We Only Said Goodbye With Words...

Amy.

We knew there was a ominously likely chance this would happen, but there was no need for you to live out a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Thanks for the inspiration; the emotion, the individuality, the crazy, painful, wonderful music. 

You were my icon, and I hoped one day to be able to meet you and write about the real Amy. Now that chance has gone, but I will always remember the impression you made on my life. Yes, you were a flawed, messed-up creature - imperfect in lots of ways. But you were a rare breed of person who did not try to hide all that you were; you were real, and true, and unafraid of baring your soul for all to see. I'm pissed off because there are only a few people prepared to just be themselves like you did. Your words, your style, your attitude - there is just no comparison. Even your hair was inimitable, for god's sake. You captured what heartbreak sounds like. All the pathetic, pointless celebrities...and then someone like you came along. I'll never forget you.

Back to Black on the record player. I hope your troubled heart is somewhere peaceful now.

(A slightly heartbroken) GL

Fashion Frivolities and Supermodel Siblings

You know those family newsletters that some people create and send out to the friends they are too busy to talk to? I think it's mainly an American thing, because the different time zones might make it trickier to tell Janice in Boston what little Jimmy has been up to, if you now live in L.A. Even though, here in Engerland, family portrait Christmas cards alone are the subject of severe mockery, the concept of not banging on about your personal/family's/pet's latest news died a long time ago, killed off by Mr F.Book.

In that spirit, consider this post the Langford family newsletter - which is necessary because something very weird has happened recently, throwing my little brother back into my orbit.

Firstly, however, the news in brief from two special fashwan events I attended recently (which, fear not, resulted in typical Gbird calamities, in the style of the endame bean incident).

Party #1 House of Organza launch at Red Bull Studios. 

 

 

Kim Howells (with the cherries)

This do was one of the most surreal, inspiring and memorable fashion nights out I've ever had. The House of Organza is an art/fashion/design collective headed up by stylist Kim Howells, who is a beautiful, generally awesome kinda gal. She also lives with my favourite milliner of all time, Piers Atkinson, which accounted for the brilliant midnight blue cherries that were perched atop her flowing red hair - the only non-blue part of her outfit. As host of the event, she had gone to town with the blue-theme dress code, unlike yours truly, who'd missed the memo and turned up in orange. Yeah. I'm sure nobody noticed.

The purpose of the event was to launch the latest works produced by members of the collective, who each season are given a canvas, a theme and inspirational material. This time, the whole project was inspired by artist Mr Roy, whose skin is covered with swirling tattoos- they reminded Kim of light on petrol, which in turn led to this seasons theme of Yves Klein blue. The collective members interpreted Mr Roy's spoken word and the colour theme in their own unique way; my particular favourite was Craig Lawrence's pair of signature metallic knitted gauntlets, with the blue painted canvas woven through the stitches. Once a bevy of drag queens arrived to model some of the other creations, I started to feel massively under-dressed, and having smoothly managed to fall off the swing (seen in the photo of Kim) I made a swift exit, my head spinning with the sheer volume of creativity I had just witnessed. The blue coloured cocktails had nothing to do with it.

(Photos by Kim Jacobsen)

Party #2: Acne pre-collection soiree at Browns boutique.

You might have noticed by now that I'm a preeeety big fan of the brand Acne (I enjoy the acronym: Ability to Create Novel Expression). Their clothes are completely in tune with the zeitgeist. Whether it's the amazing grunge knits, leather trousers, weirdly cut dresses that look perfect on, they can make just about anything look good. Plus, their parties are the best in London. Wednesday night saw me shuffle up to South Molton Street (a place so elegant, I constantly feel like my headmistress is going to pop up and tell me off for looking so scruffy). For one night only, I had been loaned this wonderful bright orange angora cardigan from the pre-collection, and in honour of the occasion, was snapped by Vogue photog Candice Lake. I call this look 'Tangerine Dream':

Photos by Candice Lake

Anyway, this bash was a perfectly civilised affair: we drank magical champagne served by waiters who wore turbans and tuxedo trousers cropped into v short shorts, listened to jazz that would have sent Howard Moon into musical ecstasies, and ogled the Acne pre collection. What can I say? As usual, they have produced a ridiculously covetable selection of marbled knits, stripey skirts, a great digital print mini and a fantastic monochrome zig zag print dress. I'm in love with it all.

Acne pre-collection

If you are still with me at this point, I can now unveil my family related bit of fashion news. It seems the Langfords are keeping the business of style in-house: my annoying little brother has just been signed to Elite. Yep, you have no idea how surreal it is as an older sister to imagine her younger bro, who I used to fight with in the back of the car/over the remote as an international male model, but somehow, this is the case. Here are his latest shots:

(Shot by Gryff Rhys)

i:D 'Kick Up's' shoot - on the left

GL

It's Not The End Of The (News of the) World...

 ...but it might just be the start of a new one. For journalists, anyway.

So. It's come to this. I've been in blog limbo for the past few weeks, as the industry I work in basically came crashing down around me. Having just started a new job at the world's oldest publishing company, it has been more than a little disconcerting to witness the utter destruction of another similar firm, in real time. My Twitter addiction (yeah it's bad, but sometimes it's pretty useful) means I am reading constant updates about what has been unearthed from the - apparently - police protected closets of a company that has dominated British journalism for a very long time. 

There are too many ins and outs, secrets and lies, to go into what is true and what is not, in one insignificant blog post. By the time this is published, one of the more upstanding UK newspapers will have unleashed a whole new flood of revelations from the now defunct Screws.

To be honest, the whole situation has made me painfully aware of the business I'm in; confirming some of my beliefs, and making me question others. My weirdly naïve 24 year old self still respects truth as the most important principle in writing; without truth, what's the point of being a writer. However, it also unnerves me to see the entire British media (including the newspapers that I do 'believe' in) literally circle like vultures, ripping and screaming at the shreds of one of their rivals' reputations. It's scary - obviously, the truth must be outed, for the sake of morality and public safety, but part of me wishes the other papers wouldn't be quite so pleased about the whole debacle.

Please do not misunderstand - I am very glad that there is one less tabloid to fill the public's head with utter guff every weekend. We would be a better nation if we didn't have newspapers that prided themselves on scoring 'exclusives!' on what the exact sexual position tickled the fancy of various Z-list celebrities as they cheated on their wives with their neighbour's girlfriend's dog's prostitute cousin. Who was underage. We have wasted too much brain space on this nonsense for too long (I for one succumbed to a dangerous Perez Hilton addiction, before I realised I could be reading books, making tea, or just doing anything more worthwhile than reading about the divorce of an American sleb I'd never even heard of. Somehow, as a race of intelligent human beings, we have got to reclaim our minds for our own, and put them to good use. 

Ultimately, ding dong, the Wicked Witch is dead (or at least, her newspaper is, even if she is safe in her ivory tower) and it's a time of massive change for the media industry as a whole. The concept of 'in the public interest' has stuck with me ever since I learnt journalistic law, and it's an idea that needs some serious re-evaluation. There are going to be new laws, new procedures, new publications. Let's hope it is for the better - either way, journalism is never going to be the same again.

GL