Helmut Lang, a hiatus and the agony of choosing favourites
So much for a weekly newsletter. I’ve updated the description on the homepage to “weekly-ish” but even that’s a stretch right now. The last time I posted was at the end of November. Let’s just consider it an extended year-end holiday, one that’s over now. We’re back in business.
The hiatus was fuelled, I’m sure, by the comedown after organising and “launching” the book. Despite the boost from selling a few copies, the handful of rejections I received from agents and some frustrating responses from booksellers meant I ended the year with vim depleted. My hustle had deserted me. It took me longer than it should’ve to realise that I’d forgotten my golden rule: I was expecting too much and not doing, generating, creating enough.
Spending Christmas with The French TornadoTM, hanging out with family, planning for the arrival of visitors and generally switching off for a couple of weeks helped with the reset. A forced break from thinking about making things happen.
The break brought country walks and city culture. We visited the V&A Storehouse. We walked on the Heath and had a New Year's Day pint in our favourite pub. We visited the Dirty Looks exhibition at the Barbican.
There, these Helmut Lang jeans were a pleasant surprise. I have never forgotten seeing Christy Turlington wearing a pair on the cover of Frank Magazine a very long time ago.
I’ve remembered them all this time not because they were filled with Christy Turlington but because I loved the painterly mess of them. Not too messy, mind. Not too obviously fake. Just right. At least, that’s the story I’ve been telling myself ever since my ex recycled the magazine years ago. Seeing them now, I’m not so sure. The paint splashes work but the fade marks are clearly artificial, interventions that were not visible on the magazine cover. So, no, not as amazing as I remember. But it was satisfying to close a mental circle started nearly thirty years ago.
In between culture and countryside, we blasted through City of Shadows on Netflix. I wanted to dismiss the series for the mountain of hackneyed detective-story tropes - the troubled maverick cop suspended for mavericking; the cool, analytical partner forced on him; the meddling journalists; the over-reliance on coincidences and cock ups to move the plot forward - but I couldn't help myself. I loved it.
In truth, my enjoyment was more about nostalgia. A year ago, the French Tornado and I spent Christmas in Barcelona, just the two of us mooching around the city for four days. The series visited many of the streets and buildings we did. Not even the series' crappy Netflixification of the city could spoil those memories. I really loved that trip.
The break also enabled me to spend even more time agonising over my 2025 review for Ban Ban Ton Ton. Rob, who runs the site, suggested I chose books instead of music. At first I dismissed the idea - it's a music website, after all - then I liked it. Until I didn't. In the end I decided on both. This indecision was further complicated by the fact that his suggested - though not obligatory - framework was just seven choices. I wasn't very happy with the end result but continued noodling just seemed to make it worse so I cut my losses and sent it. It was published on Saturday. You can read it here.
So, yeah, back in business, after a fashion.
