Monday, 30 January 2012

Notes on The Modecast

   The Modecast between myself and my dear friend Danielle Meder of Final Fashion last night was a great success in that it was actually watched by humans. The greatest reward was in how much we enjoyed ourselves... and how decadent my overconsumption of a 19 year old whisky proved to be, for my behaviour, for my faculties, for my ability to hail transport later on in the night

   We did indeed record the results. Danielle has been faster at disseminating it than I have, as is her right as the true mastermind behind our collaboration (her cliff notes for the show are also required reading). So, please proceed to watch it below:
Watch live streaming video from modecast at

   I'd be remiss if I did not credit the 20-odd friends of ours who tuned in (and some of them are in monogamous relationships, which suggests that we may have approached 30 at our peak); I'm especially impressed by the Britishers who brought themselves to relegate the BBC's showing of Birdsong to iPlayer in order to watch us live instead. I can only hope that they noticed the difference -  I have only slightly bigger lips than ol' Ed Redmayne, although Danielle does have prettier hair than the gorgeous Clémence Poésy

   Rewatching it, it becomes increasingly apparent that I should note more often the speed at which I knock back single malt drinks. I am currently holding the remaining 50ml in reserve; there's always the threat of nuclear attack somewhere

   Judging from the general response to my record reviews here, I suspect that Danielle should continue to select the music for future editions. I'm not hurt, of course

   I love Dupioni silk and I never apologise

  This is where one can find the Pan African Arts Scotland organisation that was mentioned:

   Joe Orton and Kenneth Halliwell's defaced library book covers are now dear to the collective heart of the Islington Local History Centre collection

   Jamie, whom semi-regular readers may recall from a private view and a portrait shoot or two, returned to the office after the show specifically for another finger or five of whisky. It was good to share Scotch with a genuine Scotsman

   I should compliment Danielle more often. Offline, anyway

   Finally, I am going to put quite a lot of effort into bourbon research for the sequel. Where does one start with these things?

Sunday, 29 January 2012

Final Fashion x Mode Parade = Modecast

   Tonight, Danielle Meder and I go live in less than 90 minutes (9pm GMT/4pm EST) time to gab about the state of the blogosphere, toe shapes, your mother's cooking and the polio victim-esque poses thrown on street style websites. Incidentally, we will be drinking:

   It's late notice on a Sunday, I realise, but it's been that sort of weekend. I hope that one or two of you may tune in

   And just to be clear, I will endeavour to offend everyone other than polio victims


Wednesday, 11 January 2012

"Lose Your Way and Find Yourself"

   There are some occasions that inform me that the Parade is appreciated by more than four humans at a time, every once in a while. Thus, I was most touched that talented artist Nina Meledandri, daughter of the late haberdasher and arbiter elegantiarum Roland, wrote in after stumbling across my prolix piece on him, "Homme Couture"

   I was so touched that I requested to reprint Nina's e-mail, to which she kindly consented. But then again, she provided 70% of that article's material. This is as much to thank her as it is to be thanked. And please remember to visit her interweb space, as linked above:
Hi Barima,
One of the most wonderful things about the internet is that sometimes you lose your way and find yourself
I just came across the post you made about my dad and it was really wonderful to find
I am glad that my reminiscences had an impact and of course it is a comfort that my father's legacy lives on
Thank you for posting that piece,

Tuesday, 10 January 2012

Neo-Edwardiana, African Style/Negritude ala Senghor

A seasonal inspiration that I could not post to the Tumblr alone. Merry New Year, Paraders