On the art of Reinvention

In the film and novella Breakfast at Tiffany's, OJ Berman utters the following about Holly Golightly

"She may be a phoney... But she's a real phoney. She's a real phoney because she honestly believes the phoney junk she believes in"

Ladies and Gentlemen ... Lana Del Rey..

Lana del Rey Shooting by Sean & Seng from Interview.de on Vimeo.

Reinvention can be a powerful and beautiful force. It comes with a freedom not just to be seen differently, but to perceive yourself the way you would like to be seen. You can become your own artwork. In freeing yourself of the limitations you have carried previously, you can become more yourself than you were before. Sometimes the new self is somehow more honest. Much in the same way that often you can be more candid with a stranger, than you can with your closest friends.

Pop music is full of this and has always been. It is the same with Hollywood. It's part of the game . So what I'm wondering is, when did we get so obsessed with authenticity ? What does is it mean to be *authentic* anyway?

I think part of the thing with the backlash of Del Rey (and I do feel it's all been much nastier, her being a woman) is her *character* was meant to be indie. Sure there was a sense that the legend was too quirky to possibly be true, the trailer park, the love of hip hop and rockabilly, the homemade films cut with super 8 footage, but even that in the beginning was endearing to the indie press. They wanted to believe it. They wanted someone with a back story like that, who looked like that, who dressed like that, to be *real* And then of course, was her sad sultry voice, and the lush cinematic music production that backed it. She even had blogger ready jargon for her look (gangster nancy sinatra) and her sound (hollywood sadcore)

Those who love to spot the latest greatest underground thing bought into it fast, and promoted it even faster. The trouble was that those very people who bought into it, felt tricked when the mythology began to fall away. None of it had been lies exactly, but there were details that hadn't come up before. Yes she had lived in a trailer, but not because she was poor. Her style may not have been entirely her own, had been reworked, maybe with the help of others, to match her sound (which to her credit, I must admit still sounds very much the same).

And then that greatest of offenses,

LANA DEL REY... was NOT HER REAL NAME!!!

Blogging culture and social media attract strongly expressed opinions. These are often delivered in rapid debate: fervently for or passionately against. Then there is the inevitable follow up: a discussion about the discussion, questioning why there is any hype at all. Now those who had previously promoted Del Rey, felt embarrassed for having bought into her in the first place.

By promoting an artist that wasn't *authentic*, their own taste and sense for authenticity was called into question. Hipsters don't mind embracing pop music, as long as they are clear that the music is pop, so they can then choose to be ironic or gleefully indulgent about it. What they don't want is to be tricked into liking pop, thinking its Indie. They needed to backtrack, and quickly.

It wasn't just about her background, or her look. Now people were listening to the lyrics and questioning what she was saying. What was the tone of the character she had created? She longs only for her man, will do anything for her man. She lives for him, even when she is ignored.This makes some men and women annoyed with her, genuinely horrified by the stepford wive-ness of it all.

Then there were a series of underwhelming televised performances. More than anything, on stage she looked scared. This provoked some people to question not only her image, but her talent. This is a little unfair. Here is someone who had all this hype built up around her, without the experience to confidently rise to it. And as for sounding different recorded, this is hardly a matter of auto-tuning.

Some artists are better live, some are better in the studio, Just as some actors are better in film, than on stage. These are different disciplines and can be complimentary skills, but not always. Regardless, these appearances were damaging, giving her critics something else to feel vindicated for. It was still weeks and weeks before the album was due out...The backlash machine fired into fifth gear. One blog in particular, took it to ridiculous levels.

Perhaps she may have been forgiven for remaking herself, if it didn't appear that there was a team behind her reinvention. Perhaps for many the real sticking point, was that her team included a rich father, quite likely a stylist, and A&R men. But do we have any idea how much the musicians and actors we love have been advised on their reinvention? Sometimes these decisions are pragmatic, a way of distinguishing one self, in an industry where standing out means everything . Pop culture is about the dream. The dream is by and large manufactured, and why not ?

I caught onto Lana Del Rey early, and was immediately drawn in by Video games. I still think its a stand out track from last year. The album is released tomorrow. I'm very excited about hearing it. Despite all of this negativity towards her, presales have been high and reviews have been very good. Perhaps the backlash tide is turning. As for what goes on behind producing the persona and sound of the album, as long as I'm feeling the music, frankly, I really don't care.

In Memory of Claire De Rouen

It is not often in life that you meet someone who gives a sense of being iconic, just by being themselves. Shortly after graduating from film school, I got a job working in a graphic design bookshop, and I met someone like that. Her name was Claire De Rouen. She was the partner of my manager, and ran the store several shops up. Since moving from London, I’ve often thought of going by her shop to visit her. I really wish I had, as recently I was sad to hear that she passed away. I’ve been thinking about her since, so wanted to write a few words about her.

Claire De Rouen, was someone that if you met even briefly, you would not soon forget. That razer sharp fringe, the kohl lined eyes, the designer clothes (that on her modest salary I'm never sure how she afforded), the gold jewellery, the high heels. Walking down the street briskly to and from lunch breaks, she was often accompanied by Tara, her willful little pug.

*illustration by Hormazd Narielwalla

She was a charming, glamorous woman. She spoke several languages fluently. No one knew her age. She believed in the artists she admired, and knew the subjects of fine art and fashion photography inside out. She was a valuable resource to all those around her. She counted many famous photographers (Maplethorpe is the one I remember) and fashion designers as friends. She was as patient with and passionate about the young aspiring artists who worked for her, as she was to the established artists and fashion professionals who frequented her shop.

Her store was the best kind of specialist bookshop, carrying carefully selected books that often, you couldn't track down anywhere else (whether they be out of print, or in some limited edition, or by a small press) . Amongst the hard to find, were also the newest ,glossiest, and fresh off the press. You see, publishers and distributors loved Claire too.

Her store then, was one of a small chain of four art bookshops. You could even argue, that it was the success of hers, that propped the others up. She got away with ordering what and how much she wanted, even when the company was struggling. Finally when it did go bust, it was her character and vision, which led to her being approached to run a shop in her own name. It was no surprise to anyone who knew her, that it turned out to be a success .

I know and respect a lot of artists, but the success of any artist, comes not only from their own talent and drive, but for everyone along the way who has supported that vision. Claire was one of those kind of people, and above all else I will remember her for that .

the english riviera

*play this while reading*

I was little, maybe age six or seven. I walked over the grey pebbles and waited for my grandpa to buy me an ice cream. And then I saw her sitting on a bench. This little red headed girl sitting with her gran. And on her grandma's arm I saw something that made a great impression on little me. On that flaccid sunburned wrinkled skin, was a tattoo, faded.


I'd never seen one before. I cant' remember what it was of, but it hadn't aged well. The woman who wore it looked so sweet, smiling at her granddaughter. the tattoo seemed incongrous. But I remember thinking it added something, a quality. whatever it was, I liked that. Maybe that's why I got my first tattoo when I was fifteen.

But this is not about tattoos. Twenty six years later and I am back in this place again. And now we, my friend and I, we were chatting and this.. this was not small talk.


She had made the transition from smiley smiley chatty two or three drinks ago. Now she was fired up, oblivious to comic book wallpaper and spotty teenagers and the acid green lukewarm drinks on the table with bendy straws. Her caramel locks shaking and her hazel eyes flashing. Closer and closer she edged across the table. She considered the drinks for a second


Thought better of it.

She was talking about fighting and falling and nearly making, when everything falls into place and then the one piece goes missing. Or the puzzle morphs, or someone starts another just as you had one piece left. You had been putting it together for some time, can see the image clearly, perfectly. It's just one detail missing, you just want to finish it, its only fair, you've put the hours in.

I looked at her and said.

If I think of what I want to be doing, you're doing it.but then where you are there's just more frustration, so when does it end? or lessen? I mean... at least you're surviving from your work. That's all I want I and

She cut me off.

I don't want to survive!!!!!!!!!!!????????? I WANT TO LIVE!!!

And with powerful insistence she added.

We are Gods!!!

What she meant was, we are here with a purpose, a purpose to fulfill. There is more to what we are doing than career and entertainment. We have a power to make people think, to change people. We can make people identify, to understand. We are the everythingmen. We can see all sides and connect them. Our power is observation, our gift is in the giving of it


I thought about how all of us matter. How our words, our stories matter. Everyone may not have a novel in them, but everyone has a spirit that is valuable, a chain reaction of people they have touched are touching, even those of us who are most difficult, we have people who will miss us when we are gone.


She sized up our green drinks with irritation

I want to drink nice drinks. We are gods you and me, we are gods.

But what is the world we are gods in? Look past the wall paper, and tune out the Stevie Wonder. Look out the door that everyone who leaves forgets to close. Look to the street.See the girl in the hot pants and platforms and sheer blouse. Her legs are nice, but she can barely walk in those heels. She's leaning on two of of her friends. She's giggling. Too drunk to be taken seriously, too young to be sexually interesting. A fight is starting, or what looks like it, but its really just two boys shouting. So this is what its like being a teenager in a seaside town, like the suburb I grew up in, but with sea air and more pubs.


The boy who sits down next to me passionately goes on and on about how he can't get used to this place, having moved to Brighton. He's used to no limitations, more people who are more interesting. He's used to bars that close as late as four in the morning. I could trump him by telling him I'm from Berlin, where some of the bars don't close until after the next morning, but I don't have the heart for it. It's more fun for him to let him tell me how worldly he is.


I was incognito. I had deliberately made no effort at being pretty at all. I didn't want that kind of attention then. I wasn't interested in speaking to new people that way. I liked not being interesting. I didn't want to reveal anything, nor appear like there was anything interesting I had to say.


And then there was the model, the model who tried to convince my friend they'd had a foursome once. He wasn't that tall. Didn't seem tall enough to model. He told me he would only pose nude for charity, but had done shoots in boxer shorts. He had been spotted in London of course. He had just come back from New York. He couldn't believe he could have ever lived in Hastings. I ask him if there is any work he wouldn't do, clients he wouldn't work for? He looks at me as if I'm insane. That he'd do anything (with the exception of nude non charity work I guess?)

Well that's the job innit?

He wryly adds.

The teenagers keep arriving . But now there are also people in their early twenties. The model has gone back to trying to seduce my friend. I end up telling a random girl how much i like her jacket, and she reminds me of my friend Rosalie in Berlin. She wants to dance.


I end up dancing with her. A guy joins us. I start partner dancing with her. The guy wants to join, but she doesn't seem interested. Another boy, so drunk his head lols on the table, looks up at us with childlike wonder. Two other guys start dancing. the dance floor fills, so I say to her.

Just remember, we started this. This is because of us.

She smiles at me and then shoots a dirty look at a blonde girl dancing beside us. She is cute and leggy, dancing with what looks like her boyfriend. All the boys on the floor are looking at her. My dancing partner scowls.



At closing time I leave the others and go back to bed. Her friend walks me up to the room. He says his father is eighty,and to be very very quiet. There is only one bathroom and its downstairs, so please if I need to go, could I not use the bathroom and use the tin pail he'd left in the room instead?


When I wake up hours later, after something like a nightmare, I am once again in that familiar position I seem to find myself in, of not knowing where I am. I calmly take pause, trying to understand what room I'm in and why. Oh ok, I remember now, are they here yet? No? better fall back asleep then.

At 7 or 8 am I am awoken by their stumbling up the stairs. So much for being quiet for the 80 year old dad then. Something shatters, and there are many FUck!!!'s shouted out.

There is talk of the model, whose house they'd gone to. He had ended up falling on his face, busting his lip,lying in own blood. She gets next to me and pulls the covers over her. The others scuttle under their blankets, until one by one they snore. Literally, all of them. Snoring. A symphony of snoring. Cartoon like, one nasally gravelly moan intercepted by the other. It gives me a strange sense of calm.


We had made plans for brunch, but at noon it was clear by the snore cacophony, that brunch would be more of a late lunch. My stomach growled. The sea gull calls peaked my curiousity. Quietly as I could, I dressed and snuck out. Walked down hill to the sea, sat on cold pebbles and watched early morning fisherman sitting quietly by their dark green tents.

There were no grans with tattoos, but it was still pretty perfect.

after the show

She sat near the front and when You looked at her, she was the only one who gave your look back. Unafraid. Or mocking maybe? You thought with a look like that she would come up to you after. Would say she liked the gig or maybe just liked what you wore or, maybe she’s too cool for that. She’d probably be more the kind to just come over and say *hey*

But she did not come over after. She was now deep in conversation on the other side of the bar. You were stuck in a corner signing autographs on books and napkins and cards. It always struck you as funny that anyone would want an autograph of anyone, let alone yours.

Who were you talking to? Oh yes, that guy, the aspiring poet. He really wanted to tell you one of his poems right now. He had hinted at it several times, he said his work was dark, sad, and Was that ok? Yes that was ok. His poems were short, he almost, he kind of, he could almost just tell you one right now (in Danish?, in German? In Polish?)

He was Russian/German/Polish, a student, ridiculously young. Barely nineteen, barely. A little intense. You did not want to hear his sad dark poem. No now. Maybe not ever. You’d had enough poetry for the day. You left the venue with the other performers.

-----------

The bar we ended up in played nothing but 90s indie music... for hours. I had enjoyed this in the beginning, but in the last hour it had gotten old.

To make matters worse, they were now out of wine. Beer was the only real reason people came here. Beer here was cheap. But I hate beer, so I ordered a cuba libre instead.

How much was that?

70 Kroner.

What!!? Are you serious? Here?! That’s way too much.We#re going.

What?!

Quick, get your stuff. Now!

I cast a quick glance at the bar. As we ran off, my guilt was laced with adolescent pleasure.

We make our way through the masses of drunken teenagers. We are winding along Jomfru Ane Gade, this infamous street of so many terrible looking bars.

So what do you say in Copenhagen about people who are from here?

We talk about all the seagulls they have…And maybe about them being not very sophisticated

The seagulls?

The people...

And what do people here say about people from Copenhagen?

Probably that we are all latte drinking metrosexuals

Aren’t you?...

My eyes turn skyward, to the sea of white wings filling the air.

There are a lot of seagulls

When I was younger I dated a girl from here. I told myself when we talked on the phone, that if the seagulls were ever quiet it would mean she was cheating on me.

Based on?

It was just my theory

And?

One day I spoke to her on the phone, I couldn’t hear any seagulls

And?

I found out she had been cheating on me.

Fuck...you were right.

We were now on a mission to find something to eat . It was proving difficult. Even the the kebab shops were closed. We walked in endless circles, until we had to choose between starving or or… had it really come to that?

We walk by the golden arches and pause.

I can’t,

No me neither.

We walk to the burger king and linger

It’s the only other option

I guess its slightly better than mcdonalds?

In the line I count my change.

67 kroners exactly!!!

I have the exact amount for a meal. We are both thrilled about this. Small change has never been so exciting.

Someone in front of us turns and asks where we are from. They assume my friend is also a foreigner. This is the casualty of speaking English.

I mumble that I am from England. I don’t feel like having the where I’m from conversation. When asked where he is from he says

Ghana

The dane who has asked him is noticably perplexed. The answer is not going well with his drunkenness.

Gh... ?

Its in west Africa…What…? You think there are no white people in Africa?

Um,, no. no I guess um….So she is from England and you are from Ghana

My friend nods.

You would think it is the other way round.

He shrugs

You have a good football team

Thank you

But what's up with all the tight shirts you wear

I’m sorry?

On your team

What?

Do you like Denmark. Do you... Do you like it here?

I’m not sure. Maybe not. Is everyone like you here?

Our new acquaintance turns to me

People from Ghana are very difficult aren’t they?

I’ve always gotten on with them.

I say.

My friend smiles. Our meals are called out. We collect them and walk off.

By now it was sunrise.