Posts tagged colour studies



I came across PILLET, the definitive book on Edgard Pillet and I have been desperate to have it since. Well, after a bit of online sleuthing I came across a copy of this rare book at an alarmingly reasonable price.

Beautifully printed by Editions Georges FALL in 1967, the book is a rather gorgeous catalogue of his works: graphic, elegant and surprising. Pillet’s use of colour is startling.

This one’s going take pride of place on my bookcase. Just flicking through it really picks you up on  a grey autumn’s day.


The monastery of S. Francesco,

Fiesole, Provincia di Firenze, Italy

A weekend in Florence to visit a friend. A city that never ranked as one of my favourites but I saw a different side to it this time. Staying in an apartment on the other side of the river, away from the year round hordes of tourists hoping to glance at David’s penis, sardining themselves onto the Ponte Vecchio, or just blocking your way on a narrow pavement whilst you desperately seek respite from the perpetual drizzle. Yes, tourists! Damn you!

The other side is much nicer, much more local. And home to the Boboli gardens and the Palazzo Pitti. We made it up to Fiesole, just outside the city, perched on a hill top. The views of Florence from there are simply breathtaking. And I happened upon this monastery. Serene and minding its holy business as any good ole monastery should. And home to quite a few dishy monks…

I really like the tone of red — a weird kind of terracotta — coming through the washed out aqua. It’s quite unexpected but works. The dirty greeny-yellow of the window blind in the second picture makes the mix even more interesting. Its just one of many unusual colour combinations that I came across on my recent trip to the Motherland. Every corner you turned down held a new surprise. Beautiful.

I apologize, once again!

No excuses this time. The Lazy Blogger has sunk further into languor’s apathetic embrace. Well, new year, new beginnings, and all that.

It so happens that I’ve been home. Real home, the Motherland, so to speak. I’ll keep the name of this country anonymous – let’s just say that its somewhere in West Africa. It’d been so long since I last went that I got scared of going – a vicious cycle that kept on spiralling out of control. The longer I left it, the more scared I got. How stupid of me. I had the best time EVER. Don’t get me wrong, it was a shock to the system but it was exactly what I needed. There’ll be more on this later but I’ll leave you with a few images till the next time I check in. 

I’m not promising anything. It might be a while…!







The show season’s nearly over, not without a whiff of scandal, drunken proclamations and talk of ominous place-shiftings at a high level… The clothes almost seem like an afterthought. Anyway, zees eez not zee playhss for shameless gossip.

Its been an odd season. I’m not sure how I feel about most of the shows. A lot of them inspired a feeling of blahhhh, more than anything else. I think to myself, how would that look all in black? Or will the world be a sadder place if so and so collection never existed? Shops need to be filled, I guess.

I’m still on the fence with Celine although I’m usually a big fan of Ms Philo’s work. The obvious bête noire was the woodgrain. Yes, it recalled Rodarte but that wasn’t my problem with the three or so looks. They felt out of place somehow and what woman in her right mind wants to  look like a coffee table or worse, Grandma Hickey’s crockery cupboard? Best left in a dowager duchess’ bedsit… Anyway with Celine the clothes are much better appreciated in the flesh. Lots of complex details not that apparent from an  image. They’re just bang on the money. Hell, I want to buy them and I’m no lady, no siree…

I really like this outfit, the pink ensemble. I’m a sucker for a good shirt, as you may well know, and a perfectly cut pair of trousers. If I was a girl I’d be lusting after this. Its a very simple look but one that’s harder to pull off than it initially seems. Imagine the frowns of disapproval or envious looks you’d draw if you wore this say to a summer wedding? No chintzy florals. Sort of a latter day page girl, if that makes any sense. SCANDALO!

I like how Ms Philo toys with the idea of masculine and feminine in such an economical and direct way. HEAD ON. And yet with such subtlety. Three shades of pink for a Tom Boy. And a fierce pair of heels. Perfect



Some photographs I took back in the summer. I liked the shadows cast on the stairs. The sort of zig zag. And the intense red of the door.


One of my favourite colours. Strong, intense and bloody.

I guess its an ode to Kertesz, the great photographer, on whom I shall do a post shortly. Been meaning to do that for ages.

As you’ve noticed tweaked things a bit. New background colour. Deep, slate GREY. Another of my favourites. I like the way it makes the images pop a bit more. Let’s see how long this lasts. Will probably get bored of it before long!

Reading Renzo Rosso‘s, founder of the Diesel brand, interview in last week’s the Observer Fashion Special got me thinking about designer denim. In particular, the pre-aged, pre-ripped type. Rosso waxes lyrical about how he kickstarted the destroyed denim trend over 30 years ago. He “made holes, imperfections, variations, idiosyncrasies that suggested history, character, past lives.” Natch. Over 30 years of really terrible denim ensued. You know, the kind with bleached track marks over the back leg that ladies of a certain spatial dimension, who should really know better, love to wear. Look At Me Denim.©

The same supplement also profiled Tamburlaine Gorst, a menswear designer who also likes to take a pair of scissors and the odd pumice stone to a garment. Interestingly, Sally Brampton’s rather insightful piece in the current Intelligent Life magazine, paints a different picture – or should that be, rips a different 5 pocket? – on the Diesel Effect. I really recommend getting a copy of the magazine. Ms Brampton compares different consumer market levels to decide who is the best at a high, low and medium fashion – London, Paris or Milan? On Diesel, her 17 year old daughter comments: “Boring… What’s creative about jeans that cost £150… none of my mates would wear it, but I’m trying to be kind so I’ll give it 5 (out of 10.)” Ouch. I wonder what Mr. Rosso, the out-spoken, would have to say about the response of the youth to his self-proclaimed brand of cool?

“Designer Denim” bugs me. I find this idea of pre-ageing and all the, albeit mind-boggling industrious processes, fake. I like my denim quite simple. A good quality cloth, 5 pockets and a slim-ish cut with narrow cuffs. In classic colours. Indigo, grey and occasionally black. Fashionable utilitarianism is a bit oxymoronic. Why bother? The beauty of denim is that it ages the more you wear it. It takes on its own character and flaws as time goes by. Each time-faded rip should tell a story. A true story and not one prefabricated by some underpaid worker in India or Turkey that will probably die of lung cancer due to all the microscopic fibres inhaled. Not that I am in anyway implying this about the Diesel brand. I know nothing of where or how they produce their denim but I’d like to think that they would ensure the best conditions for their workers. It’s a matter of personal taste. One man’s acid wash is another man’s poison, and all the rest. I just find the concept symptomatic of the world we live in. A sort of inherent laziness. The quick blue fix jumped over the lazy slog. Who cares about authenticity?! As if!

The pair you see photographed here are over 12 years old. They’re by G-Star and were a dark indigo when I got them. Over time they’ve faded to azure and I’ve ripped and patched them as was needed. Crotch falling to bits? Why not rip off a back pocket and stitch it in? Pocket bag full of holes? My solution was to hand-stitch what was left of them directly onto the outside. As they shrunk with each wash I seemed to grow consecutively wider. I once had a 28inch waist? Really? The slits on the pockets was my desperate attempt to give me a little breathing space over the thigh area and perhaps a few more months of wear. Ingenious, no? Marvel at my creativity! This is the real deal. No sand-blasting, no clever washing, scrubbing techniques. Just a knackered pair of jeans that I was inseparable from for many a happy, slimmer year. There is NO WAY that they are ever going to fit me again. I think I’ll frame them. Le Fat Noir. Adios.

Listen carefully_

© images above, copyright Le Fist Noir. If you so happen to think: nice idea, I’ll rip ’em off, then DON’T. Ask nicely and I might let you have the original. For a fair price. Believe me, I’ll find out and you really don’t want to go there. Really.

Came across some old photographs whilst packing. The ones here are photographs of the house I shared with two friends while we were at university. Very quaint. A lot of chintz. But a lot of fond memories. Like our eccentric neighbour, the middle-aged music teacher, who used to water the flowers in his speedo-style briefs. The combination of sagging, liver-spotted flesh and water fanning out from crotch level was funny-disturbing… Or the hedgehog that decided to set up home in the pile of branches and weeds we wanted to burn after a pre-summer [barbeque season!] clean up. I think we waited a few days before finally setting it alight, giving the branches a good shake beforehand and hoping that Mr. Hedgehog had found a safer place to live. I think… Barbeque season might have come a little earlier for some tragic souls! Oops!

Anyway, the back wall was shrouded in ivy. Quite beautiful. I just loved the way the marigold dishwashing gloves were positioned in the window. So elegant. So gay. I’d do strange things to get my hands on that chintz armchair. Funny how one’s appreciation of things change over the years. Actually, I lie. I liked it as much now as I did then. No accounting for taste!_

A friend played me a piece from Alva Noto and Riyuichi Sakamoto’s joint album, Insen, the other night. It’s an incredible piece of music that requires a proper sound system to do it justice. The subtle glitches, the forlorn piano loops, the intense bass that’s quiet and menacing at the same time. Its the sort of contemplative piece that was recorded to be heard in the darkest recesses of the night or on one of those grey, rainy days when you’re feeling melancholic.

Alva Noto’s music is classed as “electronica” but it defies easy genre definitions. Insen is one of his more accessible works but other recordings are more uncompromising mathematical experiments in sound and texture. “Difficult” music – like an algebraic equation you’ve struggled to solve. His music requires patience and concentration to reveal its beauty. Pop music it isn’t. Abstraction would be an incorrect adgective to describe Noto’s work as there is method in the madness of the glitches and clicks that form these soundscapes. There’s also something quite primeval about his work despite its scientific, electrical nature. Tribal, almost.

Alva Noto is a pseudonym of Carsten Nicolai, a sound artist that uses sound as his canvas. Discarded noises from the studio form his paint and brush as he attempts to illustrate sound and electricity. He uses the principles of Cymatics or Model Phenomena – the study of visible sound and vibration. What I find intriguing are his music videos that implement abstract visuals, sequencers and desolate, nocturnal landscapes to convey a sparse mood. The images you see here are screen captures of some of his videos – beautiful, ambiguous and atmospheric. A lot like his music.


A screen shot from Claire Denis’ 2008 slow burner, 35 Rhums [35 Shots of Rum]. Again, this idea of colour blocking and geometry. Perhaps my sudden interest in this harks back to the post where I related the Louis Vuitton menswear show to the Bauhaus movement a few weeks ago. Whatever the reason I’m obviously feeling graphic_

Grid Pictures: Josef Albers, 1922 [stained glass] – Bauhaus School of Stained Glass

A doorway I came across today. Love the retro typeface, how the different blues contrast with each other, the colour of door and the yellow of the text. Also love the graphic quality the metal grid lends and the dynamic between the resulting rectilinear forms, the yellow dots and curviness of the typeface. Its almost as if the whole thing was plotted on graph paper_

Doesn’t that deep blue scream Yves Klein?

Yves Klein: Blue Cup, 2006

And all those lines Mondrian?