Posts Tagged ‘Jeremy’

We’re Not In Kansas Anymore…

Friday, January 4th, 2013

Hollywood Costume: The Bride wore Red - Worn By Joan Crawford.

Yesterday I spent a glorious few hours at The Victoria and Albert Museum.  My husband had cleverly taken the hint of a year’s membership as a Christmas gift, which means you don’t queue and can see any exhibition for free, as many times as you like, whenever you like.  Genius!  I loathe queuing…

I went to the Phyllis Dalton retrospective last month with friends, having been spellbound by her costumes for Dr Zhivago since I was a child, it was heaven to hear Omar Sharif scold her for only working with him twice.  ‘What have you done to me Phyllis?  You ruined me.’  Deborah Nadoolman Landis, who curated this exhibition, hosted the evening and yet again I pondered the dilemma of how I shuffle stage left from my career as a fashion stylist and wake up a film costume designer.

The exhibition is very popular, it was pretty hectic in the darkened rooms, and given this membership, I shall definitely utilise it to go at another non-holiday time.  The dialogues between directors and fashion designers were fascinating: rather like those between photographer and stylist, really delving into the translation of character through costume.  There were so many of the bravest and the best designs displayed, but the one which stuck out the most for me was this gorgeous bias cut red sequinned dress and cape, which Joan Crawford wore in The Bride Wore Red, a film I am now desperate to see.

Joan Crawford: The Bride Wore Red.

Artwork for The Bride Wore Red.

The reason I think this costume is so utterly successful, is from it’s cut, colour and cloth, you get an entirely encapsulated sense of what the film is about, as well as era.  There is something both radical and sensual and brilliantly of it’s time, as well as urging you to believe in the glamour of cinema.  It is not a million miles away from the Tom Ford white dress and cape, albeit with a longer cape, which Gwyneth Paltrow wore to the Oscars 2012, which has garnered her best dressed listings.  Both are well-versed in the power of costume, perhaps Tom Ford even used this look as a silhouette reference.

Gwyneth Paltrow at the Oscars 2012 in Tom Ford.

Meryl Streep and Robert De Niro are also interviewed: my favourite quote was when Meryl Streep said that when playing Mrs Thatcher for The Iron Lady, it was vital for her character development that she learnt what Mrs T carried in her handbag.  ‘I needed to know, and now I do.’

The Iron Lady - Meryl Streep - Hollywood Costume Exhibition.

Mrs Thatcher With Her Trusty Handbag Outside Number 10.

Green Dreams…

Monday, September 10th, 2012


One of the first presents I ever bought my husband was a copy of Shelter.  This book provided finger-pointing visuals for daydreams of freedom, space and fantastical houses.  As a child I was mesmerised by a programme where a family lived in subterranean house, with a lawn for a roof: they were invisible to the passing eye, but warm, content and cosy.  Aged 7, my Christmas gift first edition Gnomes book from a Dutch dwelling uncle, by Wil Huygen and Rien Poortvliet, with it’s detailed cataloguing of a life long-lived (gnomes lives for a casual 500 years), fed into this theme.

Gnome House - Interior.

Books you have as a child form so much of our imagination: their visual patterns taking shape in our open minds.  This patchwork of Hobbit houses, gnome dwellings and off-grid living, weaved an eco counter-point to London living.


While pregnant, I watched Grand Designs on repeat: the Sussex woodsman’s cottage built entirely from sustainable resources, such as straw bales and locally cut wood, is so utterly charming, that I couldn’t help but be seduced by Ben Laws’ self-built beauty.

Woodmans Cottage - Sussex

Cut to this week and my husband’s imagination (albeit the man whose carpentry is somewhat ‘lop-sided’, bless) has been re-sparked with ideas to build a house in the countryside and I realise that these daydreams still hold their currency of charm.  As the government are moving to open up the greenbelt to building, though the thought of this does worry me, after sunny days in Kent and Hertfordshire this week, I feel the magic of this dream still.

Last Shoot of the Season Before I Exit Stage Left for… Ibiza!

Sunday, July 22nd, 2012

Shhh! Sneaky Style-Up Preview!

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…

My Miracle Dr Mistry

Saturday, December 31st, 2011

With Dr Mistry at his shop.

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.

Dr Mistry, Dukey and I.

For more information, to buy his products or to book in for a consultation, please check:-

Family Love and Sparkles from Marrakech.

Saturday, December 31st, 2011

Happy Holidays!

Day Tripper by Jeremy Fusco.

Tuesday, August 30th, 2011

Day Tripper from Jeremy fusco on Vimeo.

The fashion film I styled when 9 months pregnant! SS11 Meadham Kirchhoff Collection Special
Shot by my fabulously talented husband.
Now on ASOVFF.

My Blog for The Guardian Allotments Page: Save the Cheshunt Allotments!

Friday, August 19th, 2011

Badge allotment blog

Save the Cheshunt allotments!

Growing, sowing or a multiplex cinema? Tamara Cincik reports


Eddie’s and Madeline’s artichokes ready to pick

First of all apologies, allotment blog readers, for my sporadic writing on this site. Since I last posted, I have married, had a baby boy and tried to learn the multi-tasking juggling act which is being a modern working woman. Quite how my aunties in rural Turkey managed to have 10 children each, run a house, a farm and keep smiling is a lesson for us all, but I digress…

shed Eddie’s shed from timber donated by neighbours runs by the side of the River LeaOn our advice, following their retirement last year, my new in-laws also took over an allotmnent, near their home in Cheshunt, Hertfordshire. For those not familiar with Cheshunt, it is a periphery town on the neck of the M25, a fast-growing bulge of new-builds en-route to Cambridge on the A10. Their plot has been a source of huge rewards: from the epic beetroots they picked this month, to the fresh impetus it has given my father-in-law, Eddie, after working for more than 50 years as a fireman, then as a taxi driver.

fr Sunflowers and beans, looking south towards LondonSome of their allotment neighbours are elderly, with plots they have tended for most of their lives. Others, like Eddie and Madeline, are newcomers, turning land left derelict and untended into gold-star plots with rows of produce, ploughing compost, manure, hard work and love into the soil week on week. Eddie even built a shed from scratch using wood gathered from friends, and he was donated a greenhouse by a kindly stranger.

f Looking West towards the A10 across ripening squashAs you might expect in a London orbital town, the plot holders are from a huge range of backgrounds and ethnicities, bringing a diversity of techniques and vegetables into the allotments and often sharing their produce: Eddie’s neighbour, Suleyman, grows enormous courgettes; while one plot I saw, tended by a pensioner, has a myriad of plants which put my own allotment efforts to shame.

s Sunflowers and established trees hide the River LeaBut now this community is under threat by plans to build a multi-complex cinema and move the allotments and the local Travellers site (they’ve also lived there for generations) to land which was for many years a dumping site with high levels of toxicity, the aptly named ‘Hells Wood’.

b Beetroots harvested last week awaiting a scrub cleanWith so much uncertainty, plot holders don’t even know what to grow for next year: does my mother-in law plant the raspberry canes she just bought, or not?

The Cheshunt allotment holders have written to the minister Eric Pickles asking for a rethink. They are yet to hear back. My hope in writing this is that more people protest against this proposed development and allow the plot and the Travellers their peace and their land.


When the glamour of glamping is all in the eye of the beholder…. My recent piece for 2dm’s blogazine

Thursday, 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


It’s All Just A Question Of Time.

Wednesday, August 3rd, 2011

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.

70s Styling - Vol Au vent anyone?


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.

The Scrumptiously Deliciously Amazing Reason I Haven’t Been Here For A While…

Thursday, May 26th, 2011

Cosmo Duke Hotspur

My gorgeous son Cosmo Duke Hotspur aka Dukey, born 04/05/2011.  With each day, observing him as he makes the most amazing discoveries, I feel completely overawed by the love I feel for him.  Today he saw thunder and rain for the first time and stared entranced out of the window.  Every day I learn more and more: about him, about me, about becoming a mother…

Rainbow Precocity