Poached Eggs and Picasso

The crisp crack of a spoon breaking the burnt-sugar shell of a crème brûlée. Pricking a poached egg to see the sunshine-yellow yolk ooze out. The surprisingly soft pop of a champagne cork. Getting to the next level on Angry Birds. Forget more effortful events like wedding days or childbirth, these are the single-second moments in life to take an altogether more humble pleasure in. Over just as soon as they begin, their only sticking point is the very brevity of their being - given the chance, who wouldn't stretch out those short snapshots of satisfaction over a lengthier period of time? 

Cue LIFE photographer Gjon Mili and his series of portraits of Pablo Picasso taken in the South of France in 1949. They show Picasso using a small flashlight to draw in the air, much the same as writing your name with a sparkler on bonfire night - yet this time the image is captured on camera, that one vanishing second sealed on film via a darkened room and a slow shutter speed. What I find so captivating about the results is the visible vitality of Picasso behind each light drawing - it's a two-for-one artistic offer where you see both creator and creation together at once, the ecstasy of a single enlightened flash of imagination eternalised as a piece of work itself. If only we could press the pause button on other such all-too-brief moments in life - but then again, perhaps that's what makes them so precious in the first place. 

Turkish Delights

Mosaic-embellished tables, palatial pillows and sequin-covered walls: only Karl Lagerfeld possesses the kind of can-do attitude to decorating that ensures such spectacular scenes as this at every Chanel runway. This time the stage was set for the Pre-Fall 2011 Métier d'Arts show, which celebrated the opening of a second Chanel boutique in Istanbul with a ‘Paris Byzance’ collection that more than mirrored the splendour of its shimmering surroundings.

Being Chanel, of course the whole collection was brilliant. But my, oh my, the jewellery. The clothes were dripping with beautiful, sultan-worthy bling - gem-encrusted headbands, sprawling filigree necklaces and starburst brooches, gloriously offset against a palette of deep, dark black. In a word, stunning. 

The OTT grandeur of these accessories strikes right at the heart of historical Istanbul. The city is steeped in an old-world opulence where in some areas it’s hard to avoid bumping into Ottoman landmarks like the mosaic-strewn Hagia Sophia or the glittering treasury of the Topkapi Palace. It's there in the food too - in particular, Turkey's long-held love affair with sugar. Putting aside commercialised sugar-fixes like Cadbury's chocolate or Chupa Chups, there’s something entirely exotic about the East's irrepressible sweet tooth. Sugar was once prized by the Ottomans as a luxury product and valuable trading tool, and that reverence can still be tasted in Istanbul's signature dishes - so much so that I felt on the verge of self-induced hyperglycaemia during a trip there last week. 

Try baklava for example, those crisp little bites of layered pastry soaked with honey into a soft and syrupy chewiness, washed down with a cup of sweet, short and dark Turkish coffee. Or step into the Spice Bazaar, an Aladdin’s cave of confectionary where shopkeepers sell with sugar as well as words, proffering free glasses of nectarous apple tea whilst prices are haggled over frosted piles of Turkish Delight and jewel-bright dried apricots. Even the smoke-filled shisha cafés come scented with the heady sweetness of cherry and apple tobacco. It's a deliciously cloying and utterly indulgent way of eating, and feels a whole lot chicer than chomping on a Curly Wurly. Sugar anoints every corner of Istanbul, an ancient flavour fixed within the city’s increasingly modern surroundings, and seeing Chanel's East meets West, gold against black collection, I feel like I've been taken right back there. 

All That Glitters

Penguin’s new Art Deco editions of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s best-loved novels and short stories are a sublime example of when you really should judge a book by its cover. Designed by Coralie Bickford-Smith in metallic foil to mark the 70th anniversary of the author's death, they look as opulent as the stories hidden within their gilded dust jackets. I am sorely tempted to splurge on the entire set despite owning old (and so very unshiny) copies of most of them already - and really, that's just the sort of champagne-spilling, surface-worshipping extravagance we owe these Jazz Age classics. The perfect addition to an evening of old-fashioned indulgence - just mix up a mint julep à la The Great Gatsby and devour at leisure. 

Under The Tree

Braving the depths of the attic to unearth decomposing Christmas decorations is a rite of passage for many at this time of year. Battered boxes of baubles, moulting tinsel and tangled strings of fairy lights - nothing signals the start of the season quite like it. Yet after experiencing a full-on face crash into a florist's inexplicably low-hanging wreath earlier, I could only think gladly, mouth full of pine needles, of my own more minimalist decorations waiting back home.

Yep, this year I’ve gone all Zen and bought a Christmas tree wall sticker (found here) in place of a traditional evergreen. A little unconventional perhaps, but what, may I ask, would you want with one of those past-it pine numbers? What, with their invitingly festive scent and three-dimensional decorating potential? They’re nothing compared to my plastic wall sticker! It’s so clean and neat and…ok, so my flat doesn't have room for a proper tree. But chancing upon John Galliano for Dior’s similarly unorthodox design for the Claridge’s Christmas tree last night, I felt a little bit better about my ersatz alternative.

Entitled ‘Under The Sea’, this is the second tree Galliano has designed for Claridge’s following last year’s ‘frozen’ offering, which featured a prowling leopard amongst its ice-blue boughs. It is very beautiful, and very, very fabulous. Scattered with seashells and crystals, the tree stands a sparkling shade of coral in the corner of the lobby with jellyfish, crabs and a very cute seahorse decorously clinging to it. 

I particularly enjoyed the quote from Galliano given on the front plaque: “The majestic beauty of Claridge’s Art Deco interiors never fails to inspire me”. Art Deco as inspiration wasn't quite what sprung to mind when gazing at this Little Mermaid meets Cornify creation, but whatever you say John – it’s still spectacular. He's taken on the traditional tree and christened it cool again. Although rooted in a similar spirit of nonconformity, I have a feeling my wall sticker won’t look quite as impressive as this winter wonder.  

Cornify

Right, own up - who stole November? The fact that it’s December and Christmas is just around the corner was an extremely disconcerting discovery this week. What’s even more disconcerting is that it appears I’ve turned into my mother and already bought all my Christmas presents in some hyper-organised online shopping fit last weekend. What! When did that happen?

If you’re in need of some Christmas cheer and the delightfully disgusting Iceland campaign just isn’t doing it for you then may I recommend Cornify. It’s the campest thing since Jason Donovan scoffing Iceland’s £2 mini beef yorkshires in fishnet stockings and a handlebar moustache. Simply go to the website (found here) and add the special Cornify link to your toolbar. Click on it every time you feel like some festive sparkle and up pops on demand a glittering unicorn or smiling rainbow, or Hello Kitty riding a glittering unicorn over a smiling rainbow, with added glitter. Good, wholesome fun at its most fabulous and more addictive than Lucky Charms-flavoured crack. What a treat!

Number Nine pre-Cornify:

Number Nine Cornified:

Lost Letters

Letters are dead, emailing is in. When was the last time you opened a stamped addressed envelope that contained a personal scribble rather than a bank statement? Such was the novelty of receiving a handwritten postcard last week that reading it felt all Downton Abbey-esque, like I should stand up afterwards with furrowed brow and gravely announce to the room that war had been declared.

You can only protest so much about the death of the letter before sounding like a new-age Neanderthal, but it does call into question how contemporary politicians, authors, actors and Jordan are going to record their correspondences for posterity (and posthumous serialisation in Hello! Magazine). With letters it’s easy: simply pile them up in a forgotten bureau for a grieving relative to discover. But emails? Do you create a special folder in your inbox labelled ‘The Juicy Bits’? Or does said relative have to sift through years of spam to come up with the goods?

Provided they can be found, it’s unlikely such emails will match the cloistered intimacy one can assume with letters. There’s something terribly sobering about seeing your words typed up in an email, poised to become permanent as soon as you hit the send button. Between clinical clicks of the keyboard and penis enlargement pop-ups there’s not much room left in which to divulge the secret poetries of the soul.

With that in mind, there's no better time than now to appreciate the art of letter writing. The website Letters of Note collates all manner of interesting epistles which you can search for by name, era, type or topic. Genius! Within five minutes I had burst out laughing at a series of apoplectic memos sent by a CEO to his company and then almost burst into tears reading Capt. Robert Falcon Scott’s tender farewell to his wife as he fought a losing battle with the South Pole. It’s enough to inspire me to get out a pen and some paper and put them to practise again. As soon as I answer those emails that is. 

Wrap It Up

Between misty breaths exhaled upon Hermès shop windows and an almost constant coveting of Louis Vuitton’s ubiquitous leopard-print styles, it’s safe to say I have quite a thing for scarves. I like to wear black, and lots of it. If I’m feeling dangerous I might mix in a bit of navy or grey - it’s not so much a colour-pop as more of a leaking inkwell of a look. But a scarf is the one area of my wardrobe where I feel I can be bold: it’s the easiest way to work an outlandish print or ultra bright hue without drifting into Donatella territory. I enter Liberty’s kaleidoscopic scarf department and suddenly I’ve gone from ex-goth Olsen-twin wannabe to Rachel Berry from Glee. An Etro paisley-print number in shocking pink? High five! An Alexander McQueen skull scarf in highlighter orange? How did I ever live without it!

Arctic-like winters seem a whole lot more agreeable when swathed in one of those super-sized shawls: a cheeky flash of colour peeping out the top of your coat, facial features burrowed in mille-feuille folds of silk. Let’s not get carried away here – a scarf is a scarf is a scarf after all – but for me it’s also a small but perfectly formed opportunity to transform any look for the better.

So it is with great longing that I tell you about London-based print label Swash. The designers, Sarah Swash and Toshio Yamanaka, specialise in the kind of scarves that really make a statement. They print huge sheets of silk with eccentric, hand-illustrated sketches, all labyrinthine mazes, floating hot-air balloons and platters of far-flung fruits and fish. The resulting pieces are a madcap mix of classic and cool, looking like Hermès from afar and an eclectic chaos up close. They'd probably be better appreciated hung up on gallery walls rather than knotted around necks, such is their beauty. Does that mean I can justify buying one as an artistic investment? Yeah, go on then...

http://www.swash.co.uk/

P.S. I regularly feed my scarf addiction with Hermès' very cool J'aime Mon Carré website, an online street-style campaign to encourage a whole new generation to spend a small fortune on TEENY TINY squares of printed silk.