Monthly Archives: December 2011

A hot, kitschy, kooky mess

I’ve always been on the fence with my feelings about Agyness Deyn. Her almost-symmetrical face has earned her great envy amongst the model wannabes, but her peroxide-blond pixie haircut has sparked an enormous following which has, for the most part, been a complete and utter failure, and her personal edgy style has also set off a trend which has thus far only worked on Agyness Deyn herself. But it appears that the one thing about her of which I have an absolute and unswerving opinion is her house.

Getting a sneak peek inside a high profile person’s home normally leaves one feeling mixed emotions of jealousy that you don’t live there and inspiration to transform their own humble abode. We marvel at their impeccable taste and all the things that they (or their interior designer) have selected from obscure flea markets in exotic locales and high-end furniture stores. However, Agyness’s apartment – recently listed on the market for $2.5 million – in the hipster neighborhood of Williamsburg in Brooklyn, New York, has left many clutching at straws over whether to love it or hate it.

I, for one, love it. And I may be the only one.

Restraint has never really been Agyness’s thing, so it’s only logical that her natural habitat is a bit bizarre. The Under the Sea-themed bedroom with conch shell chairs and a coral-and-seaweed wall mural, a Salvador Dali-inspired bedroom with sleigh bed and gilded mirrors, and a bathroom with a brown marble bath tub, lion’s head tap and mirrored tiles. And even though each of the items, on their own, would make her appear as a klepto who had somehow managed to burgle the Museo del Prado and scour the vintage stores in Greenwich Village all at the same time, they actually work when all thrown together. The main living area is proof of this, with a floral wallpaper, leopard-print carpet, enough chintz and flea market ecclectica to make you dizzy, hessian drapes and a hot air balloon chandelier.

Certain elements of Deyn’s apartment make it feel like it could belong to a cigar-smoking, balding and slightly rotund man with gold chains rather than a girl who looks like… well, her. But I take my hat off to her, going on the same principle by which I took my hat off to Kate Moss for her wedding dress. So ugly, it’s pretty; so grotesque, it’s chic; so good for a party but not for a hangover.

That said, I would probably spend the whole time panicking that I might knock over what I think is an ashtray, only to be told that it was a knee-guard from the armor of a Ming Dynasty soldier and will cost $16 million to replace.

The right way at 27

At approximately 1222 hours (12:22AM for the horologically challenged) yesterday morning, I received a notification from UberSocial telling me someone had mentioned my handle on Twitter. When I opened it, I saw that it read:

Aside from the fact that this was the third birthday wish I had received, I suddenly felt immensely happy reading this — not because it was my birthday, and not only because Irza said she now reads my magazine, but because she said that I’ve ‘come a long way’. And as I sat back and thought about it, I realized how much truth there was to it. At times it seems like what I did prior to August of this year, and what my life was like, feel like a lifetime ago, almost like a dream, and I realized just how much has changed over the last four years.

I am 27 years old now, and finally in a place where I feel happy, and a little more fulfilled than I was before. It may have taken me all of 27 years to get here, and even though I’m not quite there there yet, even it sometimes feels as though I might as well be 30, it’s comforting to know that at least I was able to grow a pair and force myself to start over completely.

I’m still not where I thought I would be at 27, but I think at last I’m on that road towards It. I may not have come as long a way as Irza thinks I have, but it appears to finally be the right way.

All of the above

Chris Botti performing live at the Petronas Philharmonic Hall

It was just another Tuesday. I was sitting at my desk, browsing through hundreds of photos on Getty Images for the magazine, and feeling quite pleased with myself that my Rich & Skinny (yes, the brand; a total oxymoron if there ever was one) cropped jeans weren’t cutting into my abdomen as they would have if being sick the previous week hadn’t taken 5lbs off my bulk.

Then I heard the little tinkling sound my computer makes whenever a new email comes in, and, switching windows to my work email, there it was: an invitation to attend Chris Botti’s concert at the Petronas Philharmonic Hall that very evening, as part of the press, and my editor’s message above it asking if I wanted to go for it.

It was a small gesture, an insignificant one that required no obligation to acknowledge. But it was big enough to bring all the memories, and all the feelings, rushing back — the giddy happiness, the crippling sadness, and the irrational anger. They were there nearly four years ago, and, to my horror (and I will admit, relief), they are still there today.

Happiness that I was there all those years ago in Singapore to share this with you. Sadness that it was that same trip to Singapore that brought everything I had wanted, everything I had hoped for, crashing down to the point where it could never be dug back up. Anger, so much anger, that I had never been able to salvage things and make up for the mistakes I made.

I thought those feelings had died. I thought that what I suspected was a reaction to the way I handled certain things in my life — none of which concerned you — had helped me stamp out the last sliver of feeling I had left for what you probably deemed my ‘pathetic predicament’. But now I realize that my anger and misdirected resentment had masked all those other feelings, and when that anger died down, the only thing it left behind was sadness. Sadness all over again. Sadness that somehow, we (or just I) had managed to drag everything down to this, to a point where it’s as if neither of us ever existed in each other’s lives.

And so I made the decision not to go. Childish and cowardly though it may have been, but I knew in my bones that you would be there, and I couldn’t run the risk of seeing you, or worse, bumping into you at the concert.

You see, my problem is that I cannot (a) see, (b) think or (c) be reminded of you without having that beautiful, excruciating pain return, and Chris Botti happens to be (d) all of the above.