Meadham Kirchoff AW11: Take a Cue from Kansas by Sophie Bew

London Fashion week typically conjures an unthinkable amount of stress, outrageously dressed ques, exhaustion and tiny food; not forgetting a lot of travel. But for the Meadham Kirchoff show today, I gladly walked and sat in excitement, awaiting the 30-minute-late start to the show. Anyhow, this presented a good opportunity to examine the morbidly kitsch riot shrines (pictured left), situated at each end of the catwalk. The mesh-fence mountains were littered with crosses, coloured candles and ambiguous scrawled messages “I am the lie that tells the truth”, whilst wilted tulips lay as mourning gifts for the front row guests.

The Casual Etymologist: Word of the Week

Engraving of a giraffe by Thomas Bewick
from a General History of Quadrupeds (1790)

When I was 18 I took a spur of the moment road trip to Paris with two school friends. We were all at different universities and were always looking for new ways to blow our student loans and upset our parents. When we drove off the ferry in Calais, there was an unspoken feeling of having done something either quite brilliant, or utterly thick-headed. I probably would have felt more  of the latter if I hadn't been so dazed with booze. Anyway, driving through the frozen Normandy countryside, we invented (I say invented, its probably been done a hundred times before, to the amusement of much younger, simpler minds than ours. Well, younger at least) a game to keep our spirits bouyant, and our driver conscious.

Do Not Be Fooled By This Man's Glasses - He Is Not Cool

To paraphrase a journalist whose name I failed to notice whilst reading his article, 'It seems the old masters have lost their minds in the back of a hard drive.'
There was a time when the 'old masters' to which he refers were known as the 'American New Wave'; the bright new hope of 1970's American cinema. Nowadays Scorsese, Spielberg and Lucas conjure little more than the idea of insipid Hollywood award fodder, lame summer blockbusters and silly facial hair, but there was a time that the terms bold, innovative and socially reflective were vaguely more applicable. Possessed with a seemingly innate ability to control and create dramatic tension, an affection for the work of the French New Wave and, in the case of at least two of them, a love of aliens; their films had a vigor and a joy to them that couldn't fail to excite. Young excitable Americans inspired by the then established French, inspired in turn by Hitchcock; what wasn't to like?

J'Adore.. Dior

Ever since dropping into the Design Museum to see their recent 'Drawing Fashion' exhibition I have grown quite fascinated with Rene Gruau, the 1940s/50s illustrator for Christian Dior (on returning home I actually had a go at doing a fashion-ey drawing, with daft results).

Gruau has been described as a 'shy Frenchman' who brought back the art of fashion illustration; he was published internationally by the tender age of 18, working for several magazines in the 1930s before collaborating with Dior in 1947 and spawning the so-called "New Look"; it is probably this for which he is most recognized now.

Narrow Escape From Las Vegas, Nevada.

Narrow Escape, Pt. I

Narrow Escape, Pt. I

The first flashes.

Eucalyptus.

In the high branches

silver splashes of moonlight

set the leaves to shimmer.

A wind arrives through the Para grass,

and crashes in the canopy

like the roar of Pacific breakers,

and washes over her

the smell of Saltcedar 

and Rabbitbrush and Greasewood

that grow in the playa.

Through the blue moonshadow of the house

a fox slips without sound.

The wind squalls up again,

ruffling through the Chokecherry

beyond the high arch of the barn.

Her horse treads nervously,

eyes wide as 8 balls.

She kisses his neck

and whispers to him.

She waits. 

In a distant field, a cow lows,

and across the dry dirt road 

paper curls of bark roll,

Shift sideways. 

20:50 - A Review (sort of)

I thought I would write a bit about Richard Wilson's oil exhibit, as seen in the Saatchi gallery. Having spent many, many hours inside the installation, I have been able to gauge the variety of reactions from visitors; the dim individuals who walk in, look puzzled and turn around, asking 'is the Richard Wilson finished then?' That one always throws me. 'This.. this is the Richard Wilson', I stutter, pointing emphatically at the reeking square of oil before me. Can they not see it?

Open Theme: Narrow Escape

From now on, every couple of weeks or so, we're going to set an open theme for anyone who's interested to get their sharp little teeth into. No entry fee, no deadline and no report cards. The only thing we ask, for the purposes of (...trying to think of the right word... um...) readability (fail) is to keep fiction to 500 words or thereabouts, and poetry to 50 lines. But of course, this doesn't mean that work is limited to just these two mediums. We want everything- from photos and drawings, to post-it-note masterpieces, or the marker scribblings on a passed-out friend's face. We want the inside-out of your minds. So, this weeks theme- yep, you guessed it- is Narrow Escape. Send your submissions to 21collective@gmail.com and we'll try and get them up ASAP. Good luck, and may the Ghost of The Great Houdini be with you!

The Casual Etymologist: Word of the Week

For those of you with a delicate constitution, or the gag reflex of a cat, you may want to avert your attention to something less pus-related than the following article. Continuing on from last week's entry (I know, it was only saturday, but technically speaking, that was last weekEND), and how much fun it was to post, I just couldn't wait to do another one. So here it is. This week's word, gleefully sourced from Chaucer's lurid and mildly disturbing tale of the Summoner, is...

Saucefleem: adj. pimpled, red swelling of the face

Is there something wrong with me that I find this interesting? Most likely. But, for those of you who share a  dorky interest in the variety and creativity of language, it doesn't get much better than this.

California Dreamin'

Y'all pasty English folks could use a bit of colour.

Toon Tellegen: Raptors

This weekend I had to write a brief review of a collection of poems by the Dutch poet Toon Tellegen, owner, surely, of the best name in the world? The collection is called Raafvogels, or Raptors in English. What more do I need to say? If you're thinking, (as I did) that's good enough on its own, and let's not spoil it now! then you're in for a treat. His poetry is even BETTER! Now I don't know if I'm allowed to post any of his work directly up here- don't want to upset a fellow poet, especially not with such a profoundly awesome name as Toon, but I can post my review. And if you think it sounds up your street, the book is available on Amazon, or if you can wait, will also be on the Poetry Book Society online store. To read the article, click below.

The Casual Etymologist: Word of the Week

As a gesture to our Chaucerian heritage, I thought I would open up a Word of the Week column, based on the weird and wonderful etymology of the English language. To kick it off, I found a cracker of a word on the Middle English glossary website www.librarius.com


Prikasour: noun horseman, hunter on horseback


Shown here in full technicolour, a Prikasour is a man of the open road, a hardened man, and retaining little tenderness. Derived from the words 'prick' meaning to prod or poke, and a 'vasour' meaning literally to have something or someone underneath you, the prikasour treats his horses like he treats his women, by poking them in the ribs and and telling them to giddy-the-hell-up girl!

Basically, a bit of a prick. Cool jacket though.