2013. The year that really, really was.

Well 2013 has definitely been one for the books. As its final moments eek away I’m still grappling with everything that I saw, did, ate, accomplished, learnt, discovered and appreciated. I’m really not ready for 2014 to start and feel like I’m being dragged along, heels firmly entrenched, towards Getting On With Things when I’m still not ready to let go of London. So, really, New Years Eve is the perfect excuse for some indulgent looking back. And there’s a lot to twist the neck for….

Art, liquor, laughs and boxes of tears.

It's been a big week. Some art. Some liquor. Some laughs. Some boxes. Some tears.

Basically in that order.

On Thursday we organised an art tour for a crowd of 16 to 25 year olds to visit the new Artangel Commission near Goodge St. I have a bit of a professional crush on Artangel and the work they do, which is ostensibly commissioning contemporary artists to make site-specific works in non-traditional art spaces. The Roger Hiorns I dragged Lovely Boy to see a few years ago was one of theirs, as is the tug boat currently parked atop the Royal Festival Hall on Southbank.

Image courtesy: Southbank Centre

Ode to Berlin

So, Berlin.

Berlin was, well, it was wonderful. I love Berlin. I love its history, its architecture, its graffiti doused scrappiness, its people, its wide streets, its bars, its flea markets, its café culture, its energy, its bike friendliness, its green spaces, its ease and in the summer, its beguiling weather. All of it and so much more I just love.

In case you haven’t gleaned, my affair with Berlin is not a recent thing. Really, it goes all the way back to 2006 when it changed my life.

The art of Peckham

After all the gallivanting of late I was pretty excited to have a weekend kicking about in London – especially now that summer has announced itself with ferocious good will.

This last weekend has been about two things mostly: Peckham. And Art. And not just because I had to work on Saturday afternoon…

Bold Tendencies, 2013

As all weekends do, this one kicked off on Friday evening. I’d managed to guilt Lovely Boy into joining me for post-work drinks in Peckham. His “but it’s just so…. far….” line didn’t really garner much sympathy. 

Me: “Oh you mean that journey that I make twice a day five days a week? That one? Too far? Really?”

Him: "...I'll meet you there." 

The pleasure that is Paris

“I’m not sure I can be bothered with Paris.”

Said my lovely, lovely husband on the eve of another decadent weekend away. I mean, talk about first world problem, talk about fucking sacrilege, more like.

I'm developing an unhealthy obsession with Paris doors

Last weekend we were in Reykjavik with LB’s parents, several weeks before that we were traipsing through France and Italy with my parents and this weekend just gone we’ve been in Paris, with my aunt and uncle on their virgin European adventure. I get the exhaustion – I myself may have also complained about it in recent weeks – but BUCK UP kiddo, it’s PARIS! And I love Paris, even when it’s nine degrees and raining.

Pimms and Penguins

On Friday night Lovely Boy and I went to the Zoo. The first and last time we were here was just over four years ago now: on A Date. One of our first dates actually and it made for the ideal location given our awkward, bumbling, out of practice romantic intentions. Oh look a monkey! A pretty bird! A meerkat! etc etc.

This time around we're husband and wife and while arguably less bumbling, there was still lots of awkward distractions. Oh look! A man in a tiger print onesie! Oh look! A group of adult women getting their face painted! Oh look! Those two came dressed as a camel! etc etc.

Just Desserts

Last week it was poetry and opera, this week it’s been about dessert...

I took LB out for another adventure last night, only this time I didn’t have to drag him. Probably because it involved three courses of adventurous eating all in the name of pudding.

Another find, another pop-up, After Hours Dessert operates on the premise that the two best bits of any meal are the drinks and the sweet finales. And so that’s what they do - just the cocktails and just the dessert. Hello, friends.

First Thursday Fail.

Casual research, typically conducted over a glass of wine somewhere suitably shabby or hipster or both, has led me to the conclusion that those that work in art are, for the most part, pretty shit at seeing art when it’s not en route to your desk or a meeting.

The exquisite Pae White en route to my desk...

Making the effort to see art for fun and/or cultural stimulation and/or intellectual enlightenment can be hard work – it’s rarely casual. By definition I don’t think it can be. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for nearly five years now to explain the fact that I’ve never once been to First Thursday.

And you’d think First Thursday would be a breeze – the first Thursday evening of the month, late night openings across east London, booze, conversation en masse, a bus from Whitechapel Gallery if you’re organised enough to book in time. But I’ve never gone. I think because if you’re going to make the effort to see art – which, you should – then don’t dress it up with distracting temptations like booze and conversation.

A trifecta of treats

Last weekend saw a confluence of occasions that brought together a few of my favourite things…

ART.

On Friday evening Nina and I went to the Hayward to see LIGHT SHOW. This is a sensory, almost spiritual, literally and otherwise dazzling exhibition of works that all use and explore light as a medium and an experience. 

Dan Flavin, untitled (to the "innovator" of Wheeling Peachblow), 1966-68

The expected big guns were there – early 1960s fluorescent pioneer Dan Flavin, Jenny Holzer with her flashing electronic signs conveying a whirr of political messages. 

Butter chicken curry

On this day four years ago I met a very nervous Lovely Boy outside White City Station. He was going to cook me dinner for the very first time. We hadn’t kissed yet, we hadn’t flirted, we’d just spent time in our respective heads wondering and undoubtedly over-thinking.

Those who know LB know he’s not a braggart – unassuming, quiet, enthusiastic, gentle and genuine, yes – but a show off? Uh, no. So when he offered to cook me his butter chicken curry and told me it would be the best butter chicken curry I’d ever eaten I was intrigued.

The girl who ate Christmas

I’m still digesting.

Christmas 2012 – Lovely Boy’s and my first together in London and I think we did it in style.

It’s been a strange experience sticking it out in London this December, when in all December’s past 

I’ve been itching to get home for a Sydney summer with the family and all but counting down the minutes until check-in at Terminal 3. That itch is still resolutely itchy but because I couldn’t scratch it this year I’ve been distracting myself with Christmas craft. And god has it felt good. I honestly wasn’t sure how I’d go, playing the long-game this winter, but really, even in confessing to a bout of tears yesterday, I’ve surprised myself at how well I’ve handled the cold and the lack of family distraction (though there’s still January, February and March to get through so plenty of time yet for a toy drop.)

Bits and Bob Bob Ricards

In between the day trips and the mini-breaks and the cocktails and the list-writing I've had a number of small but delightful moments of observation and aesthetic appreciation lately. My Peckham punk granny with her Batman-esque eye shadow delicately devouring her sandwich above being just one of them...

Knit one Purl two

I love a good cocktail. Throw in quirky or beguiling environs, brilliant company and a small gas burner for distilling your drink and you have, by my count, a winning evening.

An Istanbul fling

Istanbul has been near to the top of my ‘list’ for I don’t remember how long. It’s been on Lovely Boy’s list really only since I added it for him. And even then, it fell somewhere on the second page. So a plane ticket to Turkey for my birthday back in June felt especially special.

The 5am start to get out to Heathrow was mollified by the exceedingly happy memories of our last trip to Turkey and the chance to watch the sunrise over the runway over my bowl of Pret porridge in shiny terminal 5. And against the odds of a non-reclining chair (tut, tut BA…) I slept like one of those nodding ducks most of the way there. 

Loveliness and busyness

I’ve been wanting to write about the Damien Hirst exhibition at Tate for a couple of weeks now. But every time I go to write about it, well, I get a bit cross and cranky. So I’m going to save that for another day.

Instead I’m going to reflect on last weekend– lovely, lovely last weekend.

On Friday evening I joined two of my favourite Antipodeans, Katie and Nina – my cocktail coterie - for dinner at Shrimpy’s. Nina made the booking six weeks ago, which tells you lots about both Nina’s organisation and the popularity of this hip little pop up restaurant by the canal near Kings Cross. It’s the work of the genius team behind east London’s Bistrotheque.

A birthday by the sea

So I've been 32 for just over a week now and so far it’s been spectacularly unexciting. Which is not to say dull – work has been reee-dic-ulous – but unexciting in the way that, frankly, 32 was always going to be.

The birthday itself though, was lovely.

I hadn’t put much thought into what I wanted to do, probably because I knew I didn’t really want to do anything. Something definitely, just not anything. No party, no drinking, no gang of friends. Thoughts of Nan and last year’s birthday made things not solemn but quiet and so all I really wanted to do was mark the day with my Lovely Boy doing something, well, lovely.

Let me begin to tell you about New York...

If the swift hand of fate (or a better application essay) had sent me to NYU six years ago who knows where I’d be now. In all likelihood, probably still in Manhattan. The whatifs are always fascinating as long as they don’t come tinged with regret and while I’m not sorry for the alternate life adventure that’s since come my way, a large chunk of my heart is still firmly spiked atop the Chrysler building and refusing to budge.

Everything and nothing has changed about New York since my last memorable visit 10 years ago and the only disappointment was not having enough time to get totally entrenched in every nook and cranny of the city. As the husband said, well we’ll just have to come back. This was Lovely Boy’s virgin visit and even he had his nigh-insurmountable expectations met and then exceeded, which was simultaneously a relief and not remotely surprising given the weather, the architecture, the adventures and the cocktails we suffered through in the name of a good time.

My favourite photo from the whole trip
and taken completely by accident...

We opted to stay in Brooklyn for the week because I’d found a brilliant loft apartment in Carroll Gardens for the bargain price of £60 a night (good luck trying to find that on Manhattan) and everything we’d read said the Brooklyn that was edgy and fledgling 10 years ago was now thriving and hip in that kind of almost-yucky-but-still-definitely-cool-despite-it’s-hipster-hipness hip. You know what I mean. Leafy streets with brownstones, streets populated with great little restaurants and pop up bars and quirky shops – Like Soho and the Lower East Side but without the frenzy. And all only 20 minutes from Manhattan. I mean, total no brainer as far as I was concerned.

Our first cultural outing the afternoon we arrived was to the supermarket where the proliferation of EVERYTHING made for a pop tarts do pop art shopping experience. Fridge stocked we then went for a meander down to the Brooklyn promenade to make the most of the balmy sunset. On the way I had my first celebrity spot of the holiday. Nothing will topple the experience of standing in front of Christy Turlington in Starbucks 11 years ago but I was determined not to let the week pass with anything less than three sightings and just two hours in I clamped eyes on British actress Emily Mortimer, pushing a stroller full of screaming child down Smith St. It was a promising start but the flutter was forgot the minute the skyline came into view... 

We spent a good hour ogling the city from afar before heading back to Smith St and after a mortar full of guacamole (and some exquisite pulled pork tacos) for dinner the day was done.

Being LB’s first visit to the city there were a few imperatives we needed to check off the list right at the start of play. So, Thursday morning, bright and relatively early (for me at any rate…) we headed into Manhattan and straight to Times Square. Glitzy, trashy, super touristy – tick. 

From here it was to the Rockefeller Centre and the express lift to the roof. The views atop the rock are arguably better than those from the Empire State Building if for no other reason than from here you can actually SEE the Empire State Building in all its architectural glory. 

Being a gloriously sunny day you could also see miniature people strewn all over the lawns of Central Park enjoying the weather. Clambering back down to street level, we meandered down Fifth Avenue to the New York Public Library and then had lunch in the shade in Bryant Park. If the gallery and not just the gift shop had been open next stop would have been the International Centre of Photography but it was and so it wasn’t and thus we took off for Grand Central Station (and the free wifi in the Apple Store as it turns out). 

The view towards Central Park from the top
of the Rockefeller Centre. Not bad...

A reading room at the New York Public Library

With over 100 platforms it’s the biggest railway station in the world but delightfully, all that chaos is elegantly tucked away and so all you’re left with is clocks, oyster bars, grand staircases and one seriously breathtaking roof. Grand by name…

By this time I was in desperate need of a sit down and a drink and thanks to my extensive pre-trip research we ended up at a bar on Lexington Avenue with a rather lovely view:

(Un)fortunately this only whet our collective appetites for rooftop drinks-with-views so after an accidental ground level by-pass of the Empire State Building we took ourselves to a bar aptly called 320 Fifth, being as it was, at 320 Fifth. This view was just as impressive and getting there before the post-work crowd set in meant we had prime seats among the palm trees.

Because I’d been tour guide and mistress for the day, dinner decisions were Lovely Boy’s and so after some more accidental architectural encounters (this time the Flatiron Building), we found ourselves on Canal St, heading downtown to Chinatown for Peking Duck on Mott St. It would be safe to say we rolled out of there after inadvertently ordering a banquet but it was a fitting end to an epic day.

Flatiron Building in all its loveliness

Canal St in all its madness

Friday morning we’d planned to tick off another major tourist must-do: the Statue of Liberty but we’re tourists, not idiots, and there was no way we were going to stand in queues for up to two hours to get tickets and then onto a bloody boat and so, after a wander around Battery Park, we kyboshed that plan and headed to the Financial District. Wall St, the Stock Exchange, Century 21. All the highlights. The art deco buildings throughout Manhattan are so truly beautiful and even amongst the ugliness of all that commerce the buildings insisted on a grand elegance that gave the area a sort of romance not typically found in financial centres...

Mott St, Chinatown

From here we headed to Soho for sunglasses and a hotdog from a street vendor - both high on LB’s shopping list (and/or the only things…) Prince, Spring, Wooster, Broome – cobbled streets and beautiful buildings cosseted in old metal fire escapes like a mouth full of orthodontics. So lovely. And after a lustful wander around here it was lunchtime and so to Katz’s Deli on Houston St we went. This was another LB request – in case you haven’t jigged by now most of the must-do’s on Lovely Boy’s list were actually Must-Eats and because he’s a boy a plate full of meat between two bits of rye bread was a non-negotiable addition to the itinerary.

Katz’s is an iconic institution and the walls sag with photos of all the celebrities who’ve stopped by for a corned beef concoction. It’s the “I’ll have what she’s having” deli of Meg Ryan lore but I think even without that orgiastic claim to a piece of pop cultural history the place would still be slammed with people every lunch time. We had the misfortune of sharing a table with an obnoxious American man who, in the course of a sandwich, managed to tell us how obscenely rich he was, about how many houses he owned, which he’d paid for in cash btw, about his cosy relationship with several whisky distillers in Scotland who “like to look after him” on his twice-yearly visits and then about how hungover he was from the all night bender he was still coming down from. And if that alone didn't sour the sandwich experience then his temerity to bitch about the price of said sandwich given his apparent millions certainly finished things.

It was the kind of encounter that could only be fixed by a chocolate salty pimp, also known as the signature creation of the Big Gay Ice cream Truck, which now thoughtfully also has a shop on E7th St. I’m not sure if it was the rich vanilla ice cream, the salted caramel, dulce de leche or chocolate coating but I was completely unable to finish it - though not without effort I need to add. It was a serendipitous defeat though because heading to the bin meant walking past the window of a little vintage shop that had in the window what would be my first New York purchase: a white leather 50s clutch with turquoise and marcasite detailing at the clasp. Happiness can be bought and it only costs $20.

After all that bread and meat and icecream and dulce de leche the only thing that was going to counter all these calories was some culture and so next was one of my Must-Do’s: The Met. 

Emerging on the Upper East Side, inadvertent celebrity spot no.2 was Tea Leoni walking her dogs. It was a blink and miss it moment but for my money, in this part of town, A-list means Monet, Van Gogh and the rest of the gang in the Impressionist Wing of the Metropolitan. I’d lured LB here on the promise of two things: an apple martini and a carefully curated tour through just the highlights............

(Things I Still Have To Tell You About: Tomas Saraceno, Brooklyn Flea Markets, Rooftop Cinema, Other Flea Markets, Blueberry Pancakes, MoMA, The WTC Memorial, the High Line, the Guggenheim and One Seriously Amazing Meal in a Pawn Shop.)

Notting Hill nights and a spring in my step

When thinking about this post, albeit last week, I had visions of myself sitting down to write, staring smugly out the window toward the blue skies and blossoms that were then gracing London. If the lesson wasn’t made pointedly clear by the clock I spotted this week on Peckham Rd then it has been now by the fact I’m sitting on the bed, swaddled in blankets and layers of fleece and going through a box of tissues at the rate of snots. That and it’s grey and miserable outside, back to single digit temperatures and the long range forecast is for (yet more) rain.

I’m not too despondent about it all – though my blocked ears are absolutely giving me the shits – daylight savings has started, and while it’s windy and cold, the trees are still ruthlessly turning green, my magnolia trees are blooming and the cherry blossoms respond to gales by shedding a delight of blooming confetti. I love spring. If potential had a time of year, spring would be it. Before it turned to pants earlier this week, we had a glorious nearly fortnight of perfect weather.

Last Friday was the last of those lovely days and thankfully I made the most of it. I took the afternoon off work, sauntering home via Putney to pick up the other framed screen print Lovely Boy and I bought at the Art Fair, before putting on my Jimmy’s and heading to Notting Hill to meet Katie, Nina and Jen for a cocktail and dinner. It was a trip to the mild, mild west for my girl o' the east but they, like me, have a special spot in their hearts for the charms of Notting Hill and so there we went, ambling down the beautiful leafy roads with their spectacularly beautiful houses and lovely posh shops. 

Anyway, I’ve been waiting 12 months to take these sparkling gold shoes out for a spin. Their extravagant purchase was made over a year ago and “justified” (if only barely…) by the fact I planned to wear them to the wedding. Before January 7 the only outings they had were around the house while I broke them in, usually while wearing Lovely Boy’s tracksuit pants. And so since their debut in January – where they ended up discarded on the grass - they and I have been waiting for an occasion and Friday was it. Dorothy knew the power of a pair of sparkly shoes and while without them I’m sure the night would have been just as divine, the shoes definitely put a seasonal spring in my step…

the naff obligatory shoes shot taken
by every wedding photographer out
there - even despite my protestations

Proceedings kicked off at Beach Blanket Babylon, a restaurant and bar in an old Georgian mansion on Ledbury Rd. The décor is pure girls-night-out: baroque light fittings, gilt mirrors, candles, chandeliers, quirky flower arrangements in quirky china teapots. And the cocktails… oh my god the cocktails. If spring had a flavour it would be the La Vie En Rose martini. Even thinking about it now makes me thirsty. Really thirsty. Reminiscent in colour of the lately cherry blossoms, the combination of gin, lychee liqueur, rose syrup, cointreau and lime juice was just prettiness personified. Add the luxe surroundings, the lovely girls and the conversation – well call me happy in a pair of gold shoes.

From here we went to the Lonsdale, detouring from all things girly with a round-table order of burgers but keeping things sensible with a bottle of prosecco to wash them down.  It wasn’t a late night but it was lovely.  Spring always gives me pause for gratitude – mostly that fucking winter is finally fucking over – but also now for the incredibly special friends I’ve made and for the life I’ve succeeded at building here in London at last.

This past week at work has been spectacularly boring, mostly because everyone I’ve needed to communicate with seems to be on holidays but I’ve enjoyed the quite office and am enjoying the Easter long weekend, even though it’s been so far squandered with coughing fits and a slight temperature. 

Because I’m stubborn Lovely Boy and I are still going out for dinner tonight – to Sketch to experience Martin Creed’s new installation in the gallery. I’m quite excited about it actually and can’t wait to see Lovely Boy’s reaction to the singing pods in the bathrooms and kinetic sculptures in the entrance hall. It should be a memorable night.

Tomorrow we’re off to Hertfordshire for the day for lunch and a visit to Hatfield House with an old family friend who’s in London for the week. So, lots to look forward to, not just a returning ability to breathe through my nose and the proper spring weather….

Kusama, cocktails and a little bit of crazy

It would be a stretch to say I got to meet Yayoi Kusama two weeks ago.

It is true to say that if I *had* stretched I would have got within an inch of her thanks to an invite to the press view for her retrospective at Tate Modern. One of several art world perks that are increasingly coming my way these days. But I'll get to those.

We're doing a huge project with Tate at the moment around Kusama's show and so it was incredible to get the chance to explore the exhibition without the hoards and to really have the space and time to allow total absorption in her obsessively beautiful, dark, quietly poetic works. People think dots when they think Kusama and you do get dots here - lots of them - but the curation is so thoughtful that they go beyond any glib pop-esque moment to become a really powerful meditation on madness, infinity and beauty. Because they are beautiful....

Yayoi Kusama, Infinity Mirrored Room - Filled with the Brilliance of Life, 2011 

It was a pretty lovely moment, one of many recently actually, that have punctuated what has otherwise been a stressy couple of weeks that in my head got totally out of control. Exhaustion, homesickness, flatness, semi-brokeness, tiredness and a general case of the Over Its when it's come to public transport and three hour daily commutes, living in Hammersmith and wearing three days worth of outfits all at once. The Lovely Moments are the only things that have kept me from spinning totally out of control. That and a waning full moon?....

In amongst the stress was schlepping out to Croydon in the snow and sub-zero temperatures to get my new visa, or Biometric Residence Permit, as they call it these days in yet another step to dehumanise, humiliate and overly manage you. £850 and four hours later and I'm allowed to stay for another two years. A new lease on London life but one I don't think we'll be renewing when the time comes.

Funnily enough the day after my visa adventure was Lovely Boy's and my three year anniversary. Three years since Lovely Boy first cooked me dinner, three years since we drank three bottles of wine to overcompensate for nerves and an anticipation for not quite sure what and three years since we first kissed at the 94 bus stop at Shepherds Bush at 2am drunk and dizzy and elated and freezing.

After finally getting to have our date with Grayson Perry we decided to honour our little anniversary with a re-enactment of all the key details except the 94 bus stop. We (Lovely Boy....) cooked butter chicken curry, we drank too much wine and we smiled a lot. It was a good night and a perfect moment to reflect on everything the last three years have brought us both.

The last week, despite a shitty few days at work, brought other bright moments in amongst the crazy. I got a very small pay rise - more gesture than largesse - but I'm grateful for it nonetheless, going some way as it does towards improving the balance on my budget.

Which is good - because apart from groceries, I have cocktails to save for. And a holiday.

The joys of Night Jar...

On Friday night I met up with a gang of fabulous girls for some demure bar hopping in east London in pursuit of good drinks in new and interesting locations. Starting with a quick dose of art at the Barbican, first stop was Night Jar at Old St, where the cocktails are curated around themes of pre-war, prohibition, post-war and Night Jar originals. The decor was speakeasy and the music was jazz. I can't quite remember the name of my beverage but it had something to do with paradise and beach-combing so you could say it chose me...

From here we went for Vietnamese and from here we went to the back lounge at Callooh Callay on Rivington St. This detail (back lounge versus front lounge) is important only in that to get to the back lounge you have to walk, Narnia-like, through a wardrobe to get there. 

Novelty factor or no, I completely loved it. The decor back here was Dali meets disco and again I can't remember the particulars of my drink but only because I remain distracted by the drink that was on the table across from us:

Look closer....

Yes, they are gnomes.

It was a great way to shake off the week and on Saturday Lovely Boy and I set to being grown ups by opening a joint account and doing the groceries. And making a collective decision to pull ourselves out of the doldrums by booking a holiday. And not just any holiday - but a holiday to New York. HELLS YES! I'm already thinking about what I'm going to pack. We found this amazing loft in Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn to stay in thanks to some savvy internet research and now we're to the planning. I cannot freaking wait. Something to soften the blow of Monday blues.