Unfortunately my attempts to find a cardigan that could if required be pitched as en emergency tent met with fail. The various cardigan designs ("boyfriend", "waterfall", "boxing helena") don't appeal, and those which do stray into just being a cardigan are brutally thin. Guess the cold snap caught the shops on the hop, too.
I forgot about the sequel to seeing Seizure (in London, before the snow). I went to the Tate to check out Pop life, seduced in by a full room of La Cicciolina and Jeff Koons. Her blue mascara was iconic enough to make it into the sculpture. I was struck again by Koons' odd resemblance to Adam Ant. Grace Jones was much in evidence yet never named. Hurst had a room full of artificial diamonds and gold plate, a millionaire circle-jerk covered with signs saying how democratic it was, just for the kink. Cosy Fanny Tutti had turned out some of her clippings archive; Tracy Emin had covered a wall in shelves full of tiny intimacies, and filled a glass case with relics of her relentless co-promotion with Sam Taylor-Wood. Thank heavens for Takashi Murakami, the prick in the pompousness, with his capsule toys and anime goddesses. Turned out blue hair was just the thing to wear.
Outside the Tate, we saw this:
The latin translates as -- don't praise me, just throw money.
