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Monday, December 31, 2007

Hint recommends...

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Beginning January 18, artist Taryn Simon (whom you might remember from The Innocents, her project documenting cases of wrongful conviction in the U.S.) exhibits "An American Index of the Hidden and Unfamiliar" at Foam photography museum in Amsterdam. Expect unsettling images of radioactive capsules in a nuclear waste storage facility and other unsavory American byproducts...

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Thursday, December 27, 2007

Part two of Cyril Duval' Art Basel adventures...

Now enough about art, let's talk about the world of glamour and futility—parties! First up, the fete for the fourth edition of Javier Peres' Daddy magazine, hosted by himself, Terence Koh and Aron (the downtown don) in a men's strip club called Goldrush. Seeing the queer mafia in this crappy neon temple, symbolizing Western hetero cowboy power, was actually pretty cool—cute faces all around, no useless celebs showing off, plus everyone got free lap dances, thanks to Daddy Javier. Later, speaking of naughtiness, Monsieur Andre and his Le Baron team again provided the best place for finding trouble. Indeed one could meet almost anyone there, burning the last energy of the day in secret communion before waking up four hours later to buy and sell more art. Then there were parties for Purple, WOW, colette (this pic is of Sarah and myself), etc. So many parties, so little time.

And now, I'm still shocked by how people can throw a party and simply expect people to gather in an ill-designed space. I mean, an open bar isn't everything. Thus, the award for creative laziness goes to Visionaire's party to celebrate its latest art book, despite the hot vinyl records inserted inside, such as my pal Mai Ueda, with her great “I Wanna Buy Some Clothes“ track, and a hilarious backstage compilation by Michel Gaubert. Not only did they settle on MINI as their sponsor (do we care about a toy car gift?), but the doorman was possibly the bitchiest ever—fortunately, I didn't have to tangle with him. Upon entering, we were welcomed by half-naked, long-haired Chippendale look-alikes (I never thought I would one day say that—please someone bring back Hedi's skinny boys), who shamelessly pushed copies of the new Visionaire in our faces, as if we were shopping for live chickens in a New Delhi market. Plus, the music was all about Justice (nothing against them, but you know), the cocktails were kind of weird and we had to contend with an army of paparazzi trying to find the beautiful people. Perhaps they were waiting for late-arriving Linda Evangelista, as I was not.

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Monday, December 24, 2007

Not even the theft of his laptop at the Miami airport (and no, there is no back-up) could keep Cyril Duval from sharing a few of his Art Basel adventures earlier this month. Here, the first of three parts...

As the main exhibition is the focal point of Art Basel and what allows people to expense their trips, I'd like to start with my two favorite booths. (Look for party tidbits in the second part.) First, a big shout-out to ShanghART for its supermarket installation, which artist Xu Zhen filled with products to resemble a Chinese grocery store. (With my numerous trips to mainland China, I can vouch for the authenticity of every detail). But here, all the boxes, bottles and so on were emptied of their contents in what appeared to be a comment on his country's paradoxical images of wealth and want, and which were available to buy directly off the shelves (we spotted art stars Eva & Adele doing exactly that). What a beautifully poignant concept.

Not that I'm allergic to the decorative nature of art, and certainly Miami is the ideal place to shop for colorful art that matches your chinchilla couch. It's just that sometimes functional installations are stronger than paintings, in the way that a simple tropical fish tank might rock your interior more than a Damien Hirst. Some leading curators have long analyzed this, and I am here thinking of French critic Eric Troncy, who has constantly challenged notions of artworks as mere display elements. To him and myself, a juxtaposition of work by great artists—say, Jorge Pardo and Olafur Eliasson—doesn't automatically work.

Hint readers will know I'm sucker for the work of Terence Koh—so now for the expected mention of the Peres Koh booth, perfectly placed in a corner of the exhibition hall. As always, Koh's Art Basel contribution was a dark monolithic riff on love, sex, life, death and immortality. Although some people still don't get him (at least if you read and believe the blurbsunami that flooded APB online), I'm always amazed by his clever plays on the media and the art market through the crude yet oh-so-real reality of his art. There's no bullshit in his work. Chapeau, Mr. Koh!

Finally, am I the only one shifting from admiration and respect to exasperation and lassitude regarding the whole Reena Spaulings/Bernadette Corporation/Claire Fontaine conglomerate thing? I mean, yes, we know that capitalism doesn't always work (oh, and by the way, Andy Warhol knew, too), but they are still making a good use of it. Well, we all do, but at least we don't make morality issue out of it.

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Can't keep track of all the recent store renovations? Liz Armstrong sums up...

Hermès
When Hermès acquired more property for their expansion on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré—they now reside in not one address but three, simply so clients wouldn't have to walk up multiple flights of stairs—they threw a 24-hour bash with Indian dancers, gospel singers, classical pianists, circus entertainment, a performance by Jane Birkin and a Parisian tradition of onion soup at dawn. Hard to imagine the brand started by making saddles.

Chanel
We're not sure what it is about the tranquility of nature that makes us want to shop, but leave it to Peter Marino to tactfully exploit the connection for the Place Vendome Chanel boutique in Paris. Nine months in the making, his design of an additional 1,000 square feet—devoted to jewelry—has been outfitted with scads of crystals and an enormous atruim.

Dolce & Gabbana
In a total shocker, Dolce & Gabbana went big and shiny for their New York store expansion. Now every surface, including a black glass stairway and glass chandeliers, in the nearly 13,000-square-foot mall on Madison gleams like Liberace's powder room. (Heads up Chicago and San Francisco, word is you're next.)

Chloé
New York's Chloé shop, on the other hand, got a make-under. All frippery, minus the equine bronze statues on the doors, has been shipped out, replaced by beige shag carpets and, well, not much else—as if awaiting designer Paulo Melim Andersson's smart, Nancy Drew-like spring collection.

Christian Dior
Dare we call it a picture of Diorian gray? For its 60th anniversary, fifty-six shades of shadow now dress the flagship Dior shop in Paris, including silk rugs hand-woven in Tibet that resemble spilled mercury, walls covered in embossed metallic leather, and a hand-painted fresco of the kind of sky that makes you want to stay in and read. Far from depressing, the somber innuendo's so compounded it seems to make light of itself. All of which, of course, makes you want to spend. This is luxury and tasteful hedonism done right.

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Sunday, December 23, 2007

No more shaking fists in rage over closing time at the Prada store. Now, finally, the day of procuring Prada online—if only accessories—is here. A cursory search yields pure squeal-out-loud goodness in the form of squishy little teddy-bear key rings adorned with heaps of sequins and beads, charms and dog collars; pert patent leather wristlets with wee clusters of blooms calling to mind a prom corsage; and those trademark coin purses, wallets, pouches and skinny bags in impeccable leather or nylon. Further investigation turns up watches big and small, a tea set and—ready for this?—a deck of tarot cards (trumps only, you'll have to get your minor arcana elsewhere). Those of us in the States will have to obsess about something else momentarily as, for now, shipping is available in the EU only.

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Saturday, December 22, 2007

The re-animated, ever-beloved Helmut Lang reclaimed a huge, slightly smashed and possibly blood-stained disco ball from who knows where and stuck it in the middle of the floor in the Brooklyn gallery space belonging to the lower-case art and culture rag the journal. Is “Next Ever After,” the installation's title, a simple comment on the low-key designer's obvious aversion to glamour? A nod to the plight of his own career—fallen and reborn in another place entirely? At the opening party last week, we (including friend of Helmut Jenny Capitan, Zero designer Maria Cornejo, photog-artist Mark Borthwick, make-up artist Dick Page, artist Christian Jankowski and designer Patrik Ervell) stood around the immobile object of festivity, little dots of light twinkling over our ruddy and snowed-on faces, and pondered our existence.





Dick Page, Jenny Capitan


Maria Cornejo & Mark Borthwick, artist Dave Aarons

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Thursday, December 20, 2007

Today Cartier caters more to would-be princesses than real ones—you know the sort (and excusez-moi if you are the sort!)—but there was a time when real royalty was its biggest clientele. And though probably no Indian Maharajah ever caught a tiger by the tail, in the early 1900s the French firm began capturing cats—especially the company's signature panthers—in glittering form for the subcontinent's diamond-loving dandies, a fashion that soon spread to their cosmopolitan counterparts in Europe.

This month, as an homage to its history of Indian-inspired inventions, Cartier released its Inde Mystérieuse collection of high jewelry, including this feline fantasy necklace. The most remarkable of a multi-piece suite that includes a matching ring and brooch, the gold and diamond (over 1000!) collar combines the chic and surreal to create one wild animal no one would ever run from. We've all seen kitties chase their tails, but never one that caught his with as much style. (And just imagine a piece of tail that can't bite back.)

Appropriately, the necklace first made its debut in the jungle that is Art Basel Miami, where Cartier built a dome in the city's botanical garden. Since then it's taken up residence at the jeweler's Fifth Avenue flagship in New York—until the right animal lover, or lover of an animal lover, decides to take it home. Until then, go in to eye, and maybe paw, the over-the-top exquisiteness.

More pettable pieces from Cartier's Inde Mysterieuse collection...

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Out of South Africa, Part II

More of stylist Haidee Findlay-Levin's visa woes...

After barely making the launch of Luke Smalley's new book, I snatched an hour of sleep before heading back to the airport for the trip to Mexico. I had asked my agent to check at least three times whether or not I would need a visa, and the answer was a firm "no." That was, until I tried to check in, only to be told that it was a very definite “yes." I felt instantly sick, and not only from a lack of sleep or jet lag. Several panicky calls were made to my agency and to the Condé Nast offices in both New York and Italy. Apparently no one was aware of my South African nationality, despite having worked and traveled for them for the last five years.

Truth is, Cuba was my final destination, but the ticket and visa obviously couldn't be obtained in the U.S. The plan was to get them in Mexico and then fly on to join my European team for the job in Cuba. Turns out I needed a visa for Mexico, too. In a mad panic, my team and I looked into any destination for which I wouldn’t need one: Jamaica, Panama, The Bahamas, Guatemala, Argentina. Yet, as all connecting flights to Cuba were remote and most required a two-day layover, this solution was impossible. I would have to arrive when the shoot was pretty much done. By now, I had missed the flight to Mexico and was soon to miss the one possibility to Jamaica, when I suggested going to the Mexican Embassy to plead my case. There was the distant hope of catching a flight out to Mexico City in the early hours of the morning.

The car returned to the airport, we packed in the luggage and raced to the Mexican consulate, which was closing in less than an hour. We stopped on the way for a passport photo, with my weary face captured at its most unglamorous ever. There were so many people lined up outside the embassy that it looked like a small riot. I muscled my way to the front, pulled an unlucky number, 31, and waited my turn in line, only to be told that they would only take 30 people before closing. I wasn’t having any of it, pleaded my case and was reluctantly let in past hundreds of migrant works applying for papers to stay in the U.S. (It seems everyone wants to go where they are not welcome.) After six hours, I negotiated a multiple-entry visa to Mexico, which would allow me to pass in and out on my way to and from Cuba. I walked out to the car, visa in hand, and headed back home for a few hours, briefly stopping off at the Marc Jacobs office to return a pair of neon gloves that they desperately needed back for Vogue, before I had even shot them. When I told the publicist I had missed my flight and would in fact be over shortly to switch them out, she was delighted. I didn’t appreciate her enthusiasm.

This journey was feeling like a sequel to the film “After Hours” and I was anxious how the rest of it would pan out. Within hours, the suitcases went back down the four flights of stairs to the car, which was back to collect me for the airport. I finally found an American Airlines official, only to be told the flight to Mexico City was canceled. That familiar wave of nausea was rising and any remaining color drained instantly. With a bit of research, we realized there was, in fact, a flight with Air Mexicana, their partner airline, at terminal 8. This was terminal 4! I rushed as best I could with heavy suitcases and a shortage of energy. A few more people inhabited this terminal and they all looked Mexican, so I was somewhat hopeful. The flight, however, was delayed. I slumped into a chair near the gate, slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness until I guessed they were calling the flight, in Spanish only.

The delay naturally had serious repercussions. I rushed through immigration and baggage claim, found a porter to take me to departures, where I was to buy my flight to Havana. Ticket in hand, I was sent to another office across the concourse to buy the visa. Of course, Air Mexicana had different luggage allowances from Havana's—that meant my 47 kilos was well over the 23 allowed. So back to the cashier to pay the overweight, after which I literally ran for the gate, the pounding of my feet matching the pounding in my head. I was trying not to calculate the hours of my life spent in airports merely lining up for one thing or another. How many hours of sleep sacrificed? Did someone say something about my life in fashion being glamorous? Did I hear the words jet set?

Getting through immigration and customs in Cuba, although somewhat surreal, was more or less event-free, in comparison to what had preceded it. Each bag came off a different carousel. I could feel myself age with every minute of this journey. Customs officials were a little surprised by the amount of luggage I had for only a few days, but I assured them my travels were not over.

The pain of this journey was relieved ever so slightly by the arrival at the Hotel Nationale and the well rested faces of my crew, ready to whisk me off to the location shoot. Armed with a bottle of water and some headache tablets, I set to work. Havana and the shoot were a story in itself, a wonderful experience that passed too quickly.

The Brazilian model and I were due to leave Havana at 7 am. I had only left her dancing and drinking a few hours before, so I was somewhat anxious when she was not there by a quarter after. I gave her more time, then called. No answer. My hell was clearly not over. I reached her boss, who was equally alarmed but still in bed far away. At any rate, in a matter of moments, I was exchanging money for Cuban pesos to pay for airport tax, overweight luggage and a taxi to the airport. I made my flight by the skin of my teeth, only to arrive in Cancun to a six-hour layover.

I can't say I didn't appreciate the forced downtime. After failed attempts to connect to the internet at the airport, I put the cases in a locker, hailed the nearest cab and asked to be taken to the closest luxury hotel on the strip—The Hyatt, I think. I strolled past the reception, got directions to the pool, changed into my bikini and, like a guest, I dropped onto a lounger overlooking the unnaturally blue ocean. I just sat and stared in awe, perhaps there was a fleeting moment of glamour in all this. I showered on the beach, was handed a towel by an attractive lifeguard, dressed and headed back to the airport to catch my flight home.

I repeated the same familiar sequence of events: endless delays at immigration and customs, meeting drivers, grimacing at locked elevators and dragging suitcases up multiple flights of stairs. There was, of course, the additional visit to lost property at baggage claim as I had left my brand new Bose noise-reducing headset on the plane and, of course, they had not been turned in.

Back in New York, I went into machine mode, unpacking and bagging the clothes to be returned the next day while simultaneously repacking for Miami. I had only a few hours to get ready with another hour of stolen sleep, before I was back at the airport to catch the last four days of Art Basel. I calculated that I had been in three countries and four cites in less than 24 hours by the time I arrived in Miami.

This story could go on ad infinitum. It's the story of my life, my lifestyle. I was barely off the plane from Miami, switching out the luggage, but this time for a more complicated itinerary: Tokyo, L.A. and Maui, with no gap in between until I return for a day in January, before heading to Paris. I sit writing this from my (okay, somewhat glamorous) business-class seat to Tokyo to consult a designer for his show at New York Fashion Week in February. I have not caught up on sleep lost during Art Basel's party fest, and my last night in New York I chose to forgo sleep to see some special people I won't see for a while, forcing one in particular to join my all-night vigil until the car arrived in the early hours to take me, once again, to the airport. After all, I have work to do.

—Haidee Findlay-Levin

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Monday, December 17, 2007

Out of South Africa, Part I

The travel trials and tribulations of international stylist Haidee Findlay-Levin...

A lot of people commute to work. In New York City, that could mean going from Brooklyn to Manhattan, or from downtown to uptown, or vice versa. But when I, a South African stylist living in America, commute to work, it means going to JFK, Newark or LaGuardia and flying to another country. Don’t roll your eyes with mock pity and think I'm bragging here. It's a strange fact that I live in New York, but seldom work here. The magazines I work for are all foreign and the photographers are mostly European or British. We often need to meet somewhere else in the world, so they have it in their heads that I must like to travel and will gladly go to any far-flung destination to meet them.

Besides going to an airport, working for me also means going to the respective consulate in search of a visa. This can take up a day, sitting among nannies and their charges, and often a week or two preparing and waiting. And even then, a flat out refusal can be expected. I have missed the shows in Paris some seasons and I missed Munster and Documenta in Germany last summer, all because that simple yet frustratingly illogical “No.”

Any job I accept or trip I make starts with the not-so-simple question: “But do I need a visa?” France, Italy, Germany, Belgium, Spain, Sweden do Japan do—and the list goes on. Despite that South Africa has eliminated apartheid for more than ten years and now has one of the most liberal constitutions in the world, the stain remains. Finally we have been forgiven and even welcomed into the hearts of fellow Africans, but this in itself is a reason for the rest of the world to panic. At each embassy visit I feel like an African refugee nodding in camaraderie with my fellow Africans. With documents piled high, I must swear not to disappear within their country and drain their local funds.

Brazil has become a favorite destination—not just because I love Brazil, its delicious food, its magnificent beaches or those beautiful Brazilians, but because they are friends of South Africa and I don’t need a visa. In addition, my mother called me the other day with good news: “You no longer need a visa for India!” Quite a feat for a country that would not let us in at all, understandably, for treating their fellow Indians as second-class citizens in our sordid past. Note to self: must plan that trip to Rajasthan or propose it as a possible location for next year. So now I have two friends in Brazil and India. Things are looking up.

My season began with a shoot in London. This time I was prepared, armed with my five-year entry and work visa, my right as the granddaughter of a British-born subject. It had taken some work over the summer gathering birth and marriage certificates from parents and deceased grandparents, but a task well worth the effort. I confidently, even nonchalant, stood at the immigration desk until I was briskly escorted to the health department. Apparently there were already two warnings on my passport and they needed “to be sure.” Sure of what? That I wasn’t harboring some exotic disease, smuggling some rare plant or animal? I flew in from JFK on a Thanksgiving weekend to work—what more did these Brits want of me? After a few questions about chest examinations, I was released, no examination provided. I left the airport with that familiar sense of unnecessary panic and fear, guilty before proven innocent for some crime unknown, a discomfort that accompanies me to every immigration point in the world.

The season was short, so fait accompli. I decided to fly back to New York for the exhibition and launch of Exercise at Home, a book I worked on in the summer for photographer Luke Smalley. As his home is in Pennsylvania, it was my only ”local” job all year. Yet it still involved ten hours of driving each way, but happily no passport required. I was on a mission to make the launch party before closing, but with the inevitable delays (i.e. foreigners traveling in droves to shop with their strong pounds and euros), the line at immigration was endless. One woman was so determined to make it worth her while that she arrived with only an empty suitcase and a toothbrush.

So I was held up, this time by an immigration officer who was not (this time) visibly suspicious of me, but held me as his captive audience anyway. He was so delighted with my involvement in the so-called glamorous world of fashion that he took the opportunity to discuss his familiarity with Naomi Campbell, Gemma Ward, Petra Nemcova and every possible Victoria's Secret model. I'm buddies with the guys from DNA and Marilyn Models, but naturally I couldn’t rain on his parade, so I listened politely to his top five picks, all while the clock ticked and my weary feet swelled. Apparently all the girls wanted to marry him, not only for his Italian good looks and ability to cook a mean pasta, but because they hoped to squeeze a Green card out of him. I assured him that was not my interest. I was, in fact, in the process of reaching Green-card status myself, though pending for three years.

I finally arrived in New York and, with car and luggage waiting, I ran into the exhibition as it was ending, then home to switch out suitcases, travel itineraries and a lot of clothing samples for the next job, in Mexico. (Well, officially, anyway.) What could possibly go wrong?

to be continued...

—Haidee Findlay-Levin

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Friday, December 14, 2007

Boudicca's Christmas tree for the V&A museum in London...

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Liz Armstrong gets starry-eyed for Cosmic...

Her surname alone is enough to make one want to marry jeweler Solange Azagury-Partridge, but her explicitly eccentric methodology seals the cupidity. Once a year she dramatically unveils a collection of precious, mind-blowing baubles on the brink of unwearability, along with a limited-edition renegade fragrance to more deeply mine her jewelry’s psychedelic purity. This time around that fragrance, an eau de parfum called Cosmic, comes in a star-faceted silver orb to match her truly arcane diamond and platinum art-deco earrings, breastplate necklaces and wrist-guard bracelets—all designed with notions of planetary alignment and kabalistic practice in mind. The scent, with a romantic floral essence dusted with a downy coat of patchouli, is as powdery and mystical as a cloud blotting out a full moon. Oh, and it contains actual stardust from pulverized meteorites. So dreamy. Sigh. ₤145 for 100 ml at Solange Azagury-Partridge in London or on her website.

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Thursday, December 13, 2007

A new DVD from A.P.C., with an interesting provenance...

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Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Loden Dager sample sale...

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Monday, December 10, 2007

Iggy Pop and The Stooges throw a concert on the beach in Art Basel Miami. Photos by David Prutting...









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Saturday, December 8, 2007

Hint's art editor, Aric Chen, in Art Basel...

"You're eye candy; I can take CARE of you." That was Pharrell Williams's way of saying hi to my friend Josee Lepage, with whom designer Tobias Wong and I created a pop-up tattoo parlor at Design Miami. Earlier in the day, Williams had come by with KAWS and said he was into creating a tattoo for us sometime. But at dinner last night, at the home of real estate honcho Craig Robins (left) and Design Miami director Ambra Medda, Williams was apparently into other things. And so was Josee. "I can take care of you, too!" she shot back.

Josee wasn't the only eye candy there. Terry Richardson came in with some of his own, and as he walked past his self-portrait hanging in Robins's foyer, it was like seeing double vision—both Terrys were wearing the same red lumberjack shirt. Meanwhile, piles of sushi overflowed from buffets around the swimming pool, as uber-curator Hans-Ulrich Obrist held court and Paper's Kim Hastreiter gushed about the talented photographer Marcelo Krasilcic's project for the magazine earlier that day. Picture a stack of furniture with bananas on top. "He's Brazilian," Hastreiter explained.

Our bellies filled, we headed to the hot-ticket Visionaire party at the Delano, where the door scene was just a mild drama compared to the full-blown train wreck we expected. Inside, Cecilia Dean and outgoing Art Basel chief Sam Keller were chatting up our favorite architect, Jacques Herzog—"It's wild in here," Herzog told us—as models struck trashy poses in trashier dresses and Paul Marlow of un-trashy Loden Dager hinted that the menswear line was in for a big award (stay tuned).

Sarah from Colette won us over, telling us she had been wearing the temporary tattoo we were offering (the rest are permanent), before we headed to the Purple party at Le Baron. Amid the dancing throngs, we ran into a fresh-faced (and drinkless) Ryan McGinley, whose legs were dead, he said, from seeing all gazillion-and-a-half fairs, while Eli Sudbrack of Assume Vivid Astro Focus told us he'd been in town since Monday and still hadn't had enough. Purple's Olivier Zahm used our shoulder as a prop, leaping up to take photos of all the girls dancing on the furniture. And after having more drinks spilled on us than a rug in a frat house, it was 4 am and time to go home.

—Aric Chen

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Friday, December 7, 2007

Dean Mayo Davies ducks into a dinner happening chez Zandra Rhodes. Video footage by Michele Mei...

On Nov. 30, the great and the fabulous braved wintry London weather to gather at designer and color queen Zandra Rhodes' penthouse in Bermondsey. The occasion? A dinner party organized by Natt Weller (host of Dangerous To Know club and son of the legendary Paul Weller, founder of The Jam and The Style Council) and filmed by Ben Charles Edwards (best known for shooting drag diva Jodie Harsh), whose vision for the art film was a twisted mix of John Waters' Eat Your Makeup and the seventh chapter from Alice in Wonderland. Hence the title: "Chapter 7: Eat Your Chiffon."

As Zandra whipped up a storm in the kitchen (pea soup garnished with sesame salt to start), her illustrious guests began filtering in. First to arrive was Andrew Logan, iconic artist and jeweler extraordinaire who took the red dress code to extremes with a crimson suit, red velvet and bejeweled slippers, ruby-glass neckpiece and doorknob-sized ring. Elsewhere in the eclectic mix were new music sensation Bishi; ceramicist Kate Malone; Barbara Grispini, creative consultant to London Fashion Week; prop stylist and accessory whiz Fred Butler; hot women's designer Marios Schwab; and Piers Atkinson of Fashion Week tabloid The Daily Rubbish (which isn’t rubbish at all). When asked by Andrew about his conversation-steering strategy, Natt replied that he was "influenced by The Fern Cotton [teeny-bopper TV host] approach. A lot of listening is involved.” After all, you can’t plan chemistry.

Keep an eye out for the short when the first of three parts launches online in January. It's one of many future projects from Glass Loves, a fashion/art/communications company that previously worked with Zandra's Fashion and Textile Museum.

While you wait for the premiere, enjoy Hint’s cryptic, fly-on-the-wall video footage of the events and remember the off-camera wisdom of our pink-haired hostess: “When dyeing my hair, I put the coloring on my head as usual, but the secret is to wrap it up tightly in a turban and leave it on overnight, sleeping in it. If you don't, your hair will come out as only a pale pink. And who wants pale?!”

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Hint recommends...



United Bamboo
Fall/Winter '07 Sample Sale
Women's, men's and previous collections up to 85% off retail
Cash, Visa, Mastercard, American Express, Discover

Dec. 12 - 14, 10 am - 7 pm
217 Centre St., 6th floor
between Grand and Howard
212-925-3311

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Thursday, December 6, 2007

Photographer and style-hunter PLAY on Terence Koh's latest incarnation...

You just can't control Terence Koh—art superstar, fashion extremist and all-around eccentric. He recently spoke at a political forum in Berlin wearing a Gareth Pugh latex dress and full geisha make-up. But you may know him best from his first and very controversial solo show, GOD, at de Pury & Luxembourg gallery in Zurich back in June.

That's where we first met, for a photo date. He wore Balenciaga gold robo-pants and stood in front of Last Supper of The Antichrist, the central piece in the show—and the darkest, with disciples as skeletons, a colony of poisonous ants living in the body of Jesus and so on.



His latest pièce de résistance, BISHOP, can be seen in Season's Greetings, a Christmas-themed group show of contemporary photography, also at de Pury (Dec. 3 to Jan. 27). An extension of GOD, BISHOP is a series of photos showing Terence dressed in episcopal attire and riding or posing with a white horse. (These images will also be part of the catalog for GOD, which will be released in March in what promises to be a very special and scandalous launch). Of course, it's a lot more sinister than it sounds, and I wanted to get to the heart of it—so I emailed Terence. Within three minutes, his response: "It's about a horse. It's about a love of a horse. And God fucking a horse and getting fucked back. Big hugs. T" And that, my friends, is vintage Terence.

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Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Hint recommends...

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Best-known for his gilded widgets designed for more well-appointed sniffing (such as his gold-plated McDonald's stirring spoon and Bic pen cap), Tobias Wong encourages us to examine the notion of luxury without actually having to change our low-brow ways. His latest is the ccPhone (only 50 were made, available exclusively through San Francisco's CITIZEN:Citizen), a fully functional iPhone that the utilitarian-art prankster has restyled and stuffed with artwork and music from like-minded friends.

Actual content is hush-hush, but we can tell you it includes video of Toby's infamous concrete Doorstop molded from an Alvar Aalto Savoy vase (that had to be smashed) and obtuse photos taken by CITIZEN:Citizen owners while on holiday around the globe. Plus—and here's where it really gets interesting—the address book comes pre-stocked and gets updated twice a year with well-known contacts of CITIZEN:Citizen from the fashion, art and design worlds, as well as such randomness as the local taqueria and print shop. Apparently, however, some private home numbers have mysteriously made it in, so no prank calls!

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Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Lost footage from Stockholm Fashion Week. In the first video, Helena Hörstedt's impeccable, all-black spring collection and a visit to her studio. In the second, the fairy-tale collection of Nikoline Liv Andersen, winner of the +46 Fashion Award. (Click here for Hint's backstage montage of Stockholm Fashion Week.)



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Monday, December 3, 2007

More street style from Seoul, South Korea...



December 03, 2007
Kim Tae wook (28), buyer of DAILY PROJECTS
place: Apgujeong-dong, Gangnam-gu

jacket _
Raf Simons
sleeveless parka _
Raf Simons
jeans _
Cosmic wonder jeans
shoes _
Raf Simons
necklace _
Raf Simons

homepage: www.cyworld.com/faketongue




November 14, 2007
Jang yoon ju (28), model

all clothing brands _ unknown

homepage: www.cyworld.com/jjmullan




November 30, 2007
Lee You Jin (31), actress
place: DAILY PROJECTS

parka _
SWD skyward




November 18, 2007
Yoo Jun (25), student
place: Sunday flea market (1st & 3rd Sunday of every month) at DAILY PROJECTS

jacket _ vintage
sweatshirt _ American Apparel
jeans _ Cheap Monday
boots _
Dr. Martens

homepage: http://www.cyworld.com/luvissue




November 24, 2007
Eric Demay, electronic musician and multimedia artist

all clothing brands _ unknown

email:
mrt1111@free.fr


photographs by Hong Sukwoo a.k.a. yourboyhood.com

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