On the first Sunday in January I visited the Lee Miller exhibition at the Tate Britain. After being redirected into congestion charge zones various times due to, I dunno roadworks? crime? I slammed the car door with great gusto and ran/trotted to meet my waiting friend at the Tate. I was peed off, tired (there’s something about January) and running on a low social battery but of course, as soon as I walked in all my pathetic niggles (congestion charge? Big deal) were quelled and I entered my sort of calm state.
Some people meditate. Some people dance. Others cook, exercise, watch ASMR videos etc. but for me, entering a public art space requires gentle focus, quiet and a very British dedication to queueing — in a gallery that translates to knowing when it’s your turn to poke your head that bit closer to the canvas. Rules apply of course, they go something like the Titanic; the elderly, mothers and children must go first. When looking at art you have to move slower, take in more of your surroundings, talk is reduced to a whisper. Bliss. I wrote about my love affair with art spaces for Paperboy magazine. Read it here if you like.
Culture vultures are a motley crew. There’s the dedicated National Trust/Art pass stalwarts, the girly-afternoon-out goers and the skittish children darting about the room before they finally land on their chosen one. Out comes the notepad and vivid hued crayons, and so the modern take on the masterpiece begins. I always love to dip my head and sneak a glimpse at their interpretation, to see what they chose to focus on, on what speaks to them. There’s the semi romantic dates where one half is trying to show off their patchy knowledge, whilst the other is barely even trying to look interested, when really they just want to skip this sober part of the date. I suppose on this Sunday I was in the girly afternoon camp. Between oogling at Lee Miller’s work, my friend and I would snatch snippets of a post-Christmas catch up. “How’s your Mum feeling?”, “How was your Dad’s birthday?”, “What was your weirdest Christmas present?”, “Did you get as drunk as me at New Years?”, before burrowing back into our own paths around the gallery walls.
The first two rooms of the exhibition focus on Miller’s collaborative work with Man Ray and her modelling career. These rooms felt very sexually charged and I couldn’t help but wonder, is this the early 20th century version of sending a nude? There was a lot of arched backs, strained necks, close crops and porcelain flesh. Ooh la la.
What struck me the most about Lee Miller’s life is that she paved the way for all of us multi-hyphenate girlies. Miller’s career spanned modelling, photography, artistry, war correspondence and cooking. She was unstoppable and hungry to pursue her interests. You go girl. It was refreshing to see a retrospective where there wasn't a huge amount of focus on her romantic partners. In this exhibition, Miller’s lovers sat very much on the sidelines and gave space for her to explore her stoic artistic endeavours. I’m yet to see Kate Winslet’s adaptation of Lee. Is it worth getting NOW tv for?
Miller was disparaging of the fashion world she was once an integral part of, although I couldn’t help but delight in the fashion we find in the exhibition.
It’s no wonder she felt that submitting stories in Vogue felt “pretty silly” after reporting on the terrors she documented at Nazi concentration camps, especially when Vogue was reporting at-home exercise stories titled, “Final push before the last push!” Hmm. That being said, I wouldn’t be surprised to find such a headline in other publications during the pandemic.
I was intrigued to learn about the self-enforcement publishing censorship laws at the time and I wondered what the censorship landscape looks like today when faced with the intrusions of social media? When I watched the 10 o’clock news following the shootings at Bondi beach on the 14th of December, I almost felt like I was watching some sort of violent video game. It seemed far too graphic, too close and too gory to be on the news. Is this a loosening on censorship or just post 9pm watershed viewing in a more frightening world?
Speaking of censorship, I was alarmed to see a father at the exhibition insist his young children look at Lee’s concentration camp images. This room had a warning sign before you entered it. There was no way the father and his sons could have stumbled upon this room. The walls were lined with images of skeletal-thin bodies piled high, faces with shot wounds, it was horrific. I’m not here to judge other people’s parenting but is this what children are exposed to now? Whether that be online or in galleries, are we teaching them historical tragedies or just numbing them? I remember going on a battlefields trip aged 14 where we travelled by coach from England to France to visit the many WW1 battlefields. I don’t remember feeling moved, I remember feeling travel sick and having a numb bum. It wasn’t the right way or time to digest such a momentous calamity.
Children have been a main feature in my life of late. Society’s conversational maths of turning thirty + married = questions such as “are kids on the horizon?” I get asked these whoppers by total strangers, by men and women at work, at the gym, at weddings, parties, hair salons, beauticians. There is literally no safe space from these intimate inquiries.
Asides from nosy parkers, I have treasured interactions with family, friends and strangers kiddos over the Christmas period. It’s not snow or snatching a snog under the mistletoe, or (empty) promises of a bonus that bring the magic of Christmas. I firmly believe it’s children who are responsible for the festive enchantment. Their unfiltered sheer excitement, wonder and elation is completely charming and infectious. It’s also hilarious.
On Christmas Eve I visited a nativity service in Barnes with my two nephews in tow. The whole thing was very Vicar of Dibley meets Richard Curtis. As we entered the (snotty) packed church, instead of receiving a candle or an orange, we were presented with snap glow sticks — Christmas but rave. We were ushered in by a miserable volunteer imploring us to “please stand behind the white line” to allow space for the poor kids dressed as the ass and for the other lesser entertaining religious figures so that they could catwalk their way towards the stage/alter. He then muttered, “I could work for TFL”. Tee-hee. I wonder how many times he cracked that joke?
The service began with the camp cries from the priest. He was tanned, his teeth were Simon Cowell white and he led the nativity more like a juicy spot of gossip than a dusty old tale. Immediately he caught our attention in the grasp of his manicured hands. We were enraptured by his enthusiastic performance.
But the energy didn’t stop there. Paloma, Tommy, Elsie, Hugo (the names also signify their postcode) eloquently read as though their pricey Christmas list depended on it, en-un-ci-at-ing every word to a t. During the hymns we caught the giggles at a young girl in front of us who was sat in her fathers arms facing us in some sort of staring competition, all the while ferociously digging for an archeological boogie that sat lodged near her brain. Aha! She got it! Now time for a salty snack. Lest to say she won the staring competition.
After the nativity I felt a particular affinity with two showgirls. One real life angel demanded her Mum take off her coat “so people can see my wings.” Very diva, loved it. The other angel, post-performance was bereft that it was all over and sat forlornly at the back of the church wailing with tears streaming down her cherubic cheeks. Was it an anti-climax for her? Was I witnessing a toddler on a come down? Was she disappointed with her performance? Did she feel like she could have given a better Mary? Whatever it was I hope to see her at next years nativity thriving and centre stage.
Come January, I found myself yet again noticing a young girl and thinking, “I feel you hun.” This time I was ordering my free coffee at Gails. Yes I’m basic but I’m addicted to their rewards scheme. The deal is that you spend near to a million pounds on nine flat whites to then gratefully receive a free hot drink or a loaf of bread. Sign me up! They have me firmly clasped in their overpriced, middle class grip and I’m not mad about it. As I waited with glee almost tricking myself into believing that ‘the best things in life are free’ I noticed a straggly haired child, let’s say she came up to my waist, so whatever waist height age is, she was. I first noticed her Barbie pink painted little nails clutching at the glass topped counter. I glanced up at the eager customer to see that her nails complimented her fuchsia coloured round spectacles. How thoughtful of her. How chic. I quietly smiled to myself as it dawned on me that a cafe outing is thrilling to any person at any age. The possibility, the romance, the grown up-ness of it all! She was basking in the baked goods glory and as was I.
At my local Gails in Queens Park I often spy a very smartly dressed older gentleman stood at the bar table by the window, sipping on his espresso whilst reading a newspaper in his crisp trench coat. His morning routine continues with him plonking his hat on, gathering his umbrella and snapping his briefcase shut before swiftly marching out of the cafe. I imagine he has a very important job that looks like it might be replaced by AI shortly. Sigh. He is goals though. He looks like an efficient man and has the wardrobe to match. It seems that cafes, just like galleries, can be a quiet, contemplative destination.
I’m not normally one for January. In the past I’ve heard myself say “nothing good ever happens in January” so that’s when I would plan work trips or holidays. Maybe it’s a sign of age or maybe it’s the shot of vitamin d that blasted us during the sunny, cold spell at the beginning of the year, but this year the nothingness of January really appeals to me. The calendar feels loose, loose enough for afternoons in galleries, for long walks, for pottering around doing, well, nothing.
If the January blues do hit, might I suggest a visit to the V and A’s Marie Antoinette gobstopper of an exhibition. Beg, borrow and steal someones membership card so you can get into this show for it is deservingly sold out. She’s exclusive and in demand even 250 years later. Yas Queen. I suspect the pink bespectacled, cafe loving young lady would love it as much as I did. Reader I actually gasped out loud upon entering the show. When was the last time you did that? When was the last time I gasped prior to the show? When I saw one of my best friend’s icy pink feathered wedding dress on her big day at the beginning of December. Tingles.
The exhibition felt like walking into the shimmering Princess palace you dreamt of as a child (or was it just me?) There’s no wonder so many designers still reference her iconic style, but curators, I beg you where was Simone Rocha? Her designs are modern day Marie personified. Iconic is an overused term but it’s indisputably justified in Marie’s case. She boldly challenged the French courts strict style rulebook and welcomed in Parisian and wider international style influences. We still lasciviously drool over her panache at the heel of her teeny-weeny satin slippered feet. Sidenote: Marie received four new pairs of shoes a week, A WEEK?! Carrie Bradshaw eat your heart out.
The V and A perfected the art of intimacy in this show. We read her diary, we snatched a sniff of her favourite scents, heck we even saw the guillotine that could have killed her! Yes we all know of Marie’s grandeur and notoriety but in this exhibition we discovered her fastidious passion for music (she played the harp and piano), furniture, wallpaper, interior artefacts, perfume, as well as fashion. She was the og multidisciplinary creative — oh hello again, I clearly have a thing for these multi-hyphenate women.
We were reminded in the opening exhibit notes how ‘The arts of her time remainded in her husband’s name: the Louis XV1 style. What if, instead, we considered the ‘Marie Antoinette style’?’ Consider it done. We felt even closer to her thanks to the curly golden monogram that marked the majority of the exhibits, informing us that they belonged to the queen herself. For some pieces, it was the first time they had been shown since hear death.
Oh the drama! Drama is what the V and A’s fashion exhibitions do best and they certainly delivered. I snail paced my way around each and every piece aghast at the abundant beauty of it all. Whether it was a miniature snuff box, a roll of Toile De Jouy wallpaper, or a waist synching gown extravaganza, every inch of design was considered, amplified and prettified. When it comes to approaches to design, if the Shakers had form follows function and the Pre-Raphaelites had in “truth to nature”, then Marie’s design mantra would be ‘extra af with bows on it’. A girl after my own heart.
What really struck me at the beginning of the exhibition was just how young she was when she exploded onto the world stage, receiving intense scrutiny. At 14 she married the dauphine, later to be crowned King Louis XVI in a sumptuous silver gown. As the exhibition develops we too watch her mature—the dresses turn away from pink silks and embroidery and turn towards simple, white cotton. The lavish diamonds and wild entertaining are swapped for a quieter life with her children. That’s not to say she got older and more boring but it seems she was forced to turn away from the public eye and divert attention away from her as a result of the vicious gossip that spread like wild fire around her. Gossip so cruel that it sentenced Marie to her death on Wednesday the 16th of October 1793 aged 37 at the Place de La Révolution, now the Place de la Concorde. I wonder if the excess was a reflection of her unhappy marriage?
The graphic sexualised illustrations of her that circulated throughout the French court and beyond was shocking to see, not just because they’re so pornographic, but because devastatingly it feels like attitudes towards powerful women haven’t changed over two centuries on. She was slut shamed, witch hunted and whipped up in a storm of fake news; female experiences we are all too familiar with today.
Despite the slander, her legacy lives on in uproarious glory, something I like to imagine Marie would smirk at. I purposely haven’t included images from her actual wardrobe as you must feast on them for yourselves, but below are a small handful of designers who honour her awe inspiring style.
You know someones hit the mainstream when they’ve even become a hen do theme. Indeed my girlfriends and I celebrated femininity in all of it’s joyful pink prowess for a recent best friends hen. Let them eat cake!
Style spy:
I might make this a regular segment as I get a real thrill from spotting fabulous people out and about.
Listening/watching and reading:
Helena Bonham Carter on Bella Freud’s Fashion Neurosis podcast: She would be one of my dream dinner party guests. She’s witty, razor sharp, honest and profound. I love what she said about Vivienne Westwood’s designs: “She really celebrates the female form, like the proper set of boobs and whatever weight you were, it was like wearing a building in the best of sense. Like she could engineer your whole body…it’s an armour.”
Such a heartwarming piece on Chloe Fox’s dream of opening a bookshop, the Fox and King in Tisbury, Wiltshire and the supportive community around it.
Poorna Bell’s letter to her late husband Rob had me weeping. Fragile beauty.
Against Resolutions by Suleika Jaouad Substack is my kind of New Years resolution.
Signing off this post with some shameless self promotion. 2026 is my year of floristry. If you are after a florist for an event or wedding, or simply just need an arrangement to brighten your day please do reach out!
Here’s how I’ve kicked off my floral year:
Thank you for reading! We’re half way through January now and that’s worth celebrating. Finishing this post with Marie Antoinette’s February/March diary entry, “We have dreamt a pleasant dream, that is all”.
Loved! This bit in particular - "What struck me the most about Lee Miller’s life is that she paved the way for all of us multi-hyphenate girlies" - totally thought the same!