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Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday 12 noon - 6 pm, Wednesday to Sunday 12 noon – 8 pm
The artist reveals her motivation: "I wanted to illustrate the word 'serendipity' because it encloses a complete fairy tale."
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I smooth down my skirt, toss my hair. My buckles rattle with each step
Like little bayonets. They’re called knife pleats for a reason.
The blue wool of a Jaeger dress is better than twenty dinners with an idiot.
Bring me the head of Cristóbal Balenciaga! It’s a hoot
To sneak cigarettes in some Boston dive, pretend I’m a divorcée.
The curl in a bouffant will always betray you. What’s the point
Of living like a cartoon nun when you can pose for the camera
In a shantung sheath? My hair is dark as a drawn-on eyebrow.
I lay my fingers on the plate like a fan. I’ve been waiting all my life
To be noticed, crossing and uncrossing my legs. (How the high heel
Of summer presses at our throats.) It’s a blast to guzzle
Martinis with the ‘girls’, pretend I’m thin as a polyester dress.
A string of pearls round my neck like an artificial promise:
The harsh taste of gin like an unrequited laugh.
after Gwendolyn Brooks and Theresa Hak Kyung Cha
we make ourselves dizzy on fumes & fruit cocktails think of plants
how they are visible to each other take pics of the best looks for the record
if there are flowers, flowers the flounce on a hem
we try everything on each body has its pose a dress that almost resembles a vine
pointy boot or platform shoe our arena of possibilities: the mall
between some image a blur
stretch turtleneck or ruched skirt the brave stockings in hell a radio playing our songs
we shrink into school, then expand: formal chrysanthemum
our hair as big as a neon sign
we anticipate a message (actually talking, on the phone) secret spill
how our jokes line up in permanent rotation the made up games
our treasury of gestures all the sparklings
we have everything but control like trees, we adhere to silence
then out the door skating at night on empty streets our looping paths
the rhinestone traces left behind we who were
Vivienne Westwood, a cento
The garment should say: ‘I am this’
A story of itself
It’s just so creative to put a sentence together
Greet me by ‘how lovely you are’ rather than ‘I like your hat’
I haven’t thought properly about dying
But if I were to write anything on my tombstone
It would be ‘The only revolution is culture’
Every time I speak to someone, I assume they understand
How easy it would have been not to lead this life
I could have been a schoolteacher
What you are given for free should not be owned
Love affairs go a long way to helping life pass you by
Behave according to the clothes
Forget yourself and you will become who you are
I am the centre of my look, like Chanel was
Punk was kids having a great time, but for what? I don’t know
If I go into a room and see Pamela Anderson looking incredible
I’m going to be delighted
The sun makes my skin itch when I’m on a bicycle
A nude is never really naked
I know exactly what I would like my legacy to be
Form is always becoming something else
I design for a world that doesn’t exist, you know, one like this but better