I love weddings. When my friends get married I am happy to help the bride with the dress, I enjoy the ceremony and even the endless dinners. I hate it, though, when they ask me to make a bank transfer, instead of a carefully chosen gift. The only time I’m really happy to simply give money is when it goes to charity.
Warning: this post contains images which can be disturbing to some readers, in particular those lacking in sense of humor, but Christmas wouldn’t be the same to me without the grotesque card I find every year in my letterbox from the Italian cartoonist Stefano Babini.
This was supposed to be an interview with Sheik Nail Kesova, the director of Galata Mevlevi Ensemble, that is to say the Pir or Dede, the person guiding the Sema, the whirling ritual dating back to the 13th Century and
Winter always makes me wild about shopping. Coats, jackets, jumpers, shirts, skirts and pants are more appealing to me when it gets cold, but that leads me to the never ending querelle on the value of the clothes we buy (or dream) to buy. Here there are some tips to recognize real good quality stuff, I asked my friend Angela Picozzi, co-founder of Italian top manufacturer Castor.
It’s been a long time since I first met Clare Waight Keller. We were in London and by that time she was the Head of Design at Pringle of Scotland. Backtage, she explained me about some knitwear which I thought it was oustanding to see and impossible to wear, unless you were a model.
When my grandparents died I was a kid. My mother told me they moved somewhere up in the sky, dressed me nicely and took me to all their funerals. In my hometown people would rather eat a pigeon than cry in public, so there wasn’t a big fuss while we were at the graveyard. I’m not sure I understood the real meaning of death then, but I acknowledged that it exists and it’s part of everybody’s life.
I met Lady Tarin some years ago in Milano. We quickly became friends, spent many evenings eating good food and talking about our dreams and then we quietly went through different paths. Eventually, I saw her pictures in the magazines and I always felt happy for her because she is a super cool photographer.
Think about a damp, cold night in Milano. You drive about 40 minutes to get to a totally unfashionable area, enter a courtyard, walk the corridors of a building basement until you get to an old storage room. That’s what I did the other night and though I know it sounds weird, it’s been an awsome night with lots of great blues, plus an unexpecetd guest, oral history like the good old days when Internet and Tv didn’t exist.