Christmas in London

December 29, 2017

EAT. is the name of a chain restaurant in London. It sounds like an order. According to A., it's a remainder of the aggressive aesthetics of the nineties. 

At the Southbank we visit the ABBA exhibition. A tour guide takes us through "immersive" spaces that are supposed to bring you back to the seventies. It's all quite shabby and little researched. The only interesting thing I hear, is that the follow spotlight, also known as the Super Trouper, was for the first time produced in 1956. It was the adequate lighting for stars to shine.

Walking past the Ritz hotel in Piccadilly, A. introduces me to the word "ritzy." 

Tea time at The Wolseley
The Wolseley is where we have our English Afternoon Tea. It's served in an art-deco silver teapot. Next to us, a first date is going wrong. He's drinking wine while she decides to have water.  

I get excited about the brutalist architecture at the Barbican, then extra excited about the Basquiat show. I feel energised when leaving: looking at art is a physical experience after all. I even debate buying the exhibition hardcover catalogue and I finally regret that I don't. 



At Penhaligon's I pick Iris Prima, a fragrance that makes me smell like a prima ballerina. It promises "majestic femininity, the strength of flight," which makes me think of Grace Jones' maybe a little less elegant "you have to be a high-flying bitch sometimes." I do believe in the power of scent. 

It's British love that brings me to London. I've even switched my American English for the British one. Now I don't say "fall" anymore but I say "autumn." Here a poem written out of British love (who happened to be leaving on that particular day to Beirut):

autumn autumnal
autumn colors
in autumnal autumn weather
when you leave at eleven 
in the morning
for Beirut


colored autumnal you
leaving in the morning
at eleven
with the weather
of autumn
for Beirut


at eleven you were leaving
at eleven for Beirut
at eleven in the morning
in the color of autumn mood


autumn you were leaving
autumnal autumn for Beirut
autumn in the morning
colored at eleven autumnally 





 
EAT. is the name of a chain restaurant in London. It sounds like an order. According to A., it's a remainder of the aggressive aesthetics of the nineties.  At the Southbank we visit the ABBA exhibition. A tour guide takes us through "immersive" spaces that are supposed to bring you back to the seventies. It's all quite shabby and little researched. The only interesting thing I hear, is that the follow spotlight, also known as th…
EAT. is the name of a chain restaurant in London. It sounds like an order. According to A., it's a remainder of the aggressive aesthetics of the nineties. 

At the Southbank we visit the ABBA exhibition. A tour guide takes us through "immersive" spaces that are supposed to bring you back to the seventies. It's all quite shabby and little researched. The only interesting thing I hear, is that the follow spotlight, also known as the Super Trouper, was for the first time produced in 1956. It was the adequate lighting for stars to shine.

Walking past the Ritz hotel in Piccadilly, A. introduces me to the word "ritzy." 

Tea time at The Wolseley
The Wolseley is where we have our English Afternoon Tea. It's served in an art-deco silver teapot. Next to us, a first date is going wrong. He's drinking wine while she decides to have water.  

I get excited about the brutalist architecture at the Barbican, then extra excited about the Basquiat show. I feel energised when leaving: looking at art is a physical experience after all. I even debate buying the exhibition hardcover catalogue and I finally regret that I don't. 



At Penhaligon's I pick Iris Prima, a fragrance that makes me smell like a prima ballerina. It promises "majestic femininity, the strength of flight," which makes me think of Grace Jones' maybe a little less elegant "you have to be a high-flying bitch sometimes." I do believe in the power of scent. 

It's British love that brings me to London. I've even switched my American English for the British one. Now I don't say "fall" anymore but I say "autumn." Here a poem written out of British love (who happened to be leaving on that particular day to Beirut):

autumn autumnal
autumn colors
in autumnal autumn weather
when you leave at eleven 
in the morning
for Beirut


colored autumnal you
leaving in the morning
at eleven
with the weather
of autumn
for Beirut


at eleven you were leaving
at eleven for Beirut
at eleven in the morning
in the color of autumn mood


autumn you were leaving
autumnal autumn for Beirut
autumn in the morning
colored at eleven autumnally 





 

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