Leg zone or battle zone?

It is a commonly accepted thing that female fashion is always changing, and that women are obliged to go with the trend, or else be deemed second-class citizenry. I don’t know if this has anything to do with an extraordinary event involving me, a decade and a half, ago.

I had been made redundant and was dutifully doing the round of employment agencies. To mark the occasion and to counter the frightful weather at the time, I kitted me out in navy wool jacket and brand-new, ultra-conservative black Alexon trousers, teamed with flat, black shoes. I looked every inch – I thought – the creative professional hunting for the perfect position. One spring afternoon, during yet another agency interview, a chippy female recruitment consultant told me that I might increase my chances of employment if I was to wear a skirt.

When I had recovered my surprise, I pointed out the necessity of dressing for the weather, for serial pavement pounding, and the importance of not eroding one’s redundancy pile purchasing fripperies such as nylon tights. She waved my arguments away, insisting that the non-show of leg, from knee to ankle, greatly lessened a girl’s chances of worthwhile employment. When she had finished speaking, my interviewer stood up and moved from behind her desk to reveal her feet in slippers; not the elegant, heeled kind but the good, old carpet variety with fur about the rims – what was this? Comfort for her, and pain and suffering for me.

I stared pointedly at them, trying to cause her as much discomfort as possible, in return for the put-down she had thrown at me. I still gag at the surreality of the situation and of her argument, especially when I now see a tidal wave of women going to work in comfortable, sensible garments. I have lost touch with corporate employment and sincerely hope those days are over forever – but I’m not sexist. My next feature will be on the subject of that male manacle, the collar and tie. I promise.

Vital Vidal

Seven years ago, I bought a Vidal Sassoon hairdryer for the princely sum of £12.99; 1800 watts, folding handle, 2 heat/speed settings, worldwide dual voltage, cool shot button, 2-year guarantee. Seven years down the line, it is still in perfect running order. In all the time I have had it, it has never given any trouble; coughed, spluttered or conked out while in use. Indeed, its lack of temper and even temperament is in direct opposition to the hank of hair that it routinely grooms.

Compact and streamlined, the brand name emblazoned in plain, white lettering on its shiny black casing, using it is rather like being in the company of one of those maddeningly well-spoken, ex-public school kids who never err, whether by word, deed, or gesture. How you long to see these scions of the well-to-do betray emotion, sprout dishevelled hair and effect slurred speech, just for once.

I am certain that these people have vices. Indeed, I know it. Yet somehow, they keep their private personae just that, private. Maybe that is the essence of good breeding? Meanwhile I have my hairdryer for company – and example.

Brickbusting,,,

It is thirty-seven years since Tate Gallery acquired artist Carl André’s Equivalent VIII. This installation comprises one hundred and twenty fire bricks arranged in two layers in a six-by-ten rectangle. When first exhibited at Tate Gallery in 1976, now Tate Britain, the piece drew much criticism from the press because of the perception that taxpayers’ money had been spent on paying an inflated price for a collection of bricks. (Wikipedia)

Ah, what a genius is André, what a visionary! His installation went on display in a quiet interval in British history, that pause before the buying and selling of brick and mortar became the passion, the all-time obsession of the paying public. Interestingly, the media reaction to Equivalent VIII was also symptomatic of things to come. It is only taxpayers’ money that must never be spent on building and its raw materials, their own built patches never drawing quite enough cash from private buyers.

But who is Carl André? He was born in Massachusetts in 1935 and studied art at Phillips Academy, Andover. Later, he was to work with Constantin Brancusi and Frank Stella. From 1960 to 1964 André worked as freight brakeman and conductor in New Jersey, an experience that was to influence both his art and personality. For a number of years he concentrated on writing, most notably his concrete poetry, in which the typographical arrangement of words is as important in conveying the intended effect as the elements of the poem; meaning of words, rhyme, rhythm, and so on.

In 1965 he had his first exhibition of minimalist sculpting; a term applied to various forms of art and design, especially visual art and music, where work is stripped down to its most fundamental features. (Wikipedia) If any artist alive knows about fundamental features, it is certainly Carl André.

Nappy days!

No, I haven’t become a parent, but I’ve just spent some time in the company of one and I feel it my duty to warn other parents of dark, low-down dangers lurking out there. It all happened while Mum, Baby, older Junior and I were touring the local shopping paradise. Mum bought a stash of much-needed nappies from a branch of a well-known pharmacy chain.

Set up for the day, we continued on our tour, pouring over all manner of goods; toys for older Junior, clothing, shoes, cosmetics and jewellery. In short, it was a girls’ day-out heaven. However, when we entered an upmarket department store, the security system alarm rung. Our party was definitely the transgressor. Later, when leaving the store, we artfully divided our shopping between Mum, older Junior and me, and all went through separate gates.

It was my first time ever to set bells ringing. A female security office appeared out of nowhere, offering her assistance. My carrier bag contained a pair of (paid for) sandals – and the plastic sack of nappies. The security check turned into a good-natured banter. What if, I said, there was a security tag attached to all the nappies, and Baby set off alarms wherever she went?

A laughing security woman left us. We hurriedly returned to the pharmacy where they deactivated (how that?) an electronic tag on the nappy bag. Of course, Baby gurgled nonchalantly throughout the entire incident, which has left me wondering: does the phrase secure nappy have a new meaning?

Cool and modern...

Once upon a time I lived in a big, old house in south London. Though I loved the place, there were certain minor inconveniences. The huge, sash windows made the building difficult to heat in winter. At night, if you were lying in bed while someone else ascended or descended the staircase, you were rocked about in bed, gently or otherwise. This was not always an unpleasant experience, but it was a constant reminder that every house begins slowly descending back to nature from the day that it is built.
However, this old house had one great advantage. On the hottest of hot summer days – and there were plenty – the stairwell that ran through the building acted like a cooling tower. It was oriented so that little sun shone there after ten in the morning, its one window facing east. It was also blessed with a mosaic ground floor. On really hot afternoons, it was a joy to recline against the newel post in a cane chair, making believe you were hanging out in the Alhambra.

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls….

One disadvantage of modernism in summertime is its copious use of glass. Le Corbusier built the Villa Savoye with a sunroof to compensate for this. But if you don’t wish to follow the sunbathing craze, newly fledged in the 1930s and now discredited, what do you do? Now that summers are getting hotter, I envisage a new type of modernism. Keep the pale walls – great for bouncing back the rays of the sun – and the flat roofs, and the (specially-coated) windows and glass walls. But instead of expensive and environmentally unfriendly air conditioning, adopt – and adapt – the Arabic principle of the cooling tower.

This could possibly be a ‘revet’ added to the north face of every domestic dwelling. In the case of apartments, the revets could be spaced between apartment in the block. In either case, vents connected to the revet could be opened or closed, and would open onto each room in the dwelling. And the revets need not be ugly. It is not long since chimney places formed the ‘hub’ of domestic houses, well, the revet could be the new hub. Well-designed and harmoniously paced, these new, hubbed houses would become as much a part of the modernist landscape as wind turbines and solar panels. So, that be the principle. Architects and engineers, over to you.

Glassism, cubism and futurism

Several post ago, I alluded to the recent innovation of an interior wall of glass blocks that transformed the house I grew up in from a quasi country cottage to one with, er, an interior wall of glass blocks. What is the connection between glass and modernism? Modernist buildings tend to use copious amounts of glass; glass that was first manufactured en mass in the foundries of the nineteenth century. Glass may appear to be a static substance but it is not. Glass is made primarily of silica, a substance drawn from sand and gravel. When molten it can be moulded into a variety of shapes – think of glass ornaments.

It can be rolled into flat sheets, or rounded forms, or cut into blocks. Glass can be plain, coloured, frosted, muted, gilded or polarised, rendering it impervious to UV rays. During the day a mirrored glass building reflects the surrounding world; the tide of moving traffic and pedestrians at ground level. Further up it reflects the ever-changing vista of sky and cloud. At night, light inside a building renders its inhabitants visible to the outside world. How about a movement in art called glassism?

Cubism in art was a blossoming of futurism, a movement sparked off in 1909 by Tommaso Marinetti’s Futurist Manifesto. In painting, futurism and cubism are concerned with the representation of dynamism and movement. When you try to perceive the world through a wall of glass blocks, you see it reproduced as many times as there are blocks and reduced in size. Not the real world, you may say, but what is the real world? No doubt painters like Picasso and Carra pondered on this as they created their images of worlds splintered and distorted in many ways.

A day at the races...

I arrived mid-morning at Waterloo. At first I thought that the guy in the top hat and tailed coat had simply gotten lost on the way to the Palace. But soon I noticed other subjects in morning suits, and chiffon dresses, and froufrou hats - and the women were dressed up, too!

Natch, it’s Ascot, I thought, as cameras clicked copiously on the concourse. It was all great fun, free of pretence at style or fashion and really, rather naff. But what better way to go in these recession-bound times, than to take time out from pretending to make money, get the glad rags on and spend a day at the races.

This brief exercise in concourse couture set me thinking: why do brightly-coloured frocks look so stunning alongside black suits? More next time…