efforts, I have been rewarded with unanswered calls, broken promises, and worse still, the dreaded rejection email which can feel like a perfectly timed blow to the stomach rather than simply an addition to your inbox.
It is par for the course in our current economic climate and I am certain I am not alone, but sometimes even with the strongest will, rejection can leave you languishing in self-pity, moping around eating peanut butter out of the jar and resisting the urge to go back to bed with a back catalogue of Stylist magazine. It can also render you unable to cope with day-to-day situations that usually you would find hilarious.
Whilst standing at Liverpool Street station last week waiting to meet friends, I was approached by a man with a clipboard and a camera - I was alone and an easy target. I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously, assuming he was part of a flash mob or wanted to sell me a smart phone. 'Hello' he said in a smooth-as-silk voice. 'Have you heard of Dove?'
'Yes, thank you' I said dismissively as he handed me a white leaflet adorned with the familiar columbidae logo. 'We are casting non-models for our new skin care advertising campaign. Would you be interested?’ he said. I could have sworn he placed a heavy emphasis on the 'non-models' part of that sentence as I darted my eyes about looking for a hidden camera. 'Dove uses real women NOT MODELS in their campaigns' he said, stressing once again the non-model point. 'They also pay well'.
I am not ashamed to say that my ears pricked up at this point; after all I was unemployed and in search of any form of legal income to settle a rather large debt accumulated on the South Island of New Zealand a few months before. Rejection was hanging over my head like a black cloud so acting on impulse, I agreed. I try to live by the mantra that life throws all kinds of things at you and you had to try your hardest to catch.
Without delay, the man positioned his camera and took my photograph in one of London's busiest stations, a two-part portrait with a front-view (yuck) and side-view (double yuck), while I held a clipboard with my personal details scrawled across in it bold black marker pen. Effectively taking part in my own bizarre mug shot, with a nervous smile frozen across my face, people stared. I did not blame them.
On my way home that evening, and in a wine-induced haze, I reflected on my experience and wondered if maybe I had been a little aloof. The next day I contacted the casting agent who understood my trepidation and suggested that I emailed her some more photos, which I did. I waited patiently and genuinely did not expect to hear back from Dove anytime soon – things like this do not happen to me, especially with this mug (and that mug shot no doubt) and a lack of the necessary self-confidence that the campaign embodies. Yet, late one evening that week I had a text from an unknown number that read Sorry for the delay Nicola, it's a YES! I'll be in touch to confirm.
For the first time in weeks, I felt an enormous surge of energy. OK, so it is not an everyday occurrence to be cast in an advert for a popular skin care range and the thought of it actually made me shaky with fear (what did it involve exactly, would I have to be naked?!). However, it was an interesting opportunity, a paid one at that, and after weeks of rejection, a well-needed boost. I waited until the next day and with newfound courage, responded to the text saying it was great news and I looked forward to hearing more. I informed my husband excitedly, I rang my Mum who noted I sounded brighter for the first time in weeks, and even allowed myself a fleeting moment to dream about how I would spend some of my non-model earnings.
Leaving my iPhone unattended to grab a drink, I returned to a missed call and a voicemail. How prompt, I thought chirpily as I listened to the message. Hi Nicola, it's Shernhall Methodist Church. Just to confirm you're all booked in for the car-boot sale on Saturday morning. See you then.
Erm, not quite the message I was expecting. I came straight back to earth with a bump. It seemed my high street modelling career was over before it had even begun. Much to my chagrin it was not a casting confirmation for one of the world's biggest brands after all, but a courtesy call from Ken from our local church confirming the trestle table I had requested for the weekend's forthcoming car boot.
It was back to the drudgery of job applications and selling unwanted household items at an ungodly hour on a Sunday. My pride was wounded but I had no choice but to see the funny side – what else could I do? It was that or head weeping to the peanut butter jar. I am yet to hear from Dove, so not only have I been rejected for roles relating to my professional career, I have also been rejected as a non-model-model.
It is difficult to pick yourself up again after yet another brush-off but if anyone out there is also feeling the pain of rejection, please try to remember that it is temporary and it will pass. Rejection can happen to the best of them. When Arianna Huffington, founder of the Huffington Post, was in her twenties and trying to find a publisher for her second book she was rejected - twenty-five times. She is now president and editor-in-chief of the Huffington Post Media Group and author of no less than eleven books amongst other things. She said in a recent interview '...don't be afraid of failure... Nobody who's succeeded has not failed along the way' and I’m feeling inspired by her words of wisdom.
So with that in mind, I will carry on. Tomorrow, I'll wedge in another job application in my lunch break. I'll go for a coffee with a former colleague and I'll go All Out on LinkedIn.
Failing that, I've heard Go Compare is casting...
I am completely addicted to reading all kinds of literature. I am also rather partial to a bit of technology and depend on my range of i-Gadgets to survive the perils of modern life. However, I have not introduced two of my greatest passions to each other and they remain as two separate love affairs. In other words, I am yet to fall for the beguiling charms of the eBook reader.
Call me old-fashioned. Label me out of touch. Go on, hit with me with your best insult, I can take it. I remain defiant in my love of real-life books and I refuse to budge. You will not find a Kindle nestled in the depths of my handbag, or a Kobo peeking out of my clutch. I am utterly devoted to paper.
Admittedly, e-Readers provide some urgently needed extra room in fit-to-bursting handbags and can spare a few blushes on the tube when reading Fifty Shades of Grey. They are sleek, chic and store a magnitude of McEwan, heaps of Hemingway and acres of Allende. Yet, despite the benefits, I still prefer delicious words served on paper rather than on a screen and I am concerned that the beautiful book will soon become in danger of extinction.
Book-love, I just cannot get over it. Books feel comforting in your hand with their just-printed intoxicating scent and the crisp sound the pages make as you turn them is inimitable. They have beautiful, embossed covers that tempt you like new clothes on a rail, and create an orchestra of colour and height when lined up on a bookcase. Books are very personal; they can be adorned with a carefully crafted note to complete a gift, a simply scribbled date that automatically marks a place in history, or even by the style in which they are read. Are you a front page folder-over? Or does the mere sight of such destruction make you want to cry out in protest? Maybe you have a special bookmark, postcard, or old photograph that you use to keep your page and transport it from book to book, author to author? In comparison, all e-Readers look identical.
Then there are the bookshops themselves; whether polished stores selling the latest new releases, second-hand havens packed to the rafters with historic gems, or a fantastic combination of the two. In my opinion, nothing beats exploring the hidden treasures in a bookshop and finding rediscovered novels from centuries gone by, that new best seller that everyone is talking about or even better, stumbling across a book with a mysterious note on its inside cover. On my recent travels, I picked up a deliciously battered old copy of Stephen King's classic IT in Endeavour Books in Kaikoura, New Zealand. It is literally falling apart; the cracked spine hanging on to the contents for dear life and the pages yellowing at the edges from years of exposure to light. The note reads: 'Dear Shelvin. Thought you might appreciate this book to add to your horror collection. Good luck with your future plans. I await to hear the stories of your trips to Egypt. Enjoy Auckland. You have shown much personal growth this year. Remember - life doesn't put things in front of you that you are unable to handle. Go well, Ms Mallinder.'
I am haunted by that note and itching to know who the devil Ms Mallinder is, how Shelvin fared in Egypt and Auckland and if he continued to grow personally. (For those who have read the book, I am also haunted by that terrifying clown brought to life by King's extraordinary storytelling).
We all need a place to indulge our passion for paperbacks, somewhere peaceful and just that little bit special. So, to add some weight to my evidence in the case of Humble Book vs. Gargantuan e-Reader, I've handpicked some of the unique bookshops I love where you can while the hours away over a good book.
Named after Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas, this is a slice of heaven discreetly nestled on Hall Street, a few minutes walk from the beautiful but brash Bondi Beach. The owners were influenced by their backpacking years spent in Europe, and their dream of combining good books and good food has come to life in this charming bookstore crammed with fiction, non-fiction and collectibles. Comfy sofas, ladders leaning nonchalantly against the generously full bookshelves and plenty of browsing space provide solitude away from the surf-crowd. The stylish cafe serves modern, restaurant-quality food that will keep you here much longer than you expected. I visited here many times when I lived in Sydney and made a welcome return back in March this year. I stayed much, much longer than I planned...
Probably the world's most famous bookshop, I aptly fell in love with Shakespeare and Company when I visited la ville de l'amour a few years ago. An independent bookstore on the Left Bank that is as rich in history as it is in books, it serves as a regular bookstore, a reading library and a literary events space. It has a distinctive yellow front, with Shakespeare's head on the sign and books in wheelbarrows out front, from which I made my choice. The books are piled beautifully over two floors - the ground floor is open and crowded, with cool Parisians and tourists alike, and stacked with new titles. The upper floor is reserved for second-hand volumes and it was up here in la bouquinerie where I stopped for a moment to soak in my surroundings, breathe in some of the history and lay down to read within the serenity for quite a while. Magnifique.
Based over two gorgeous sites in Sydney, I have chosen the Surry Hills branch as my favourite although I frequented the Paddington branch just as much. It is in this haven of tranquility that you can ponder over an old favourite or get to know an antiquarian book while drinking delicious coffee or eating gourmet food. There is even cocktails and live music and sangria on Sunday afternoon, and why ever not? There are cafe-style tables to eat and read on downstairs, or a library-feel area on the upper floor where you can sink into a comfy chair or perch at a communal table and chat to some fellow literature lovers. Not simply a bookstore but a Surry Hills institution.
Escape the hustle and bustle of tourist-laden Covent Garden and transport yourself anywhere you desire in the world - care of this amazing travel bookshop. You cannot move in here for maps, travel books and accessories and it is a global adventure in itself just to browse the shelves. In additional to the essential Lonely Planet Guides, there are maps that plot every inch of the earth, photography and illustrated books that provide breathtaking images, and modern travel fiction that acts as your backpacking buddy. Grab a coffee from in the in-store Sacred Café and let your chosen item take you to a far-flung destination.
Time Out once described Skoob as 'a temple for secondhand books', and it is here that I pray to the God of reading. Housed on the Marchmont Street side of The Brunswick, Skoob is a 2000 square foot space crammed with over fifty-five thousand of London's broadest selection of titles including modern fiction, classics, academic books, art and photography and specialist collections. It is warm with bespoke lighting and knowledgeable staff who blend into the background rather than disturb the quietude. If you are also a seasoned shopper, check out the bookstall on a Saturday in The Brunswick itself - be warned, you could find yourself perusing for a while and so may need to fuel up at the surrounding Farmer's Market.
So, in my eyes there is no real contest between e-Reader and real-life book - the paper edition wins hands down. I hope you are intrigued enough to check out any of the above, or perhaps you have your own favourite place to browse and choose a hidden gem. You may find a special note of your own - something I bet you wouldn't encounter within an e-Reader case.
Sports luxe, florals, mirror-prints, printed pants, neon. Modern fashion can be exciting, bold and fierce as it fizzles and crackles off the pages of glossy magazines.
Yet, just like many things in this progressive world we inhabit, sometimes don't you just want to go back? There is no time like the past and demure, fifties-inspired fashion is having a fashion moment right now. This week's Grazia reports that 'from the red carpets of Cannes to the bars of Dalston, ankle dusters, high collars and long sleeves are everywhere'. Which is welcome news for a girl like me, a passionate admirer of retro-inspired clothing and accessories. Vintage has had quite the renaissance over the past few years with festivals and pop up fairs, not to mention an influx of vintage emporiums, and it is coveted the world over. Sometimes it can be hard to separate the Westwood from the Cassini; it would appear that everyone is jumping on the vintage bandwagon and taking advantage of our obsession with nostalgia.
So I was delighted to recently discover a sparkling treasure trove in the heart of the Suffolk countryside, in the pretty market town of Halesworth.
Bluebird Vintage is a clothing and accessories boutique specialising in vintage clothing for ladies and gentlemen. Perfectly housed in what was formerly The Hawk Inn pub, it truly is a feast for the eyes, generously full of vintage goodies from the 1920s through to the 1980s. Clothes, shoes, hats, jewellery, gloves and bags adorn every beautiful space like delicious treats in a sweet shop. It is very easy to walk in and lose yourself for hours but it is decidedly tricky to leave empty-handed.
On my visit to Bluebird Vintage I met Laura Churchill, the glamorous owner who smiled at me in welcome from behind a vintage desk. Laura allowed me to look around what was in effect an art gallery of clothes in my own time, uninterrupted, as I perused the delicacies from an era of elegance. These were sumptuous pieces that didn't shout loudly, but instead whispered flirtatiously to me like movie stars from days gone by. As I glanced around at the unique one-offs I honestly believed I was immune to the glamour, that I could easily walk away with, admittedly, an empty heart but a full purse and some space in my wardrobe. Silly, silly me.
I had seen it. Or maybe it saw me first? The dress hanging delicately on the rail. I tried to avert my eyes, but it was too late; I was snared in its twinkling trap. As my eyes brushed over the dress again from afar, I could see it was vanilla ice cream in colour with gold trim glistening in the light. I tried to resist, but it murmured at me 'take a closer look. Go on, what's the harm? Try me on!'.
I approached the rail to inspect it more closely. It was a sleeveless cocktail dress with a high collar trimmed in gold and a very demure hemline. The top half was covered in a delicate cover of sheer, flowered gold lace and under the waist, also trimmed with gold, cascaded a swath of cream chiffon. It was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. The label informed me in swirly letters that its creator was Marcel Fenez, designed by Roland Klein. It was a little piece of fashion history.
French-born Roland Klein, first worked at Christian Dior from 1960-1962. He then went on to work for the legendary Karl Lagerfeld as an assistant at Jean Patou. Klein moved to London to learn English in 1965, and he worked at Marcel Fenez, where the ready-to-wear line of Madame Carven was made. In 1973 he was made the director of the house, and was given his own label, going on to open his own design business in 1979 in Chelsea. In the 1980s, Roland set up in London and established his own label.
Klein's innovation had completely won me over. I guess you could say I was hypnotised as I tried the dress on in the quaint changing room at the back of the boutique. OK, admittedly it was a little snug across my back and restricted momentarily not only my movement but my breathing until I moulded into its shape. I knew I would be terrified to eat or drink anything that wasn't translucent whilst wearing it in fear of tainting that perfect cream colour, but it was so beautiful I knew I had to have it. This dress was simply too special to part from.
The Klein creation had its first outing in March this year, the night before my sister's wedding in Sydney, Australia and I felt proud to tell enquiring guests that it was Roland Klein vintage, from a stunning little boutique in England.
In today's world of over styling and mass production, vintage pieces are a timeless investment. They were beautifully hand-made to last. To buy vintage is to acquire an item with a story from days gone by and showcase a long-forgotten design. To wear it is magical.
If you are ever passing through Halesworth, which I highly recommend, do stroll along the Thoroughfare and step through the ornate door into Laura's beautiful vintage emporium. I promise that you will not be disappointed and you may just walk away with your own little piece of history. If you are the lucky one, I defy you not to smile as you float out of the door, happily lost in another time...
