Je Suis Art Deco

Shining, gleaming, curved and creamy
Lean and clean and slender, dreamy
Lovely, modern, ship-shaped, steamy
Je suis art deco

Le style moderne est international
Uber chic and uber rational
Bauhaus bling is ever fashionable
Je suis art deco

A city decked in neon light
Sun by day and moon by night
Silver, chrome and grey and white
Je suis art deco

Cocktail bars and jazz and blues
Josephine with painted toes
Black and white and ties and bows
Je suis art deco

The ladies they all dress with care
Diamante bows and shoulders bare
Painted lips and marcelled hair
Elles sont art deco

Smoke rings in a crowded room
Tuxedoed chanteurs start to croon
A silhouette against the moon
Ils sont art deco

Glide across a Bakelite floor
See right through the porthole door
Keep on coming back for more
Je suis art deco

A monument to monochrome
Cooker, fridge and telephone
We love the gadgets that we own
Je suis art deco

Clarice Cliff and Eileen Grey
Merveilleux et enchanté
Day and night and night and day
We love art deco

Marble lido, swimming pool
Ultra chic and ultra cool
A fur bikini is the rule
Je suis art deco

Surfaces subdued and muted
Buildings stepped and glasses fluted
Cities planned and suburbs routed
Je suis art deco

Senate House and Modern, Tate
Chrysler Building, Empire State
Buildings small and buildings great
That was art deco

Bauhaus bling is now passé
Oh, la la, we’ll rue the day
Machine aesthetic went away
We miss art deco.

Fifty shades of white...

White is the colour of winter, ironically when the days are shortest and darkest - what a glorious time of year for artists to chart the structure of trees, branches denuded of foliage against grey skies and blood-red sunsets! White symbolises purity, peace and cleanliness, but there is nothing tame or timorous about the shade. White light, actually a combination of all colours in the rainbow, is brilliant and strong, evoking the might of the thunderstorm with loud crashes and flashes, and bright forks renting leaden skies. White evokes the richness of milk and cream, the tenderness of pale-green meadows sprinkled with flowers of yarrow and myrtle, the beauty of white roses in a summer garden, the mystery of moonlight falling upon leaves of silvery artemisia. Like snow, white is evanescent and ethereal, happening rarely – in Great Britain, at least – and never lasting for long when it does come. Pure white is very volatile, ever threatening to “corrupt” into grey and lemon, pink violet and pale green. Artists have made much use of this volatility, giving us fifty shades and more, of white – just look at The White Duck (1753) by Jean-Baptiste Oudry. It was the longing for well-designed sheets in white linen that caused Chrissie Rucker to found the White Company. Twenty years down the line, it has built a reputation for selling quality bedding and towels, nightwear and cushions, candles and perfumes…

Elfies Rule OK.......

....finding your inner elf...is easy when you try....whatever elf you want to be...

Deck the malls....

Ye gods – it’s happened again. The narrative runs something like this. Somewhere in space and time, a businessman with a mill or two to spare dresses up a slice of unused land as a Christmas theme park. With promises of a “magical experience” or a “festive day out”, he proceeds to extract money from punters – lots of them. The opening day is followed by tears of disappointment and angry requests for refunds when said punters discover that the snow isn’t real, that the reindeer is a decrepit donkey bearing wooden antlers, and that the elves turn out to be all too human with needing fag breaks and the minimum wage, just like anyone else. It has happened before; in 2008 in Lapland – in the New Forest, not in Finland – and in Milton Keynes last year. The venue this time was the “Magical Journey” in Sutton Coldfield and the venture promoted by television doyen of design, Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen. Indeed, it seems to have become almost a metaphor of Christmas itself, the triumph of seasonal hope over actual, mundane experience. Maybe it’s good in us, this atavistic longing for a place that never was, a mist-enshrouded forest at the foot of a mountain where elves dwell and trolls lurk – and wishes really do come true for those with the right attitude. The sad truth is that no reality can ever match even the most jaded and clichéd of fantasies. Nowadays, the maestros of the season are the store managers who deck the malls with a thousand boughs of holly, piped carols a-playing and cash machines jingling in the place of sleigh bells. By the way, Selfridges of London is looking great with its gold-and-green indoor theme, and fairytale dressed windows. If you can, do pay it a visit.

The yummiest Mummy of all....

I don’t normally “do” movies in this column, but I have just witnessed a beezer, a corker, the grandmother and grandfather of all Mummy movies. Forget those anaemic, contemporary CGI-ridden remakes; hearken to Hammer House’s The Mummy (Terence Fisher, 1957), starring Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. You won’t recognise the latter thesp by sight; he is covered in bandages, throughout. You will tremble to his frighteningly good performance, his menacing, shuffling presence spreading dust and terror among all those who encounter him. The set is atmospheric to say the least; a gorgeous, absinthe-induced, art nouveau fantasy, interspersed with flashbacks to a multicoloured Egypt, 4000 BC – ye gods – the British Museum was never like this! I won’t give the plot away but watch out for a gloriously funny twist towards the end that will have you falling out of your seat – if you haven’t done so, already. Whatever, do get to see this yummiest of all mummies – or Mummys…?

From ear to eternity....

In episode one of the current series, my eyes sought the honest, upright apparatus that was ever in the hall of the Apprentice house. At the sight of the circle, I thought I was dreaming – but no. The telephone format really has changed. Maybe the producers and crew had grown tired of the endless tide of phallic jibes that stemmed from the familiar model; it hardly matters. I just wish mine had been the imagination from which this piece of divine design has sprung. The new telephone is not only cool, but gives rise to a world of metaphors. The circle is a symbol of eternity, unity and integrity. When the phone rings (hah!) the silence – and the circle – is broken. We could go on and on about talking in circles and passing the news around, but… I wasn’t even sure how to google this product but finally, “cordless circular telephone” brought up a spate of links and images. Try Currys for one of these cool numbers - and brace yourself for the price.

Yes, honestly; I wanted to be Lynsey...

It is with sadness I have heard of the death of Lynsey de Paul, that seventies’ songtress and writer, whose sultry ballads on Top of the Pops evoked pink cocktails and late-night piano bars. O, how I wanted to be Lynsey, spending many hours, much lip gloss (I still have a Max Factor lippie from that era) and bags of imagination in trying to achieve the de Paul pout. The latter ingredient I needed in plenty, since with my thick glasses and complexion liberally sprinkled with zits, I hadn’t a coal’s chance in a furnace of achieving semblance with my idol. As the 1970s progressed, the Biba-inspired look and smoky voice faded from fashion, unable to translate to the cut-and-thrust commercialism of the 1980s. However, Lynsey continued to work, channelling her creativity into acting, art and further song writing. Her contribution to life and art will continue to sparkle on a planet rendered a little more grey and less glamorous in the wake of her departure. Lynsey de Paul (1948-2014, RIP).