Diana Rigg and Natalie Wood…

1960s, diana rigg, natalie wood, picture spam, seventies fashion

…were born on exactly the same day, in exactly the same year. When I first discovered this factoid, I was genuinely taken aback. Natalie Wood seems like she comes from an entirely different era to Diana Rigg. But I now realise this is more of a perception problem on my part, mainly because Wood died so young and became famous much earlier; some of the similarities in these photos are seriously spooky.

Happy birthday ladies, you deserve a picture spam!

Inspirational Images: Rita Hayworth

1940s, Inspirational Images, rita hayworth, underwear

Scanned from ‘Screen Goddesses’ by Tom Hutchinson

Inspirational Images: The Passion by Oliviero Toscani

1970s, hand tinting, Inspirational Images, james wedge, mild sauce, Toscani

Scanned from Masterpieces of Erotic Photography. I assumed it was a James Wedge set when I first flicked through the book!

Inspirational Images: Le Mepris, 1963

1960s, brigitte bardot, films, Inspirational Images, jean luc godard

Michel Piccoli and Brigitte Bardot in Le Mepris (1963)

Irina Ionesco

irina ionesco, Photographers, seventies fashion

The 16th is a very ordinary suburb of Paris. In it are many grey, ordinary blocks of flats. Taking the lift to Irina Ionesco’s apartment, where she lives with her daughter, model Eva, it seems very small and cramped, but there is nothing unusual about it. Can this really be the home of Rumanian-born Irina Ionesco, one of France’s most exotic and famous photographers? Is this really where she has produced her best work during the last 15 years?

Irina Ionesco (wearing that Biba dress!)

This apartment contains two distinct worlds. The real world of cups of tea and chatting about the weather, and the fantasy world of Irina Ionesco’s dreams. The largest room in the flat has been turned into a studio. Not the sort of studio usually constructed by professional photographers, however, but a boudoir crammed full of curios. It has the atmosphere of an Arabian tent, or perhaps a Turkish harem. The whole room is black — the walls and ceiling — and there are shutters over the windows.

Inside the room everything takes place in darkness, to the exclusion of the everyday world. What is behind the shutters of this room? ‘Nothing, a very neutral scene. A drab, brick garden I have no wish to see.’

The room is decorated with shawls, canopies of lace, and other delicate fabrics. The atmosphere is so characteristic of her photography and all the objects in the room are used in her picture-making. ‘None of them are of any great value,’ says Irina, ‘all that matters to me about accessories is the shape, what they remind me of. Even if the price or quality of something is modest, I’m interested in transforming it into something marvellous through the magic of the lens. I have often been called “the Queen of Rags”, which I don’t much like though it isn’t exactly derogatory, though it is a fact that you can do a lot with rags. Everything depends on vision — this is what enthralls me. What I like to do is find a girl who is ugly and make her into something unique. It’s a constant process, or else it wouldn’t work. Few people see in a dirty rag anything but a dirty rag, whereas I can visualize what it can become, a piece of frippery perhaps a hundred years old…’

The ‘magic of the lens’ is what makes Irina Ionesco’s photographs so interesting. However, her work does not depend on any great technical expertise. Though she has experimented with solarisation, she uses little by way of lighting and no technical trickery to achieve her effects. In fact, she is self-taught, having started photography purely by accident. After moving to Paris at the age of 16, she took up painting and became quite successful. Some galleries became interested in her work and collectors started to buy it. ‘Then,’ she says, ‘I changed my way of working, and people were astonished. I was criticized. I lost my collectors. I had an exhibition that was a flop. I decided to stop painting. Then, quite by chance, I bought a camera. I bought a 35mm reflex with a 50mm lens and some filters, and brought it back here, not having any idea how to use it. I was even less interested in the technical side then than I am now, but I did acquire some rudimentary knowledge.’

She learned by experiment, but her aim was not so much to create with the camera as to record the scenes that were enacted in her private theatre, this private world of dreams. She does not photograph models, she photographs people she knows. ‘I do not always choose them,’ she says, ‘sometimes they come to me. There’s always been the possibility of dialogue.’ However, her most frequent model has been her daughter Eva, who knows her best.

‘What happens is that I start working, usually in the evening because my imagination only comes to life at night, and I begin to arrange the elements for a photograph. The mood of the picture develops slowly. The model and I talk, and eventually I get the moment which I think has captured the mood. It’s a very precious moment because the model has to be completely inside the situation. Five minutes either way and you can be outside it. You have to be patient.

‘I understand that in more luxurious surroundings I could do many things which weren’t obvious at the start, but it is good to work economically, to have a sense of values: to have only one light, one camera and lens, one pencil to write a beautiful poem, one box of paints for a magnificent work.’ Until recently, these deliberate limitations have included ‘one film’ – black and white Tri-X. She has said that ‘black and white is far more metaphysical,’ and avoided colour in her dream world, ‘no doubt because reality is co1oured,’ she admits. Now she has started to experiment with colour, but without leaving her dream world.

She says each photograph is ‘like an autobiographical poem.’ This suggests that she photographs her daughter and certain girls because she can impose her personality on them. The mood she creates is also personal. ‘Maybe it is myself all the time. The model can become my mirror and indeed people often think that the model in the photograph is myself as I was ten years ago.’

But her pictures of women, with their pallid complexions and statuesque poses, often suggest death. ‘Yes. I didn’t set out to do this — it happened. It is more than death, it is mainly the waiting. It is an image of loneliness. Loneliness and death are almost the same thing.’

Interview and photos taken from ‘How to Photograph Women’ by Dixons.

Chinoiserie, Japonisme… it’s all the same to Honey Magazine!

biba, chinoiserie, crowthers, Honey Magazine, japonisme, loungewear, morgan rank, underwear

Ahhhh. Random cultural eclecticism. The backbone of the fashion world. Good to know some things never change; titling your spread ‘Chinoiserie’ and then referring to Geishas, kimonos and Karate. Good old Honey. Regardless, it’s a beautiful spread full of beautiful clothes. I’m very passionate about loungewear, because I work from home and it’s my equivalent of a sexy, tailored work suit. What I wouldn’t give for those Crowthers pieces…

I resent being termed a ‘layabout’ though. The cheek!

Photos by Morgan Rank. Honey, December 1970

Mensday: Pinning down pin-ups

1960s, david warner, Honey Magazine, Mensday, micky dolenz, oliver reed, steve marriott, steve mcqueen, terence stamp, the monkees, the small faces

If you have already looked through the pictures in this feature, picked out your idol, or dwelt lovingly on the reckonable men there, THEN . . . it‘s very likely you‘re immature.

Thats the psychiatrists opinion, anyway. They state the facts, saying that most girls outgrow their attachments to film or pop stars when they become mature, and that these attachments are safety-valves for pent-up emotions.

This is stating facts without criticising. But it‘s worth taking a closer, critical look at just what these attachments can do to one’s life. Basically, we feel, it‘s fun to sigh or scream over a pop star, and harmless to take a fancy to a film star. But a lot of girls don’t leave it at that.

Very soon, the pinning-up and pining becomes an obsession with them. They find it increasingly hard to construct real life doings, because they’re in a glorious never-never world of mental communication with an unattainable, transcendental man. This doesn‘t call for any effort on their part, whereas carving out a real life, and real relationships, does. So they take the soft option. Though, if they stopped to think about it, they’d see which turns up the thumping great bonuses in terms of personality-enrichment, and which keeps one simmering away in a state of negative-thinking infantilism.

So, beware. lf you spend any more than the occasional minute thinking about lover-boy, not only may you be tending dangerously towards obsession, but also you‘re wasting a lot of time, which you might spend making life interesting in reality, instead of only in imagination. ln just one half-hour of idle dreaming, you could be doing, learning, enjoying things, even if they‘re as un-strenuous as Capable-Kating a dress, or experimenting with Meringues Chantilly.

This doesn’t mean we suggest you all take vows never to go near a discothéque or cinema again. Just that you get the pin-up scene in proportion. Pop records and films are meant as an adjunct to life. If you start thinking of them as life itself, then you are, in effect, drugging yourself, distorting reality.

But if you can realise all this and say: okay, but my thinking David Warner is fabulous only adds another interest to an already interest-packed life, then that’s fine. Go ahead. Ahead to our Pick of the Pin-Ups.

Honey Magazine, July 1967

I’m sorry, what were you saying unnamed Honey staff writer? I was too distracted by Terence Stamp’s eyes and Oliver Reed’s exquisitely sexy scars to pay much attention to you…

Duffy and Squiffy

bloggers, brian duffy, christine keeler, grace coddington, ossie clark, wendyB

Since returning from Paris, I’ve managed to do considerably less work than I ought to have done. However, it has been in the name of enjoyable vintage-related shenanigans so I don’t mind too much. I am working on new listings now, so I will let you know when they go up!

On Thursday night, I was at the launch of the new Brian Duffy book (published by ACC) which I will be reviewing (or salivating over, if you know me at all) soon. Idea Generation gallery in Shoreditch are having an exhibition and sale of Duffy prints, which are all superb. I particularly adore the picture of Grace Coddington with her boobs out, and Christine Keeler….also with her boobs out. A pattern is emerging, methinks.

Talking of boobs…. As lovely as these photos are, I have seen them all before. This meant that I was a smidge distracted by the howling, and I really do mean that, typos on the captions beside each image. It brought out my worst side, Miss Pedantpants, and here is my gallery of shame (I’ve highlighted the worst offenders…). The book doesn’t have these typos, I hasten to add, so the Idea Generation lot really need to buck their Ideas up. It’s not a professional look. Unless they really do have Yoda writing for them…

Pedantry aside, it was a great evening. The photos are well worth having a gander at, even if you can’t afford to buy a print, and it’s a lovely, airy exhibition space. I would recommend peeking into the smaller side room, since there’s a glass covered table full of Duffy ephemera and smaller, less well-known photos on the walls.

We also ended up having a little chat with Brian’s younger brother (why on earth am I so terrible with people’s names? Shameful. He was a dude!) who was genuinely lovely and happy to talk about his big brother. I was unusually sober, unusually for such an event, due to the fact that only beer was on offer. A state which was not achieved when I attended the 4th Annual Transatlantic Blogger meet-up on Saturday.

Ahem.

It’s become tradition to meet, eat and drink [Pimm’s] when the gorgeous WendyB visits London in the Summer. It’s also my tradition to forget my camera and rely on other people’s photos afterwards, so thank you to Wendy and Kate for providing me with a few shots to share (if you haven’t already seen them on their blogs!).

It was as lovely as always to see gorgeous laydeez Kate, Margaret and Sharon Rose, and an absolute joy to finally meet the legendary MrB. Needless to say, conversation came around to recent newspaper events, and there was much gossip, advice and a valuable and hilarious education in blunt euphemisms from the brilliant Kate.

I was wearing an Ossie Clark crepe skirt and a pink and yellow knitted top by Erica Budd. I’ve seen Erica Budd as a name in my Petticoat and Honey magazines for years now, but never possessed or even seen one. So I was chuffed to find that particular beauty. The Ossie is an absolute staple of mine, and the shoes are the most insanely comfortable wedges (comfortable given the 5 inch heel anyways…) from Marks and Spencer. I realise I lose cred for them being M&S, but they look and feel good so I don’t give a hoot! But I did have a hoot on Saturday (even if I did pay for it with a Pimm’s headache) so thank you ladies!

Père Lachaise (Or, How I learned to share my birthday)

abelard and heloise, brasserie balzar, brian jones, jim morrison, paris

Rare non-grinning photo of me. My birthday outfit of Fifties rustic print cotton skirt and plain black strapless top, crochet shawl and vintage carved bone bracelet. Photo courtesy of Mr Brownwindsor.

We decided that my birthday should be a peaceful, wandering kind of day. And when you’re in Catholic European countries, often the most peaceful places to wander can be cemeteries. I find the architecture and atmosphere to be utterly intoxicating and spiritual; prompting the darkest and lightest thoughts in turn. I had only been to Montmartre before now, so we decided to take a turn around Père Lachaise. I knew Abelard and Heloise were re-buried here, and I’m rather fond of their story, so we sought out their grand tomb. Unfortunately, and as you can see below, it was covered in scaffolding. I’m sure it’s for a good reason, I just hope they get it sorted quickly.

That morning, as we discussed whose graves we would most like to visit, I expressed a distinct lack of interest in the real ‘destination’ graves, such as Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison. Not that I don’t like either gentleman’s work, but I’m not enough of a super-fan to wish to pay my respects. It then dawned on me. I’m more weirded-out by the glorious Brian Jones having died on my birthday, exactly ten years before I was born. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew Jim had also rather inconveniently breathed his last on the 3rd July. Those pesky rock stars. Then my mind wandered again to the fact that he died two years after Brian. Errr. That means he died forty years ago. Oh. God.

We decided that the cemetery was large enough to contain a horde of Doors fans and us, without either party meeting for very long. We just needed to avoid his section. Right? Well, Abelard and Heloise are buried near enough to Mr Morrison to ensure that we could hear the strains (literally, straining sounds) of people murdering his music. It was irresistable.

It was very tempting to stand in the middle of them all and have a ridiculous tantrum about the fact that Jim Morrison has stolen my birthday thunder, but I decided that they might not get the joke. So I learned to share, absorbed the strangeness, signed someone’s book, posed for a photo (let me know if anyone ever spots it online) and then we wandered off to find some more interesting graves.

http://static.photobucket.com/player.swf

After chucking out time, we headed over to the Quartier Latin and (having decided we weren’t going to be able to find anywhere open or half-decent on a Sunday evening) ended up having a delicious meal at Brasserie Balzar. This establishment has been serving the intellectuals of The Sorbonne since 1886 and has, more recently, become something of a destination brasserie for tourists. I don’t feel too bad about the latter aspect, because we didn’t set out to eat there at all – it was positively accidental. We had a wonderful Kir Royale to celebrate (me, not Jim Morrison!) outside, while they freed up a table inside, and then demolished a wonderful meal. Special mention must go to the Îles flottantes I had for dessert. Lighter than air, I’m amazed they stayed put on the plate.

Photo courtesy of Mr Brownwindsor. I live in my crochet shawl during summer evenings… The one thing you can’t see in these photos is the beautiful pendant I was given that morning. I will give it its own special blog post soon!

Then a romantic, if occasionally stinky, walk by the Seine (complete with early Nineties dance music pumping out from someone’s ghetto blaster. Did we find some kind of wormhole in time? If so, I’d prefer it to be a good twenty years earlier, thanks.) and back to our lovely apartment on the Rue de Dunkerque.

I feel like we did loads, but I also worry that we were too lazy and didn’t see enough exhibitions (I would also highly recommend the Stanley Kubrick exhibition at the Cinémathèque Nationale, only open until the end of the month!) but that’s fine. We’ll just have to head back over very soon. Which is the best kind of holiday, always leave yourself wanting more.

Merci Paris!

Closest I could get to birthday-thunder-thief Jim Morrison

I’m sure this happens a lot. I still couldn’t help myself though.

Petit Serge!!!

It may not be Florence, but I still require a room with a view!

If you don’t buy my gear, one day I’ll probably take it for myself. Case in point, this dress has been on my site for ages and I finally caved in and wore it myself. I am going to keep it now. I love the colours and the cut (although it’s hard to see here). My ‘first day’ outfit. Photo courtesy of Mr Brownwindsor (whose photography skills are clearly superior to mine…).

Madame Grès

fifties fashion, forties fashion, madame grès, musee bourdelle, paris, seventies fashion

I am returned from Paris! It was all perfectly wonderful, plenty of wandering (some aimless, some not…), drinking, eating and all other lovely things. I will blog a little more about events on my birthday, but I thought I would start off with the visual feast that was the Madame Grès exhibition at the Musée Bourdelle. Everything about it was a treat. The museum itself is a fantastic space; a mixture of old studios and purpose built exhibition spaces. The Grès pieces have been inserted within the permanent exhibition, and also in larger dedicated sections. You weave your way through the numbered rooms, which seem to go on forever (which is wonderful, unless you’re slightly concerned about catching your Eurostar back home…but we still managed to soak it all up!).

I have to emphasise how much of a honour it was to be able to see the dresses up close. I mean, really up close. Everyone was respectful of the ‘do not touch’ signs, so often a problem in the UK I fear, and it shows off the dresses to perfection. Grès was a designer who was all about the detail, the finest pleats and the most delicate of stitching. I couldn’t stop snapping; quite frankly, I think I forgot that I wasn’t photographing listings for my website (I should be so lucky!).

My favourite designers are always those who rarely move with the winds of fashion. Idiosyncrasy is my favourite word. The exhibit cleverly juxtaposes her early pieces with the later ones, as well as with Bourdelle’s sculptures – since sculpture was her inspiration and, I think, her vocation. I should have made more notes about dates, but I can tell you that the one immediately below this text is from 1980 (just before she went bankrupt, her House was sold and her archives destroyed). At the top of the page, the two tomato-red jersey dresses are twenty years apart in production. It’s extraordinary, and to be admired. Her skill was unmistakeable, it didn’t need to follow trends or chase notoriety and scandal.

Enjoy!