My interview with Chris Sharp, contemporary music programmer at the Barbican Centre, for the Berlin-based Freunde Von Freunden.
And my review of the fantastic The Ulm Model exhibition at Raven Row for the Quietus.
I interviewed one of my musical heroes, the incredible George Clinton of Parliament/Funkadelic, a few months ago. Here’s the resulting Baker’s Dozen for the Quietus, in which he talks about 13 of his favourite records.
Issue number 3 of the fantastic and sometimes surreal Buffalo Zine (that is more like a book) is now available to buy here. I was one of the contributing editors for this edition, which includes an interview with designers Viktor & Rolf. The issue examines childhood and adolescence. A shiny bildungsroman, if you will.
REVIEW. FOR UNI, TECHNICALLY, BUT ACTUALLY FOR MY OWN PERSONAL JOY.
Hello, My Name Is Paul Smith at the Design Museum
Until: March 9 2014
Part retrospective, part hero-worship, the Design Museum’s ode to Paul Smith has punters queuing along the riverbank during deepest winter. Suzie McCracken finds out how the world-renowned fashion designer earned his multi-coloured stripes.
The Design Museum, unlike its more sombre brother the V&A, is concerned with intrigue and entertainment rather than academia. Enter Paul Smith: the obvious king of both those attributes, and prince of eccentric Englishness to boot.
“Hello, My Name Is Paul Smith” explores the history and character of Smith’s work, using his personal belongings to recreate working environments and put his notable contributions to the world of design on display. It also comes with a side of Smith himself, with cardboard cut-outs of him striking a pose and a giant wall-painted “HELLO” putting a grin on the faces of guests ascending the stairs.
It begins with a three metre square (translation: no cat-swinging here) reconstruction of Smith’s first Nottingham shop, filtering visitors into the main exhibition via a tangible representation of his oft-cited humble beginnings.
The main thoroughfare is an enthralling rogues’ gallery of art from Smith’s collection, featuring celebrity snaps (Noel Fielding adorned in a floral blazer) and twee tokens of affection (doodles of Daleks) donated by outlandish admirers.
There’s a space devoted to a selection of Smith-designed clothing, staged like a sartorial aquarium for contemplating a jacket made from embroidered Afghan blankets. A plethora of his collaborations are displayed with everything from emblazoned Evian bottles to a striped Mini Cooper. The Paris hotel room where Smith sought to sell his first collection – six shirts and two suits – is excellently reimagined in the style of a “Paddington Bear” set, with the two dimensional chandelier hanging above the bed-cum-display area a testament to Donna Loveday’s creative curation.
The stand-out enclave is “Inside Paul’s Head”, a room filled with screens and mirrors that endlessly reflect images of bicycles melting and neon lights flickering. The central monitor displays a kaleidoscopic tunnel of Smith’s hollowed-out head while snippets of audio interviews with the designer are played. The effect is that of being inside a giant zoetrope, and it symbolises Smith’s scatty genius perfectly.
Of course, that room shows nothing of Smith’s designs. The exhibition focuses so much on the man’s magnetism that it can feel like a celebratory cult. The informative titbits on the walls are straight from the horse’s mouth – his copy just awkward enough to make you feel like Smith is following you around the room, whispering quiet insights into your ears. It’s visitor-bait, but who cares when Smith is so damn interesting?
In September I will be going back to school to get an MA in Magazine Journalism at City University London. For my application I had to write about someone in my area. I wrote a tiny 150 words on Tim and Meena, my neighbours.
– Tim and Meena live in a house that was once a greengrocers. In 2004 they came up with a way to ensure themselves some privacy and enliven the dreariness of New Cross Road by turning their full-size shop window into a gallery space. But after spending some time with this inherently creative duo (their degrees span Fine Art, Fashion Design and Architecture), it’s clear they have a touch of contempt for the traditional gallery format. “We went to the Photographers Gallery a while ago and there was a kid translating everything for the ‘old people’,” laughs Meena.
Things are certainly different with Window 135. The couple love how their space is both accessible and confusing. Nothing about the project is signposted; it’s left to the passers-by to come to their own conclusions about the work and why it’s there. Tim often runs up to the top deck of the bus to see how the display looks to passing commuters. People sometimes try to open their front door, thinking they might be able to look around the nonexistent exhibition.
Currently the window is home to work by the shoe and jewellery designer Emily Botterman. Necklaces are draped from coat hangers – but they won’t be there for long. An enthusiastic Tim admits “after a week or so you become ready for something new.” Do they have a favourite window from over the years? Meena tells of placing “photographs of musicians’ heads in jam jars.” They smile. ”It’s about play.”
SOUTH LONDON GALLERY
I’m positive that many of you enlightened folk watched Grayson Perry’s incredible series of programmes on taste and class in Britain. Grayson Perry is the sort of man that inspires my flatmate to have intelligent opinions on his work. These opinions are subsequently plagiarised by myself and others who lack her degree in Art History.
Currently you can go see the tapestries that Perry made as part of the series at the Victoria Miro gallery near Old Street. There really is an inordinate amount of detail in these pieces that you just can’t see on yer telly and I thoroughly recommend a visit. The tapestries are also accompanied by some of Perry’s pots that are equally as exciting and ridiculously meta.
If you do pop along to the gallery (there’s a Maccy’s right beside it so you have no excuse not to), I advise you to clamber downstairs for a gaze upon the David Claerbout exhibition. I won’t even try and describe it because I’ll be sacrilegious in my ignorance. But yeah. Go.