I never really know what to write here. Whatever is really on my mind is usually too silly, trivial, or controversial. Seems like I’m used to censoring myself a lot, which doesn’t bode well because in the end I’ve lost sight of the real me.
I try my best, but I’m still a wasteful person, and I hate myself for that. I desperately need to reorganise my life, but first I have to clear this backlog of neverending readings and texts.
London this trip round was surprisingly unsatisfying. The best thing about it was meeting up with Enqi again and getting to bask in her aura of innate goodness and positivity, which I sorely needed after that dark period at the end of last year (the effects of which I am still feeling). Thank you so much for having me, dear. <3
I walked around the galleries and museums wishing Esther was with me, since now I’ve apparently turned into a lover of Turner, Constable, Pissaro, Canaletto and Degas in addition to the big three of the Impressionists (van Gogh, Monet, Manet). Seurat still leaves me cold though. This also marked the first time that I didn’t find any sort of solace in the British Museum, largely due in part to the masses of people. I’d been there during half-term before, but this time it was just ridiculous. Went to the Vanity Fair exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery which cemented my love of Annie Leibovitz and her amazing work, as well as a renewed interest in Mark Seliger. The Face of Fashion exhibition I went to in March last year had more stuff I was interested in, but it did introduce me properly to Steve Klein and Mario Testino.
I blame Esther for recent interest in fashion and the fine arts. Before I just liked looking at pretty pictures, but now I want to know the stories behind paintings and portraits. I also think Kate Moss is severely overused and overestimated as a model. There must’ve been about 4 portraits of her in the gallery taken by different photographers. While standing in front of a Testino series of pictures of her taken in 2007, I overheard a mother talking to her two young boys (probably aged about 7 or so).
mother: Do you recognise who this is?
boy 1: It’s Kate Moss, isn’t it?
mother: Yes it is. *regards portrait with a keen eye* Do you think she’s pretty?
boy 2: *enthusiastically* I think so!
mother: She is, I think it’s her high cheekbones. But she’s nine years younger than I am, and she’s got a lot more lines in her face than I do.
The mother lifted up the bangs to show a lack of lines in her forehead. With her hair up, she was quite pretty and didn’t look like her age (43). At this point she caught my eye, and I shared a secret and guffaw wither her before she herded her boys along to the next picture. I can only hope that she eventually educates them on the dangers of drink and drug abuse.
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