What a difference 3 weeks makes! This boy is one determined bundle of cuddles.
Posts Tagged ‘Dukey’
I styled two editorials last week: busy by any standards, heightened by a dawn chorus hospital visit between the two with my baby – thankfully totally healthy now – he had a chest infection which needed attention. Juggling motherhood with work is more hard than anyone who isn’t can imagine: but when I work on days like Friday, the second of the two shootings, I fully appreciate just why I do and how much I love being a stylist.
The family three are off to Ibiza tomorrow: our trip brought forwards so Jeremy can deliver us safely to the island before he leaves us 24 hours later for two jobs here (so far so normal, why would we not stay you might wonder?), then… a month in Mongolia filming falcons! Mongolia is a place in my mythic imagination: all the more so since Turks are in part descended from Genghis Khan (it’s all in the eyes), so I would love to see where we began, or half of me/quarter of my baby at least…
This week saw me search high and low: from sample sales to department store sales; from ebay to online shops and everywhere I looked were handbags which were just ‘not right’. Either too boring for words, or too ridiculously OTT, even some that they wouldn’t hold a lipstick, credit card and phone – surely the baseline prerequisite for an evening bag?..
My search began as I am going to the couture shows in Paris for the first time next week and while in that the heat is on moment of anxiety, I felt with all too much certainty, that my happiness lay in the momentary fix of buying a new bag. Of course I partly jest: of course my happiness lies far more in my baby’s cuddles, or picking raspberries at out allotment. But… well there is that certain rush of adrenalin and pleasure which comes from an all time perfect purchase.
Nothing however felt right: unless I wanted to spend huge amounts. I don’t find pleasure in spending huge amounts. Fact. As a stylist, I am lucky enough to be gifted, discounted, or privy to numerous sample sales. Spending £5000 on a handbag would not make me happy; and might well end in divorce.
On entering the Prada store on Bond Street, I bumped into the lovely Johnny Blue Eyes, there with his assistant Savannah to prep for his client Lana Del Rey. We spoke of my dilemma and he suggested vintage. Hmmm, I thought let me see… Back home I looked online, and chanced upon a shop close to home I had been to once before in The Stables in Camden Market. The next day, with baby, buggy and 18 year old god daughter Zoe in tow, we went into the subterranean world that now makes up The Stables: Dukey literally cried seeing the techno pumping gateway to hell on our way down, but the people at Vintage Design Paradise (http://www.vintagedesignparadise.co.uk/index.php) could not have been nicer. From dancing with Dukey to ska, to taking the time to talk me through their lovely array of pristine condition bags, several of which I liked: Dukey thought the Pollini the nicest – it’s sheen, always a winner with babies – who love shiny things. Finally I saw a ‘vintage’ Lacroix and knew this was my bag. Zoe knew it, I knew it and given it’s love heart handle motif I am sure Dukey knew it (am training his eye: start ‘em young, pray for an architect son…). I worked for Lacroix as a stylist and have always loved the spirit of the house: with it’s partly awry beauty, this felt like the right fit. Though there is a rather beautiful more orthodox Gucci classic, which might similarly have my name on it…
After a walk which felt like Indiana Jones pushes a pram around the Heath, while my baby giggled at the hilarity of it all: how heavenly to spend time at Kenwood while the rhododendrons are out, bumping into old friends on a shoot randomly set up next to us. A perfect afternoon with our gorgeous gifts of love xxx.
I write this on New Year’s Eve, as it seems appropriate: this being a portal into the new year, filled with hopes and dreams, parties and resolutions. This time last year I was well on the way to being a mother: sporting capes and flat shoes; I followed Dr Mistry’s health and diet regime ‘happy food’ to a capital T. The result? The healthiest of babies, the easiest of labours in my group of NCT mothers despite my being the eldest.
Turn back two New Year’s Eves however, and there was I felt little chance of my being a mother. I tried to remain optimistic, but somehow the curt sharp words of the specialist I had seen just after our honeymoon, paralysed me into believing their version of my destiny. Perhaps we wouldn’t have a baby; perhaps this would be our lot. I tried to remain optimistic, yet recently married to a man whom I had loved for many years, it felt so spare to think this was it. Nine months later on a whim, a half-conscious last resort, one Saturday I walked to South End Green with my god daughter to see Dr Mistry at his shop. I had known him for many years, he had cured me of acne, and a friend of rheumatism with his simple vitamin and diet regimes mapped out on a hand drawn A4 paper chart. Nine months had been long enough to incubate an impotent sense of fertility failure imploding as it did upon the previous many months: the specialist’s words had become my grey reality.
Dr Mistry led me into his consulting room, read my pulse and announced this was all rubbish, that if I followed his routine, taking this before breakfast, that after, eating this and that so on, I would be pregnant within 3 months. Wow I thought, really? It all sounded too simple, too good to be true. The consultation was free, as all his are, the supplements cost me £50. The chart was stuck to the fridge, this was easy to follow; there aren’t many components to his remedies, since Dr Mistry adheres to simple, sage methods. 6 weeks is all it took; not even the 3 months he had confidently scheduled. It was while we were on holiday in Turkey that the nausea, the exhaustion kicked in: the giveaway signs that I was pregnant. I couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it and looking back I realise what a voyage it has been, as while he read my pulse as pregnant when we returned and I knew in my heart he was right when we were back, the first test showed up as negative. My lovely client Charlotte Church was one of the first to reassure me that this happens, these tests are not the 99.9% accurate they proclaim in bold typeface they are on their packaging; but of course we all are more likely to believe the certainies, not the 72 year old Asian Ayurvedic Dr working from his health food pharmacy in NW3.
If there is one thing, actually I have learnt so many things this year, it can’t be refined down to one, but if I have learnt one large lesson this year, it is this: that babies are miracles and they are more likely to come from love, from simple healthy happiness with guidelines such as those outlined by Dr Mistry, as they are by specialists, especially if like the one I saw they drown you in negatives, in proportions, in fear. Dr Mistry points out that each person can transform their body through their diet: nothing is unchangeable.
One friend of mine has just had twins thanks to Dr Mistry again after only 6 weeks, another couple we know it took only 2! Meanwhile friends I sent for polycystic ovaries, for anaemia and other ailments, all report remarkable recoveries. A lot of the products are manufactured by him, even a range of beauty products and creams, where though the packaging is not Space NK standards – the products with their potentised organic ingredients are – at a fraction of the cost. The House of Mistry Herbal Baby Powder eradicated my baby’s skullcap within a day, while the calendula cream removed nappy rash within hours.
Jeremy and I are the most exhausted we have ever, or shall ever be, the headlong jump into parenting being a crazy initiation, where other parents nod in coded agreement at the utter relentless tiredness of the first year; yet somehow relating in direct proportion to the immense love we feel for our baby son: it is molecular and endless. As the person we dreamed into being becomes not someone we see reflections of ourselves in, but his own beautiful, unique self. I can never thank Dr Mistry enough for what his simple guidance did for us, given that he is a man not charging thousands, instead offering his services for free; a man whose spiritual harmony is at the heart of his work. We still follow his simply healthy steps, they are common sense with a dash of the spiritual mixed in. The result? The healthiest, the happiest of babies, the best gift of my life.
For more information, to buy his products or to book in for a consultation, please check:-
Last night I hosted a Halloween Styling Night at my favourite North London vintage emporium Mishka.
Spooks, witches, children of the night braved the cold wet wilds of N8 to shop: channelling their inner divas of darkness purchasing looks perfect for the twilight hours and start of party season as Halloween leads to Bonfire Night, leads to Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve… aka a fabulous bunch of excuses for a cocktail dress, Ossie Clark maxi dress, bias cut lace beauties, or any number of retro treats. As treats become the new tricks! Boom….
The lovely Nadia Jones whose has designed the best in high street womenswear (from Oasis to Mary Portas), fell in love with a 30s webtastic long dress, perfect for an awards ceremony she is attending next month; while my bridesmaid, the stylist and some might say living Barbie ‘Dolly’ Anna Trevelyan, rocking a fluro pink wig (sadly I wasn’t with my camera to capture the moment) swooped on an 80′s black and lurex long, sleek cardigan.
If you didn’t get the chance to join us last night, I suggest you do soon!
Every year the lovely art world maverick Pablo De La Barra and I go to Frieze Art Fair’s opening afternoon. It has become both a ritual annual date and a chance to catch up: both with him and his jetset gypsy art-world ways and also with myself as I notice the difference each year marks. Last year I was bursting to tell everyone I was pregnant; this year Dukey was our plus one. Dukey loved it: checking out the art, the lights, the people. He seemed particularly taken with a projector and it’s noises: more so than the film, fascinating to watch his reactions to all that art…
Though I loved some of the art: in particular a piece called ‘The Universe’: with Dukey in-tow, it was more of an excuse than ever to people watch, observe him observing for the first time enjoying the art fair. The art became as much as the hours spent watching them, watching him, watching it all integrated into an overall sensation of something new: another layer of experience for my baby to explore in his no doubt brilliant imagination!…
When the glamour of glamping is all in the eye of the beholder…. My recent piece for 2dm’s blogazineThursday, August 11th, 2011
Tamara Cincik / Cornwall Ecopod
Stylist Tamara Cincik for our series on the summer adventures of 2DM’s artists.
Memories of our wedding where we spent 3 peaceful nights in a Romany caravan in a Suffolk field close to where we were married at the ridiculously pretty Wingfield Barns, inspired me in a turn of thought where I thought how marvellous, yet utterly golden-tinged it would be if, instead of leaving England for the continent, we went West to Cornwall and Devon…
Jeremy, my husband was less convinced of the merits of this, but after 3 days of 30ºC heat in the city, I remained utterly adamant about the merits of the trip, as our baby boy ‘Dukey’ had been very unsettled by the balmy nights. So I booked 3 nights in a gypsy caravan in Devon, to be followed by 3 nights in an eco-pod in Cornwall.
3 nights in Devon translated to 30 minutes. We collected our Sainsburys online delivery food shop, changed the baby’s nappy and after looking at a picturesque scene of dog hair, stinging nettles and pig manure, realised that this was not the place to be with a 3 month old baby. So we scarpered. The owner kindly offered us a house rental, but we were a bit scared to accept.
Taking refuge in Totnes, a lovely riverbank supper: our first night out with Dukey, was slightly overshadowed by a sojourn in what can only be described as Fawlty Towers without the tweedy styling. Totnes’ answer to Basil had been busy with the laminator: we counted perhaps 15 signs, 2 containing poetry about toilet habits, if I use the term poetry loosely, in a bedroom the size of which is more apt for a bathroom than a room for 3. Space is obviously at a premium in Devon, as it wasn’t cheap; who knew Totnes is the new Knightsbridge?
The ecopod I had booked in Cornwall’s owners were very sweet in allowing us to bring forward our stay and we drove down through Exmoor the next morning – a place so beautiful it still feels rawly elemental.
The , Atlantic Surf Pods are set in land on a farm, over the road from the sea, close to Bude. Think Teletubbiesmeets The Hobbit: they are well designed, clean, cute and offering good quality barbecue and cooking facilities. All was lovely, the only thing I would say is going off-grid with a 3 month old takes verve and guts in the sunshine, in thunder and lightening, I think it is kind of nuts!
We agreed that had we paid for the nanny all week and had a few beauty/massage treatments – ie enjoyed a London staycation – for the same amount of money spent, we would have been left feeling less exhausted. A new mother’s back is sore on another level and all I can add is, ladies with babies should go more luxe than home on holiday, not less.
I take total responsibilty for the choice in holiday made: I guess it takes time for a new mother to work out where her old life ends, and her new one starts…
On the plus side, we visited two gorgeous Cornish places of verdant gorgeousness: The The Eden Project and The Lost Gardens of Heligan which I would totally recommend each for their individual visions of this green and pleasant land. And the clifftop evening with old friends who had spent the week surfing and staying in a field above the sea for the princely sum of £5 per night, overlooking the Atlantic; where we had a makeshift bbq-ed supper, albeit under 5 layers, was perhaps not a glorious sunset, but fun and epic in its beauty nonetheless.Tamara Cincik http://www.2dmblogazine.it/2011/08/tamara-cincik-cornwall-ecopod/
When Britain really did rule the waves, the high-point of her Britannia arrogance and verve was the 1851 exhibition. A huge house of glass – a ‘crystal palace’ – was constructed in Hyde Park. Queen Victoria, her handsome consort Albert and their 9 children were resplendent in matching costumes: a visual hit of majesterial alchemy. Exhibits from the Empire wowed crowds who had never left seen Dover’s white cliffs, as well as foreign guests and exhibitors who wanted to display the latest designs, inventions and innovations. 100 years later, to cheer ourselves up after WW2, Britain decided to hold another exhibition based on those same national pride principles, albeit now in a world where not only was the Empire and our certainty shrinking, those participating and attending had survived a war beyond all wars and still six years later wanted some fun and optimism after nearly a decade of post-war rationing.
The 1951 Exhibition saw the building of The Southbank: a concrete modernist Ark of artistic endeavour cutting a sharp swathe across the recently bombed southern side of the Thames: from Royal Festival Hall, to National Theatre, art lived on here in its mid-century absolutism. The glass house which had encased the original exhibition was bombed and destroyed in its South London suburban location; what people needed was a boost, a sense of hope, yet like all British institutions, one founded upon a memory, an old idea made good, a sense of the past, of continuity into new ideas.
Which leads me to vintage: when I started buying old clothes, they were that, old clothes, secondhand was the name used and they were: 60s cocktail dresses bought from charity shops, deco bags at jumble sales, Victoriana from Portobello, as a teenager my penchant for silk velvet grew unabated as I would forego supper to buy something which I believed enchanted. I can’t quite remember when secondhand morphed into vintage: perhaps when the prices went up? Perhaps when others en masse showed how they too shared my love affair with the old, with the stories, the craftsmenship and the unique beauty these clothes hold in their seams and darts.
Last Friday, my mother, my god daughter Zoe, my old friend Sukie and my 3 month old baby all went to Vintage at Southbank. An homage to all things nostalgic curated by the Hemingways of Red or Dead infamy, to celebrate 60 years since the 1951 with a party/shopathon/fete/festival celebration of Twentieth Century modes in music, art, design and fashion. Transgenerational, we moved from Abigail’s Party installation, to retro Art School printing class. But it was the shopping, oh my friends the shopping, where my girls of all ages swooped on pieces of beauty, while my baby snoozed on magnificently. You see he was already wearing the best in vintage: for I had prized onto him that morning a wondrous 1950s playsuit, baby shower gift from the lovely Mica, offset with a red and black check pair of M&S Vans. I am sure if he could speak he would say ‘Mummy vintage rocks’. Somehow too vintage has become a noun and for that I applaud last weekend, as a celebration of the best in past memories reshaped into something tantalising and hopeful.
The next day we went to Kew Gardens: both for Jeremy and Dukey their Palm House debuts. For a still-standing glass palace and a relic of Victorian splendour in a cozy corner of South West London, I can recommend no greater way to spend a sun-kissed day.