vi firar jul här, i frostigt london som mörknar tidigt, är isande kallt utanför, bär på stickat, brasor, mulled wine, ~ & skratt-varmt innanför. som alltid, är det de små, enkla stunderna jag tycker allra bäst om. dagen efter. skinka med dijon på knäckebröd. de oväntade, oplanerade stunderna. när vi dricker varm choklad bland antikviteterna,
i trånga
the stables gränder. där, i det ständiga myllret & sorlet,
sparkar enorma häst-statyer evigt vilt i brons. i mig är det sällsamt stilla. nära. som ett stormöga.
stuff | when the
carrousel is still - it rests in a
glass dome | goodness on hairy rug : piece we did for a norwegian mag / styling & details
MO |
creative goodness is stunning gift from
this friend |
abstract black and white loveliness hanging under the hat is left : beloved shawl
camera strap | right : inkblot scarf arrow from
ivy revel | new scent mojave ghost by
byredo is inspired by the desert ghost flower but sadly way too much gumball machine candy for my taste |
people |
lina shot for
fira a/w14 | silver stars by
flash tattoos quote | beautiful words on seeds : author unknown © hannah lemholt photography
we celebrate christmas here, in a frosty london where darkness falls early
and is freezing grey on the outside. carries knits, lit fireplaces,
mulled wine, ~ & laughter warmth on the inside.
as always, it is the small, simple moments i enjoy the most.
the day after. leftover ham with dijon on crispbread.
the unexpected, unplanned moments. when we drink hot chocolate
among the antiques of
the stables narrow alleys, where, in the constant crowd
and massive murmur, now only huge horses of bronze kicks forever wild.
in me it is singularly still. intimate. as a storms eye.
i have lots to do but let myself just.. be.
spend time
off, more so than ever. just living & perceiving.
we spend whole days in the bed that is like a huge, white cloud.
among books & magazines, teacups & clementines, lies the i-pad
flashing pictures from a brighton apartment. every now and then i stroke
my fingers over it. and inside me, dream images unfold.
the scented candles burns constantly there in the room, - a still carousel.
we take long foam baths in the paw bathtub, jazz & wine among the bubbles.
the days entwine that way, in the most pleasant of ways.
i remember calling this year, just before it was even here, exactly a year ago;
wishing you joy in the last trembling hours of the year,
- a golden egg that was lying there, waiting with treasure. i was right,
but couldn’t even dream up all that it would come to contain.
i also sit here, a few moments in between, write posts a few times even.
retrospection & reflections. in
what was i’m bored,
every time i delete and shut down the computer.
either because something doesn't quite feel like it should,
or because life intervenes.
and
that's actually exactly as it should.
i think i did enough reflecting,
turning & twisting during my year beyond the dark fields.
now black is only inspiration - & the new golden egg, 2015,
is to take in hand what 2014 nested on.
they tried to bury us, not knowing we are seeds. on a wall hangs a suit,
a white wing collared dress shirt & a big velvet bow tie.
maybe it gets to tag along for new years, with black heeled company.
or, the contrasts faithful, - i’ll wear the long, white lace dress,
with sleeves that reaches all the way over my fingers.
either way, it’ll be a whirl of fairy-high glass tower,
champagne & cocktails. 2015 -
how we shall dance you & i,
- right away, from when you are sparkling new.
and you,
i wish you the finish just the way
you want it to be,
- & a beginning that will take you by storm.
singularly still or stunningly swirling.
or maybe both at once.
and then love,
h