Atlas Harwood
Gustav
My friend Gustav has made La Fourmi Café (The Ant Café) his own enclave. He is potent and distinct like the smell of a squashed bull-ant: Sisters of Mercy balding black frizz, leopard print crotch, rainbow Indian jewellery, homemade black pointed high heels. › Continue reading
Seventeen Crushes (Paris)
The romanticism of Paris spreads like an invasive exotic: what surprises you most is its subtlety.
Paris is a human city. Urine stains the walls. The weather leaves a lasting dampness. Women are natural, perpetually un-kept hair and minimal make-up. Paris Fashion Week to them is a fucking circus. The people are stare-bears, eyes averting as soon as you catch them. The symmetry of spatial design is as equally stiffly conservative, the corduroy straight lines and the manicured gardens. Everything is glazed over in repetition…but then the crush begins.