Snowmen...

I've been in New York since Sunday, arriving in the wake of the snowstorm otherwise known as Nemo, with the streets piled high with frozen drifts. The snow has been slowly melting for the last couple of days, slush collapsing in great heaps, although a few snowmen survived at the Lincoln Centre, which is the hub of New York Fashion Week. Anyway, I've been meaning to post these pictures that I took in my local park in north London a couple of weeks ago, during the last heavy snowfall. There's something magical about snowmen -- occasionally eerie, sometimes sad, or wistfully touching, perhaps in their suggestion of otherworldliness... and the knowledge that they will disappear (as we do, too). I love the inventiveness of whoever made the snow-dog, and the snowman in the tree. And since then, I've been thinking about snowmen and fashion; which might sound pretentious, but I hope not... there's no theory or philosophy attached to these thoughts, just bits and pieces, meandering and drifting in the midst of the babble of Fashion Week, about how that which seems frozen is also fragile.

The February issue

In a flurry of packing for a trip to Paris tomorrow, to see the couture shows, but crossing my fingers that I get there. Eurostar has just cancelled my train in the morning -- snow on snow on snow -- so I'm hoping to squeeze onto the next one, because it would be very sad to miss Dior couture. Meanwhile, here is the February issue; hope you enjoy it... (and if you do, please consider subscribing; though I know some of my lovely blogosphere friends have already done so, for which many thanks!).

Hawks and the Little Owl in Manhattan

I'm just about to board a flight home to London from New York, but just had to post about the wondrous sight of red-tailed hawks from our room at the Pierre hotel, overlooking Central Park. The picture at the top comes from a website devoted to the Manhattan hawks (named after Pale Male, the original founder of this extraordinary urban colony), and until I saw the hawks for myself, at dawn on Saturday morning, I'd never known of their existence. Since then, I've been watching them from my eyrie at the Pierre, in between meetings at the Hearst Tower (although that's another story; first, I feel I need to read more about Citizen Hearst Himself).
Oops, flight has just been announced, so had better rush, but before I go, I must also mention the loveliest downtown restaurant, the Little Owl, of which more later...

Apologies for the abrupt departure; home again in London now, and drooping somewhat with jet-lag and a long day at the office. Anyway, back to the Little Owl, a Greenwich Village neighbourhood restaurant that serves the most delicious food, in an atmosphere of friendly good cheer. I went a couple of years ago, and wondered if it could be as good again on this trip, but it was... so I'm already looking forward to a return visit next month during New York Fashion Week. (Roasted cod with squash risotto or crispy chicken with lemon, sherry and dijon? Yum yum...) Which may be why I've suddenly been overcome with a craving for chocolate, but there is none in the house, so will have to make do with Horlicks instead. Night night.

Happy Christmas

The skies have been blue over Tillypronie, and a pale frost hard on the ground. Today there is the lightest dusting of snow, like icing sugar, but the dark earth is still visible below. Yesterday I walked down to the river, which runs deep and swift, filled with last week's torrents of rain; and then to the frozen loch, where last summer's lilies lie beneath the ice, their leaves motionless, as if held in time like Sleeping Beauty in a glass casket; and in the garden the berries are bright as a fairy tale...
Up here in the hills, it is good to feel one's small place in a vast landscape; to feel a true sense of perspective, where mountains are so much greater than ourselves.

A Christmas nativity at Migvie

There's nothing like a carol concert to make you feel Christmas-y, and yesterday was one of the best; the children from Logie Coldstone school came up the icy path to Migvie church to sing and dance and make merry. It's six months since we got married there, when the long summer days made December nights seem very distant; and the weeks have sped along too quickly since then, turning all at once into dark midwinter. But inside the church, there was much good cheer, with a warm message from the minister who married us (lovely Mr Ribbons), followed by mince pies, Scottish shortbread, and mulled winter Pimms for the grownups.
I'm now contemplating the return to London, and the rush to finish the March issue before Christmas Eve. Meanwhile, here's a link to the online piece I wrote for Bazaar about the Chanel show in Edinburgh earlier this month.

The January issue of Harper's Bazaar...

... is out tomorrow. It feels scary, as well as exciting, like having the first draft of a new book published... which I hope you might find intriguing, as an insight into developing ideas. Regular readers of this blog may very well recognize themes and motifs from previous preoccupations and pieces of work (Chanel, Vreeland, Dior, et al; the landscape of art and fashion, and an exploration of how understanding the past is a way to move forwards). Anyway, here's a peek from behind the scenes of the cover shoot. And there's lots more inside the magazine, including a Titian detective story by Hannah Rothschild, and a wonderful memoir by Tanya Gold. Please do let me know what you think...

Today we walked up to Alexandra Palace

A sunny Sunday, and my son and I set off to admire the view over the city, all the way south to the Kent hills. On the way home, we bought fresh fish at the Farmer's Market, a bunch of green parsley, and a good handful of courgettes (a recipe for a happy Sunday evening: supper then Homeland = bliss). In the afternoon, I swept autumn leaves from the garden and planted dozens of bulbs. The squirrels will eat some, inevitably, but I'm hoping that the alliums will survive and flourish next spring...