The Most Exquisite GIFs You've Ever Seen

Fashion Design by Sandra Backlund/Photo by Ola Bergengren.

Design by Sandra Backlund and Iris Van Herpen/Photography by Peter Farago.

Knit Designs by Nanna van Blaaderen.

Barbora Balkova.

Couture Hair Style by Katsuya Kamon/Photography by Hiro S.

Normally you associate GIFs with internet memes and mockery - well, I would. However, the artist Dark Angel One plays with images and images of sculpture to create motion in already beautiful pieces, turning all I previously thought of GIFs on its head. He allows all his work to be shared because he believes art was made for sharing, and I'm fascinated that the hypnotic results seem to totally avoid becoming gimmicks, at least in my eyes. 

The original article, showed to me by a work colleague who had appropriately used it for jewellery design inspiration, can be found here: Fubiz

Lunches on Me

I am very ready to entertain the idea of being paid to eat, just maybe without several hundred people watching me. Spaghetti would be a disaster. Similarly, watching someone on a screen as they enthusiastically race through a takeaway bucket, and tear chicken from a bone with their teeth, ain’t exactly my dream hobby. In South Korea, however, this is a new cultural phenomenon. Muk-bang involves “broadcast jockeys” or BJs (don’t laugh) eating large quantities of food on camera, whilst being watched by thousands of fans that converse and donate money via a chat room. It seems like a bizarre kind of interactive food porn, and some BJs have even become Z-list celebs. Muk-bang stemmed from a national fear of the Korean taboo of eating alone, and for many BJs it fulfils a yearning for love and attention. Here in the West, the whole concept seems alien, niche and almost fetishist. But the sentiment behind Muk-bang is something that we can most probably all relate to.

I.e. lunch breaks. The fear of navigating a lunch break at work can be very real. It’s a bit like dreading going to the school ref on your own; even if you’re so ready for food your tummy has become an opera singer. Single lunch dates seems absolutely fine when they’re anonymous and under the radar, but when it’s in the office cafeteria suddenly social conventions dictate that it’s not so fine. You are vulnerably exposed with nowhere to hide and a sudden realisation that your last mouthful was too ambitious. BJs enjoy being watched while they eat alone, I don’t. I’ve had a few new jobs in the last year undertaking various internships, and the lunch break at each place has been a very different beast.

At M&C Saatchi it was fairly easy to be anonymous, even if you chose to lunch in the Eatrium (you can tell it’s an ad agency can’t you). It’s a pacey company and most people grab food to eat at their desk. The only time I wasn’t anonymous was when I had lunch with my old school friend Matt, who works on O2, and we were ‘papped’ while eating, the email subject line reading ‘that’s not what an agency tour looks like’. Cringe. You might not want to eat alone, but it would seem there is no safety in numbers here. No fun either, if your companion is a nervous work experience girl, incapable of eating or even buying food alone. An exhausting adventure round Soho ensued, and I was pretty miffed that my usual ability to coerce someone into eating where I wanted was thwarted. She cleverly suggested that I surely didn’t want to eat in the Middle Eastern café, and that I didn’t want to queue alone in the salad bar, and that it might be best if we walk over to the bin together at the end of the meal. Obviously bins are the devil so this made sense.

I also met a girl there who landed her job through her lunch break (this sounds like my kind of Muk-bang) when, due to a long queue at the counter, she offered to put an order in for the man next to her. He thought she was trying to pay for his food, and so suggested he probably ought to be the one paying. She hadn’t realised he was the Global Strategy Director, and that she was accidentally networking and ultimately getting herself a position on the grad scheme.

At Indicia, near Chancery Lane, a bustling food market sat right outside the office. A food market + East London = edgy. With this concept nurtured unhealthily within me by social media, I excitedly strode out at 1pm. Here, thought I, is the place to be truly alone and unnoticed, maybe even find the bits of myself I didn’t find travelling on my gap year. However, the market got the better of me. I see myself as a food explorer and adventurer type, but as previously mentioned, I am mainly a creature of habit. I can have phases of eating salt and vinegar McCoys crisps for weeks, so the choice of the market completely overwhelmed me. The first day saw me tackling an absolutely ginormous falafel pitta, its filling going completely akimbo and as a result my face was covered in sweet chilli sauce. I’m mortified that for the rest of my time, I ended up diving into a desperately-wishing-not-to-appear-middle-class coffee shop; one where all the baristas looked as though they’d emerged from the pages of i:D with undershaved haircuts and Nike Roshe trainers. There I found sanctuary in the best brownie I’ve eaten in my entire life. It still haunts my dreams. I comfort myself that although it wasn’t from the exotic food stalls, the barista who owned that coffee shop was probably an Aussie.

I’m now interning at an agency where heading to the cafeteria alone is a safe bet; if you lock eyes with an office pal up there you can just head straight on over and take a seat/I’ve decided that people don’t really have an option and I crash right on in. There’s no room for wallflowers when you’re trying to make friends and I’ve learnt to take the lunch break by the horns. We should be grown up enough not to need escorting to mealtimes, but it’s natural to want to be welcomed into the fold. To quote Craig David, lunch breaks are a good way to test a company’s flavour, and it’s funny how much they can be a challenge to one’s self-assurance. Just as you would with the food itself, sometimes you have to try something new and push out of your comfort zone to get a taste for it. 

Made in America

Oyster Magazine

Photography: Duncan Killick

Fashion: Tanya Levak

The Two F Words: Feminism & Fashion

This is an updated version of a brand piece I wrote in November for a job application that it seems timely to share after Dov Charney's (ex American Apparel CEO) presence in recent press...

Until recently feminism was referred to as the hushed ‘F-word’ because, ironically, it wasn’t feminine to be a feminist and it certainly wasn’t cool. However in the last few months, thanks to digital media and a series of high profile women championing the cause, a new wave of feminism has begun to emerge. With Emma Watson’s UN speech spreading through social media like wild fire, suddenly everybody from Harry Styles to American comedian Anzar Ansari, gloriously declaring himself a feminist on the Letterman show, is publicly #heforshe.

Feminism even infiltrated fashion. A surprising ‘he for she’ supporter is Karl Lagerfeld. One wouldn’t normally associate Chanel’s high-end product with political agendas, and yet back in September Lagerfeld sent his models down the runway armed with slogan-bearing placards shouting in favour of equal rights for women. Lagerfeld knows full well that most of the Instagrammers and Tweeters watching his shows unfold are unable to afford his creations, but he is buying a stake in youth culture by embracing matters closest to their heart. In recent collections he has adapted street-level, normcore-youth fashion trends (trainers, tracksuits and backpacks) and graffitied them with the Chanel logo and signature tweed to translate them into luxury. He appeals to the noisy and visually active young, with their Tumblrs and Pinterests and virtually-voiced opinions. Chanel maintains its luxury status through its prices, but is figuring out ways to reach the masses that will promote the brand for free. Once on board they buy into the cheaper licensed Chanel products (sunglasses, makeup) that keep the brand afloat. Young girls love Emma Watson, and if Chanel loves her too then they’ll keep buying into its brand at a level they can afford. While remaining largely exclusive of this audience, Chanel seems simultaneously to understand and reach it universally.

Fashion filters down from the top. If Karl is a certified feminist, then inevitably the high street will soon be too. But what about the old ‘sex-sells’ approach at American Apparel? Now that Dov Charney has made a final exit, and a woman (Paula Schneider) is in charge perhaps we’ll see some much needed adjustments. It’s strange to recall that in 2005 the brand won for marketing excellence at the LA Fashion Awards; could it win again now? Perhaps, once Schneider’s turned things around. The retailor has “sweatshop free” production and low prices on its side, but in the reinvigoration of female empowerment, its old, sexualised imagery would let the side down. As Veronique Hyland wrote for New York Magazine, “The curse of American Apparel’s original branding is that it worked too well — and now we can’t get it out of our heads. The key for whoever takes over from Charney will be to make a completely new message stick.” She writes that American Apparel needs to build on its altruistic credentials and these alone. They need to become squeaky clean.

However, Schneider is playing a clever game that might just allow the brand to transform and align more with relevant cultural movements, and retain some of the elements from its branding that clicked with the consumer. She’s hardly commented on Dov Charney’s seedy past and the way it seeped into the whole brand identity, only saying that “there are moments in time for different types of advertising” which would imply she’s realised (like the rest of us) that the company needs to sell more than just sex. Her first campaign for American Apparel, in December, was a witty one. She cast Brendan Jordan, a viral Youtube sensation thanks to his flamboyant, unconscious dance moves during a news broadcast (just check it out), posing not dissimilarly to the old-school, semi-pornographic images of American Apparel ads past. And yet the tone has been altered entirely; this approach has brought the brand bang up to date without dismissing its past altogether. The images still hold the retro feel Charney founded his business on, and possess a humorous self-awareness through quite literally sticking with the same format and design. Instead of being degrading to women, the ads embrace individuality, and sell originality. They show American Apparel is still selling for hipsters, but no longer selling sex. A brand that cuts in on a social media-created trend or personality is the kind of brand that will appeal to modern day millennials, the young and get free mass marketing from their engagement with the campaign. Savvy stuff. 

Before Schneider sent out this campaign, a completely new message seemed crucial amidst the media outpouring of Charney-controversy, but now one can see how a complete u-turn to feminist campaigns would surely have seemed superficial when a Google image search for American Apparel is still very much NSFW (I'm serious - don't do it at your desk). It will be interesting to watch where the brand goes from here, and at some point in the future, it would be stirring to see them take up the torch for feminism like Lagerfeld, but then again, they aren't selling to an all-female base. For now, this subtle tweaking to the brand message seems to be working a treat. And it's a big step in the right direction when you compare the two campaign images here - the one above being the least pornographic I could find. In my book, promoting the cause of self-confidence and individuality is just as worthy as women's rights, and shouldn't be forgotten.

What Grabbed Me Pt II

The Need to Nest

I've become so obsessed with scented candles recently that I have even started looking for them online. This is obviously a ludicrous idea because no one has yet invented scent-transferrable computer screens, although I'm sure it won't be long until they do. I've also had the urge to buy vases, throws, rugs, prints and photo frames, and I've convinced my parents that I need to redecorate my entire room with white walls. I've always loved interior design and trinkets, and hardly anyone is averse to a good smelly candle, but recently I've noticed an irrepressible urge to create my own space. The only way I can describe it is the need to nest. 

Perhaps it's a girl thing. I am in my prime for breeding according to science (though I'm afraid I'm going to have to let Mr Science down on that one) so maybe it's just biological that I want to make house. Maybe it is a vocational calling to retrain as an interior designer. I think not, although I will blow my own trumpet and say I would be very good. No, I think it's a frustration at STILL living at home. This need to nest (shall we call it N2N? Joking) is my body reacting physically to social convention. It's telling me that I should be in my own space and be sticking and pinning as much to the walls as possible while burning a whole chapel of scented candles, with flowers dying in beautiful vases all over the shop. This nesting syndrome I've developed is in fact a contrary urge to leave the parental nest, spread my wings and fly. 

I also think it's a complete need to re-identify one's self, rebrand if you will. Perhaps it's a need to just find an altogether separate and new entity from the ones I've known before. In this state of limbo, I think this urgency is part of the wish to find a concrete lifestyle that is all my own. My parents' style, which I love and is 'home', is a sort of colourful, bohemian, organised chaos or cosy clutter, slash very dated because it's very expensive to do up a kitchen. Hence why most images I pin on my Pinterest 'Interiors' board are of whitewashed walls, duck egg blues and lime greens. They scream fresh and new and not 1 Park Road, Haslemere, Surrey. White walls are a beginning that you have to fill strategically to complete the picture. A bit like how I would like my life to start panning out. Although, I have gotten very comfortable back here at home and although I always suggest clearing the landing of its excess piles of curtain material and sleeping bags, I'm no good at decluttering my own room. My Christmas presents are still in a little heap by my bed and it's well past the stage of 'admiring' them. 
So here's to a clean slate, white washed walls, and welcome decorations in my dream house. And here's to that metaphor's equivalent in my real-life. Without the cringe. 

Like Crazy

I thought I understood it, that I could grasp it. 

But I didn't, not really. 

Only the smudgeness of it; the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it.

I didn't realize it would sometimes be more than whole, 

That the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea. 

Because it's the halves that halve you in half. 

I didn't know, don't know, about the in-between bits; 

The gory bits of you, and the gory bits of me. 

From one of my favourite films, 'Like Crazy'. I'm so glad I re-watched it, and was reminded of these perfect words. They're from the scene when Anna reads her writing to Jacob, before they embark on their tumultuous, transatlantic, bittersweet love story. I thought the passage so delicious, raw and punchy it deserved to be put down on the page, or the virtual one at least. I'm sure hundreds of other overly romantic bloggers have already done it too. This was the film that resulted in my continuing girl-crush on Felicity Jones, and after which I bought a vintage army jacket that I wore all of the following summer.