The Snow Queen

I've been writing, and re-writing, and discarding the threads of a near-impossible book. It's so damn hard -- to try to address something deeply personal, in the almost certain knowledge that exposure to the outside world might shrivel it up and turn it to ashes. I say 'it', as shorthand for the unsay-able -- in other words, the attempt to tell a story that begins with the end of a marriage, without being hurtful or damaging to anyone involved. Has anyone else read Rachel Cusk's 'Aftermath'? I did, a couple of weeks ago, and admire her courage in addressing a subject that seems to create such powerfully judgmental reactions (she initiated the separation from her husband). The reviews have veered to extremes; critics love it or hate it -- usually the sign of an interesting book, and Aftermath is vividly spiky, demanding, jagged, visceral -- but the online response is terrifying (volcanic acid spewing out of the internet). Needless to say, this has made me horribly uncertain about the idea of writing anything personal, which is perhaps an appropriate response.
I'm not sure why, but the anxiety sent me back to Hans Christian Andersen, to re-read The Snow Queen. What a strange, unsettling series of episodes make up the narrative -- so much more complicated than its modern interpretations tend to be. There's something profoundly compelling about the opening -- a devil-made mirror that reflects and refracts uncertainty, showing the worst of all worlds, and then smashes to pieces, the tiny fragments lodging themselves into the eyes and hearts of those thereafter doomed to see only the dark side... (Andersen himself being a writer more often drawn to the shadows than the light).
It cannot be coincidental that the Snow Queen was elemental in Daphne Du Maurier's writing, an archetype that seemed also to be summoned into her life (by the writer herself, as a character that sometimes blended into her mother, or her husband's lover -- the threatening Other Woman, too powerful to resist); so yes, I confess, I've been thinking about 'Daphne' again, and the process of reading and writing, and how to see clearly, without a shard of broken mirror in my eye.
Does any of this make a modicum of sense? Not to me, not yet, not clearly... but I'll keep trying.
Upon reflection (ten minutes later)... perhaps looking at the fragments of a broken mirror is inevitable, in the aftermath -- examining them, putting them down again, sweeping them out of sight, too sharp to touch, too dangerous to handle. And trying to reassemble them into some kind of order is as doomed a puzzle as the one attempted by the boy in The Snow Queen. Still, he was obsessed with numerical and logical processes -- while I'm more intrigued by intuition, however elusive, and the thoughts that lie just beyond our grasp.

The Closet Thinker: Au Revoir

This is my last Closet Thinker for Stella, but not a goodbye to closet thinking. Perhaps it wasn't entirely coincidental that my sturdy old MacBook Pro finally gave up the ghost yesterday, and after three hours at the Genius Bar at the Apple Store in Brent Cross, I came away with my date retrieved, and a new laptop. I thought I'd be bereft to say goodbye to the old computer (it's seen me through the roller coaster of three books, thousands of articles, and a zillion emails and blogs) -- and actually, it's come home with me, for a safe retirement -- but the new one is thrilling, too.

Closet Thinker: March 4th
Ever since I started writing this column for Stella, over six years ago, I’ve been reminded each week of the way in which clothes are threaded through the stories of our lives; what we wear providing clues to who we are, where we came from, and how our futures might unfold. Fashion is a transient element -- an observation not intended as a dismissal, given that the intriguing vicissitudes of style can be a reflection of cultural shifts. But some material rises above fashion, whether christening gown or widow’s mourning. Just think of the shoes in which you walked towards independence; the suit that carried you into a different job; the jeans that reminded you that freedom is not only for the young.

And so it is that I find myself considering a wedding dress, after finding love the second time around; a symbol of how beginnings can arise out of endings, and alternative narratives unfold, even when a chapter of your life has come to a close. I still have my first wedding dress (white linen, from Nicole Farhi, worn when I was a slip of a girl; oddly undamaged, despite the onslaught of moths and time); but now I have the unexpected pleasure of finding a different dress, and joyous summer celebrations to come.

What should the grownup bride wear, when a white meringue is entirely inappropriate? Wallis Simpson provided a certain kind of chic template in June 1937, the divorcee in Mainbocher’s buttoned-up blue silk couture; reinterpreted with panache by Stella McCartney for her father’s new wife, Nancy Shevell, last October (in white, and shorter than the Duchess of Windsor’s full length gown; but with a similarly nipped in waist and long sleeves).

Given my immersion in the Chanel archives, having written a biography of Coco Chanel, I cannot help but be inspired by her iconic designs from the Twenties and Thirties; and doubtless my own passionate attachment to these was inspired by my mother’s choice of a Chanel-like little black dress for her wedding in 1960. Ideally, I’ll find an outfit that has a life beyond its ceremonial first outing (I’ve worn my mother’s wedding dress to countless parties), as well as suggesting tangible links with the past (something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue?). As yet, the details remain unclear; for in fashion, as in life, certainty can be elusive; which is no reason to fear the unknown. This is my last column as the Closet Thinker, but not altogether a farewell. Here’s to the future, and all that it may hold…

March 1st: The Faber Social at Selfridges

I'll be there tomorrow at 7pm, with Linda Grant, Ali Smith and Alex Clark. Thrilled to be included in such a wonderful lineup.
Meanwhile, apologies for silence -- I've been wrestling with what I hope is my new book, goimg up, down, and all around; finally, in the last couple of days, it feels closer to being right, but I don't want to tempt fate by saying so.
Anyway, here we are on the last day of February -- an extra day, which is a blessing, perhaps, though I am longing for winter to fully retreat (but never wish away days, I know; they are too precious for that). I've had the same hacking cough and sore throat as most of the rest of London, but lucky to have an afternoon with my mother at the Royal Academy's Hockney exhibition, which was glorious, despite the crowds. She was (and is) a very wise guide; and Hockney's landscapes are vivid reminders, amongst other things, of the particular joys of each of the four seasons. I hope that doesn't sound horribly Pollyanna-ish, to anyone who is gripped by the mean reds or wintry blues (I've been there myself), but the London sky was beautiful at six o'clock this evening, when darkness had not yet fallen. Tomorrow, will it be spring?

A ring of truth

Herewith this week's Closet Thinker: an alternative Valentine, with thanks, as always, to Mio Matsumoto for the lovely illustration.

This is the weekend when journalistic tradition demands that readers are advised to buy suitably romantic items, to wear our hearts on our sleeves and flash rings on our fingers, in readiness for Valentine’s Day. But having gone through the acutely unromantic experience of divorce, I know how unhelpful it is to be urged towards displays of tender coupledom; indeed, it was only three years ago that I spent the evening of February 14th watching ‘The Wrestler’ on DVD with my friend Susan (a double date after her bereavement and my separation), and very therapeutic it was too, seeing Mickey Rourke being slammed into the ground.

That said, I have come to realize that rings are to be treasured, encircling as they do the rituals, romances and losses of a life. Those I wear now are from my mother; on the middle finger of my right hand, a diamond that she was given by her mother-in-law, my Russian grandmother, who brought it as an émigré, fleeing from persecution (a jewel that could be slipped into a pocket, one of the very few valuables her generation carried into safety). And two other maternal inheritances: a delicate coral ring, and a Victorian garnet – the gem clasped in tiny gold hands – in memoriam of her maiden name, Garnett.

My wedding ring is in a safe place – no longer worn, but impossible to forsake (my ex-husband is, after all, the father of our two beloved sons). I didn’t buy myself a divorce ring, although it did occur to me that some sort of ritual might have been appropriate (certainly not a party, but perhaps an emblem to represent the long legal and emotional process). If I were to have wanted a non-Valentine’s piece, I might have found a suitable design by the young British jeweller Claire English; her gold Smouldering Spent Match ring, for example, or a silver Wishbone ring (£225 and £115 respectively, from Elizabeth Galton Studio).

Instead, rather magically, I woke up on Christmas morning to find a moonstone in my stocking; at least a century old, but still shimmering with a silvery gleam. I’m not wearing it quite yet – it is being set in white gold, at John Lawrence jewellers in Hatton Garden (one of those long-standing, traditional workshops that are reminders of the subtle overlaps between the past and the present in the city, and perhaps in an emotional landscape, as well). When the ring is finished, it will be slipped onto my engagement finger; for yes, there is a life after divorce, and beyond Valentine’s Day, as well…

A park full of snowmen

Wandering around my local park, where the snowmen are still standing after the weekend snowfall -- frozen statues, but also like children's drawings come alive -- and I was reminded how they can occasionally look as sinister and evocative as scarecrows, while others seem more innocent. The ice on the ground is stubbornly refusing to melt, up here in the wilds of north London; so the snowmen remain, for now. At night, in the quiet park, I wonder if they are watching each other; I can't imagine them flying, but whispering, perhaps...

Blue skies and ice in Tillypronie

It's very, very cold in London -- the primroses in my garden are in danger of freezing, though I'm hoping the micro-climate of kitchen warmth will keep them from harm (thanks to simmering beef casserole for dinner last night and pasta with anchovies, pancetta, courgettes and broccoli this evening; yum yum). Dashed up to Scotland for 24 hours on Sunday afternoon -- plans to make, an even icier garden to explore -- and then made it back to London in time for supper on Monday. Since then, have been hibernating and writing at home; hoping that the fragile new beginnings of a book just taking shape...

Closet Thinking

Here is last Sunday's Closet Thinker (or read it below, with links), and today's column, as well. (The illustrations are by the wonderful Mio Matsumoto, whose drawings illuminate the Closet Thinker every week in Stella). Meanwhile, I've been eating hot porridge for breakfast (it's so cold in the mornings) and almond mini magnums at night (why does a choc ice straight out of the freezer seem so appealing after dinner, even in January?). No answer yet to this conundrum, but it seems to be working for me as an antidote to the low skies; speaking of which, there is an unexpected hint of potential snow in the London sky this morning (although on Friday, there was a violent burst of hail instead.)
Now, just off to make my porridge...

22 January:
Once upon a time, the beau monde escaped the misery of January aboard their private yachts, and doubtless some still do, but for the majority of fashion consumers, the cruise (also known in the US as resort) collections have come to mean something different. Often the most profitable of seasons, and frequently more wearable than catwalk extravaganzas designed for supermodels rather than real women, cruise fills the gap between the autumn/winter collections (available since the dog-days of late summer) and the spring/summer lines (due to arrive next month, when the weather will still be miserable).

Not that resort lines are the sole preserve of luxury brands; H&M launched its Versace cruise collection three days ago, with silk dresses and bikinis in strawberry and butterfly prints, alongside matching bags, earrings and charm bracelets. I didn’t particularly like the much-publicised first collaboration between Versace and H&M – although apparently I’m in a minority of one, given the speed with which it sold out – but this new one looks sweetly appealing (and hopefully the quality of the fabric will have improved since last time).

Alternatively, you could interpret cruise in a more literal, nautical sense, given the predominance of oceanic motifs in the spring 2012 collections: starfish at Yves Saint Laurent and Versace, shark-tooth medallions at Givenchy, tropical aquatic prints at Peter Pilotto and Mary Katrantzou, and an entire Chanel show based around a fantastical seascape, complete with conch-shell clutches and Florence Welch as a mermaid emerging from a giant clam, singing ‘What the Water Gave Me’.

Sceptics, cynics and sufferers from Seasonal Affective Disorder may by now be muttering in disbelief about the implausibility of catwalk scuba ensembles (as seen at Peter Pilotto) set against a background of economic catastrophe. But history reveals that this is not the first occasion in which high style has collided with a surreal view of how to dress in a crisis. During the First World War, the artist Paul Iribe (who subsequently became Coco Chanel’s fiancée) transported wounded soldiers to Paris from the Front Line whilst dressed as a deep-sea diver, for reasons that have never become clear. At his side were Misia Sert (the reigning muse of modernism) and another leading exponent of the avant-garde, Jean Cocteau; both of them dressed in nurses’ uniforms designed by the couturier Paul Poiret, who had also donated his delivery vans as ambulances. Unfortunately, Poiret was thereafter bankrupted; suggesting, perhaps, that if absurdist fashion is a fishy business, it is nevertheless occasionally capable of making waves, even while so far out as to be drowning…


29 January.
It is a convention of fashion (and yes, this is a business as prone to conformism as any other, despite protestations to the contrary) that one is either a wearer of spots or stripes, but not both. If polka dots are supposedly for the girlish, then stripes are for those of a more gamine look; as embodied by Jean Seberg sporting a sailor’s top, in contrast to the young Bridget Bardot in a pink spotted bikini. But there is also the Third Way, currently very much in evidence, kick-started by Dolce & Gabbana’s star print dresses in the winter 2011 collection, and still in a beguiling variety of forms (my favourite a starry cashmere sweater from Chinti and Parker at net-a-porter).

The timing of a resurgence of starry motifs is intriguing, given the concurrent economic gloom, which some commentators are now referring to as a Great Recession, echoing the long slump in the wake of the Wall Street Crash. If previous decades – the Roaring Twenties and the big-spending Noughties – allowed themselves to play with the idea of stripped-down fashion (the Little Black Dress; luxe minimalism), then the aesthetic of 2012 has some parallels with that of 1932. Nowhere is this more evident than in fashion’s latest employment of diamond stars, as if to remind us that even in a Depression, a few essential elements remain fixed points of navigation, and potentially safer investments than risky stock markets.

Hardly a coincidence, then, that Chanel’s 2012 Cruise collection revived the star-strewn jewellery designs from Coco Chanel’s diamond show, originally staged eighty years ago. Princesses and celebrities alike came to the opening party in 1932, to see Mademoiselle Chanel’s radiant, astronomical jewels; a sparkling treasure trove that formed a curious juxtaposition with a hardening winter, when increasing numbers of unemployed were homeless on the streets of Paris.

To Chanel, however, it made perfect sense: she declared that her glittering constellation of stars was the only way forward ‘during a period of financial crisis when an instinctive desire for authenticity is reawakened in every domain’. This pronouncement might seem dangerously close to Marie Antoinette, but as it happened, Chanel was proved right, at least in terms of the markets: two days after her diamond show opened, De Beers stock jumped 20 points on the London exchange.

It is always a dangerous game to make predictions, in fashion as in the wider economy; but still, I’d hazard a guess that however terrifying the coming bust, diamond stars by the luxury brands will sell even better than they did in the boom years.