British stoicism holds a special place on my list of favourite things on Greenwich Mean Time – alongside Earl Grey Tea with soy milk and honey on the side, Little Simz, whip smart black humour and Dishoom. Of course, I need not add to the existing airwaves that London has endured tragedy after heavily broadcasted tragedy over the past month. Indeed, it sits on the spectrum of disastrous inhumanities occurring internationally today, and yet (as always), it hits closer to home for many when coverage shows a familiar metropolis. And yet, all of my interactions with friends and colleagues and strangers alike this past week spent in London has reinforced that unshakable dry optimism – the show will go on; deal with what we can the best we can; that’s all there is to say.

I respect that. I hope to learn from it.

In writing this, the following segue feels a little strange and strangely appropriate all at once. With all factors considered, celebrating a British icon of such a rich and formative time of modern pop culture in a 260-year-old building was a perfect contiguity in every possible way – and a pleasure to shoot for Calvin Klein as photographer in residence one steamy English Summer’s night. The guest list comprised a diverse (not just “diverse“) cocktail of creatives and models and fringe royals and Kate-and-Mario shippers, all subject to my Polaroid, film, and then frantic collaging in the basement. All in the name of obsession and a clean, crisp representation of the colourful golden days of fashion photography that were.

I write from the airport, as usual. They’re calling for boarding, as usual.

Shanghai, incoming.









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