The Artist's Colouring Book of ABCs

December 14, 2013
I have never been one to lie about my age. Why bother? I know a lot of women, sorry, girls (women embrace and own what they are) my age who go to great lengths to hide the fact that they are 27 this year...but they seem to not realise that all the sun damage on their skin gives the game away. Here's a tip, when lying and trying to pass yourself off as younger it helps to wear sunscreen. No amount of coyness will cover your fine lines. In fact people will think you're older, say earlier thirties, just from going by your skin and your fear of speaking your age (what, you think that number is Voldermort? He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named?) . It's just a number! But sun damage, that shiz is there to stay. Wear sunscreen! What was I saying? Oh yes, I've proudly embraced being an old foggy of 27 and the pace of life that comes with it. For example, Thursdays are the new Fridays and are usually art related. Case in point; the launch and the auction for The Artist's Colouring Book of ABCs at The Serpentine Gallery.

Outfit du nuit (my fancy French version of #OOTD or rather #OOTN); Chanel 2.55 reissue, House of Eight choker, Uniqlo heat tech thermals (so toasty!), Asos leggings, YSL arty ring, and Stuart Weitzman 5050s.

Obligatory lift selfie before leaving the house. Documentation purely for posterity of course, vanity has nothing to do with it. *sneezes*

Letters by three of my favourite English artists---

Jake and Dino Chapman (E, I presume).

Also manifested in a dress.

Grayson Perry (P).

I saw the pig (bottom right) and was reminded someone whose initials were all Ps and reminded me of a soft, rosy-cheeked piglet.

Polly Morgan (T for Trotsky the dog).

My face is hardly a masterpiece but Oscar Wilde did say one should either wear a work of art or be a work of art. Given that I was simply dressed I had no alternative but to make myself look as picturesque as possible with the help of strategic selfie-taking and The Serpentine's harsh but strangely flattering bathroom lighting. 

Forward-facing, low-resolution smartphone cameras---the new millennial medium and the future of art? Let's hope not.

I'm skipping photos of the afterparty at Ruski's because I already have enough photos of the place, instead fast-forwarding to a charming little neon dungeon in Knightsbridge called The Wellington

It's like I never left the dive bars of Dalston.

I tried convincing Damian that he looked better with long hair. I failed.

Aren't we all?

Diana and I taking advantage of the photobooth lighting but refusing to cough up our pennies (have to save that for our cabs home) so we used my camera instead. So thrifty, so Posh, Broke, & Bored.

One too many glasses of champagne later and I was befuddled by existentialism, so much so that this mirrors' questions posed a serious threat to my tranquility. So I left, lost my new umbrella and mug lovely pinched from Ruski's in the cab, and stumbled on my neighbour's house party. The rest, I don't remember, but if I learnt one thing from that evening is that every night is an oppurtunity to lose more personal possessions. I should hold memorial services for all the things I lose when I go out.


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