The Pleasures of Hackney Road

This year I wrote and illustrated my first artist book! The Pleasures of Hackney Road: Five Tales of Wildness features drawings and stories about my adventures in London. You can find it at two major contemporary art institutions (The CCCB and La Casa Encendida) and at numerous bookstores. There's also a Spanish edition, Los Placeres de Hackney Road, which is now in its second printing. 

You can write me on Instagram @margofortuny if you would like to order a copy internationally or stock it. 

It's the first in a series of books about different cities I've lived in. What cities do you dream of moving to, if you just move spontaneously?

Holding my book in Madrid

The inside of 'The Pleasures of Hackney Road' by Margo Fortuny

A drawing from 'The Pleasures of Hackney Road' by Margo Fortuny

At El Imparcial in Madrid

At the CCCB bookshop in Barcelona

I Love London

I returned to London last week, just for a few days. It felt like coming home, walking the familiar streets, seeing friends, and eating delicacies that are hard to find in Spain, like spicy Indian food or very soft chocolate chip cookies. I love listening to friends speaking numerous languages on the tube and watching the stylish people rush around the city. On Thursday night, my friend Sarah took me to a Halloween-themed magazine launch party in a members club. The host handed us red cocktails in mock blood-transfusion bags with a long straw, before introducing us to a flirtatious couple. Afterwards we went to Ridley Road for a dance in a bar with wood-paneled walls. I think a Klaxon was playing disco records that night.

Stephanie, a vegan chef, shows me her chains in Dalston

We cruised by a few more pubs before ending up at my favourite one, The Gun, in Hackney. As soon as we arrived, a petite blond in a zip-up patent leather moto suit smiled, and put her arms around me. She complimented my long blue 70s dress and the yellow flowers in my hair. I told her she reminded me of Marianne Faithfull in 'The Girl on a Motorcycle'. I ordered a Paloma and the bartender recognized me from ten years ago, when we used to go to the same parties. I bumped into a friend who invited us to an Italodisco warehouse party in Hackney Wick. A tall, slim, androgynous girl with short dark hair caught my eye. She wore a sheer black blouse, a minimal black bra, a scrap of black underwear...and fringed ass-less chaps. Her boyish looks and clean face added a casual touch to the outfit. It felt like Prince was in the room. She was enchanting. She was from Georgia. We all danced and mingled until the bar closed.

The Dove pub

The rest of my days in London were filled with museum exhibitions and fascinating conversations with beloved friends. I reunited with a friend who had been living in jungles in Thailand and Peru for years. We met as teenagers at a rave in Vauxhall, lived together (she kindly let me stay on her sofa when I first moved to London), worked together (she opened a burlesque supper club and asked me to DJ there), met up on an island in Thailand six years ago...and rode a moped on rocky roads, while a bird flew through my hair, almost causing us to fly off a cliff. I told her to write a book about all the things she learned in the jungle. We drank tea, ate cookies, and told sexy stories.

Homemade cookies by the multi-talented Andreas

Another afternoon I went to the V&A Museum to revisit the excellent Mary Quant show and have tea with my friend Toby. (Quant probably invented the modern miniskirt, thus she is my hero.) I met Toby at a Turkish pool hall in Dalston back when Mark Ronson drank there, surrounded by girls dancing until their shoes broke. (I was one of those girls... I lifted up my friend Karen in an attempt to replicate the final scene in 'Dirty Dancing' and though she is light, on the way down one heel broke off.) The pool hall days are over. Now we meet in art museums. He told me about contextualizing my art with theory, and recommended analysing what I love and hate to arrive at a deeper meaning when creating artworks...

The Ed Ruscha rooms at the Tate Modern

Below is a list of my favourite spots in London, and I'll post some pictures tonight on Instagram @thefortunyverse

FOOD:

Indian food: Dishoom in Shoreditch (they have a mocktail that tastes like snow, it's amazing.)
Tayaabs: a popular, inexpensive, chaotic, classic place behind the mosque in Whitechapel. Order the Saag Aloo and the Peshwari naan. Both places have long lines so try to go off-peak or early.
Sweets: Gelupo has dreamy gelato and the best hot chocolate outside of Torino. Get a small gianduja hot chocolate with whipped cream and go back for the ice cream another day so you don't have a diabetic arrest.
Hummingbird Bakery has the best cupcakes. I like Black Bottom or the gingerbread one.
Ben's Cookies. There are numerous branches. These cookies are great to bring to friends. They're soft, chewy, and very chocolately.
Brunch/ Hangover Food: Stone Cave in Dalston has a wonderful shakshuka (eggs poached in a delicious tomato stew, spiced with paprika, nutmeg, and chili peppers.)
The Diner (Dalston, Shoreditch, Soho) has In &Out-style 'hangar fries', a great vegan breakfast burger and thick milkshakes, with or without booze.

ART:

Usually the Barbican and the V & A have the most unforgettable exhibitions, though you should also see what's on at the Hayward Gallery, the Photographers Gallery in Soho, the Tate Modern and the Tate Britain. If you're going to London soon, check out the Blake show at the Tate Britain and the Lisa Bruce exhibition. Skip the Olafur E at the Tate Modern. (He's usually fantastic but this show is claustrophobic and jammed with people taking selfies. Go upstairs to the free Ed Ruscha rooms instead.) The Tate Modern gift shop is very good too. Peckham has lots of cool little galleries. Sprueth Magers is usually fun and has hip openings.

SHOPPING/ PRESENTS:

Portobello Road: On Friday morning there is a large vintage clothes and antiques market. There's usually nowhere to change so wear a leotard or tights. Next to the vintage stalls, Ladbroke Grove side, there's a little store called What Katie Did that sells a variety of seamed stockings and 50s-style lingerie. I found a beautiful 1970s Biba-style jacket for 40 pounds (after bargaining) and a blue leather Prada belt for 10 pounds. The Biba dresses were 380 pounds, so I only glanced at them longingly.

Broadway Market on Saturday, around lunchtime/ early afternoon. There are 2 excellent art bookstores here and in the market itself, there's a cool French girl who sells wool kilts and retro pieces. Borough Olives sells tasty pestos, harissa, and delicious green olives. This is a fun market for people-watching, pesto sampling, and it's not crowded or touristy like Borough Market. The Dove pub, on the same street,  has a large variety of international beers as well as board games.

Liberty London: A cool but classic, expensive store in a Tudor-style building, made partially of old ships. Upstairs, there are bolts of the famous Liberty-print fabrics. The perfume and stationary sections are interesting too. Amongst the notebooks and pastel pens, they sell gift wrap that looks like old maps.

Paks: They sell all kinds of cheap but intriguing make up in hard-to-find colours, as well as wigs and beauty products. There's one on Ridley Road in Dalston.

The High Street: Holland & Barrett has every kind of vitamin you can imagine, usually on sale, as well as honey soap and health-food store snacks and beauty products. Topshop in Oxford Circus - yes, it's intense, but they still have fun clothes. Right now the Fiorucci x Adidas collection is worth checking out. Boots has all kinds of make up, bandaids, and general pharmacy items. I like the Avène moisturizer and the Kalms One-a-night natural chill pills.

The Girl on a Motorcycle

The Night is Tender on the Côte d'Azur

They fed us cherries on a baron’s yacht. We lay on the deck in Pucci bikinis before jumping into the sea dangerously close to an island guarded by thousands of pink jellyfish. After dancing all night we threw breakfast parties at our house, featuring hot brioche with vanilla pear jam, scrambled eggs and cocktails by the piano. Witty Swiss chaps joked on the balcony at dawn as a pretty South African nymph sunk into a Madeleine-scented bubble bath with a French Dionysus. In the afternoon, underwear-clad, we read books in the searing sunlight as birds cruised over the palm trees. The air in Cannes was scented with flowers and toast. 

Took the train to Nice, left our luggage at the station. After walking to the old town and exploring the beautiful baroque churches we enjoyed strange gelato at Fenocchio: refreshing tomato and basil flavour, orange blossom, and almond flower. We strolled to the beach and saw a man walk on water. Back by Place de Yves Klein, breakdancers practiced their moves by the contemporary art museum.

Evening tiptoed in and it was time to return to London. I can’t wait to see the rest of the south of France. Send your invitations…

p.s. Here are some pictures of Nice and Cannes around 1900-1925, from Editions Giletta:

 Colour photo (at beginning of post) by Megan MacKay. 2014.

MY FIRST TIME IN CANNES: The Evening Hours

Le Genou de Claire, Eric Rohmer, 1970

Recently I travelled to Cannes, thanks to some wonderful people I work for. We lived in an airy villa near the beach that week. An enchanting photographer named Robyn stayed with us; she spruced the space with white peonies and plates of sliced honeydew melon. The sun, the boardwalks, the palms against the summer sky, the old town with narrow streets leading up to a museum that houses ancient swords edged with pointed animal teeth…it was magical.

One evening a band from London played at our party.  Afterwards my friend Tara and I had a drink (or seven) with them in the Carlton Hotel. Someone kind treated everybody to massive bottles of pink champagne. We told dad jokes and talked about music and then Tara invited everybody back to the yacht she was staying on. We crammed into a car and sped towards the port and tumbled out onto the dock and crept onto the yacht.

“Let’s go swimming!” Three of us headed to the water, and stripped off our clothes. The sun was rising now and the sea enveloped us. We swam out to the rocks and climbed around, slipping and laughing and bruising our shins. “I swear my cock is usually bigger than this. It’s just because it’s cold,” the keyboard player joked. I waved towards the shore, “Come on in!”  The rest waded in and splashed around. Upon returning to the boat an old man hosed us down. It wasn’t clear if it was his yacht or if he was an important person I vaguely worked for.  Who could contemplate such matters on a cloudless morning in France? We drank red wine in our underwear and talked about John Waters’ films. The side of my face stung a bit.  I took another sip of wine. It was already warm out.

A few minutes later it transpired that my friend and the bassist had been stung by jellyfish.  The handsome fellow turned to show us his welted, scarlet bum. “Anyone want to piss on me?”

“I don’t think your missus would like that,” Tara answered, wrapped up in a big towel. The old man appeared, brandishing vinegar and talc to treat the sting.  “Thank you so much, if you ever want to come to one of our gigs, I’ll make sure you’re on the list…” The old man drove us back to our respective dwellings. It was touching how gentlemanly the band was, staying arm’s length from the girls, since they had sweethearts at home.

One afternoon I saw Debbie Harry, one of my heroes, give an interview. She is still the epitome of New York cool, with the grace of Marlene Dietrich. She moved with such finesse. It was thrilling to have her just a few feet away. She even stood up in her Dolce + Gabbana pencil dress and sang “Heart of Glass” a cappella.

Another evening, a friend and I walked into a dark afterparty filled with Canadians. Right away a man came up to me and started chatting. I was pretty blotto so I began arguing with him about what he was wearing.

“What? Girls don’t like this?” he asked, gesturing towards his Quantum Leap blazer and loose trousers.

“Depends what kind of girl you’re looking for.”

“Wait a second…” he unbuttoned the blazer and pulled off the shirt underneath and then unzipped his trousers and stepped out of them – to reveal a completely different outfit underneath. What an impressive move.

“That’s better,” I laughed, and we transferred to the sofa, clutching whisky cokes, and talked for an hour.

Later in the week, after a cocktail party followed by a dreamy Swedish pool party then a stop at the Gutter Bar, some of us meandered home in the moonlight. As we passed a gazebo I scampered over the rail and beckoned everyone to join me. It was perfect weather for dancing around to the songs on my tinny cellphone. After some moves and relaxing in a mint green Mini Moke, we disbanded. Emily and I traipsed home. When we got back to the villa we realized we didn’t have keys to the main house, where she was staying. 

Since I’m quite flexible and fond of scaling things, I whipped off my floor-length 70s dress and started the ascent in my underwear.  As I stood with one foot balancing on a pile of table and chairs, I reached up and grasped the balcony, semi-dangling, wishing I did push-ups occasionally and hoping my boss, who was sleeping near my attempted break-in, wouldn’t wake to this fracas. I was so close! Alas, at this early hour, it wasn’t possible. I dropped down to the courtyard, put the furniture back, and told Emily she could sleep in my bed.

Two afternoons of winning (three) awards was very exciting and motivating.

The last night was the most decadent, but it’s late, so the story shall end here for now.

party in the living room!

We used to drive up to San Francisco sometimes, even just for a day or two. We went to some amazing parties, usually in a living room with crusty sofas and spontaneous dancing and people making out up against the fridge with most of the lights off…

Here are a few of the records that were playing:

On danse...

London Fashion Week: The Parties & a Few Shows

London Fashion Week
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Ok, here’s my report on London Fashion Week…the inside story. You’ve probably read about all the major designers so I’ll tell you about some of the semi-underground characters-and the parties of course. Sections of this report appeared in Metal magazine.

www.revistametal.com

Ashish Show & Matt Irwin Opening & Chloe Sevigny’s Party
Friday 20 February 2009

The Ashish show at the enormous Hippodrome theatre begins with a gymnast repeatedly easing through a hoop suspended from the ceiling. Then a bluesy band starts playing. The lead singer croons like Amy Winehouse as models stomp down the runway in massive zebra-print tranny platforms. The collection features Norwegian knitwear reinterpreted in fluorescents, sweaters in black and white with snowflakes made untraditional via the copious application of sequins, and outfits infested with multicolour puffballs. The look is Jeremy Scott in Las Vegas goes Nordic on Acid. Other outrageous items include baggy sequined American flag patterned MC Hammer trousers and a low-cut sweater with a zebra head attached to one sleeve. My eyeballs need a rest after this show.

That evening we (the photographer Tania Leshkina and I) go to the Matt Irwin photography opening in Shoreditch. Irwin is a photographer for Dazed & Confused magazine, so the images are predictably vivid and full of beautiful and semi-famous people, including Pixie Geldof and Alice Dellal. Dellal herself is milling about the crowded space, along with other models. Geri Halliwell (of Spice Girls fame) and avant-garde performer No Bra are also in attendance. Erol Alkan spins a mix of popular hipster fare by Grauzone, Metro Area, and Glass Candy.


Around midnight, we foxtrot to Chloe Sevigny’s Opening Ceremony party at the Double Club. Henry Holland, Gareth Pugh, Bobby Gillespie, and Anouck Lepere meander around the glittery club while numerous Central Saint Martins MA students and fashion people dance up a storm. Italian photographer Lele Saveri DJs a crowd-pleasing array of tunes that remind me of the soundtrack at Sway in New York, including hits by the Smiths, and M.I.A. Chloe looks stunning as always.


Armand Basi & Ann-Sophie Back Saturday 21 February

Markus Lupfer for Armand Basi One presents his Fall/Winter 09 Collection in the crisp confines of the Saatchi Gallery. The show is perfect: the models saunter to rock & roll, wearing covetable designs and creepers by George Cox at British Boot Company. The cloths are rockabilly inspired: motorcycle jackets in wool instead of leather, pencil skirts with sequins sewn on, and skinny trousers that flaunted the ankle. The overall shape is voluminous on top, and narrow in the legs. It is an audacious departure from Lupfer’s past collections, which marks his progress as a Womenswear designer.

Topshop presents Ann-Sophie Back

A flock of alabaster-faced corpse-like models, long wavy hair flouncing behind them, float down the catwalk as Goblin’s soundtrack to Suspiria accompanies them. They wear ethereal dresses over pale tights, shredded sweaters, white lace, and numerous dreamcatchers and feathers tied to their hair and threaded through the hems of skirts. The effect is dreamy and spooky, like fairies after a zombie fight in the woods.


Romina Karamanea Sunday 22 February 2009

Karamanea is a young Greek designer who graduated from-you guessed it- Central Saint Martins. Her architectural designs are known for structure and craftsmanship. Continuing along these lines, her new futuristic-themed collection features lean silhouettes with cutouts to reveal the flesh beneath. The colours are muted taupes, soft grays, and earth tones. Necklines and hemlines are high.


Marios Schwab & London Fashion Week International Party &
Giles Afterparty at Bungalow 8 Monday 23 February 2009

The invitations to the Marios Schwab show double as 3-D glasses. Scattered members of the front rows hold them up to view the catwalk show, giving the appearance of a vintage cinema photograph in action. The clothes emphasize a nipped-in waist. The lines of the garments are severe, structured, and narrow. In addition to high-necked mini-dresses in bold colours, Schwab’s collection includes long, shaggy, Muppet-like coats.


That evening, I go to the London Fashion Week International Party at The Collection in South Kensington. The crowd is dressed up, often boring, and quite subdued as they lounge in the club’s posh surroundings. Downstairs, an older group mingles and nibbles on canapés. Upstairs, the younger set socializes politely, stretching out on the sofas and cushions.

Seeking a more rambunctious scene I hop in a cab to the Giles afterparty at Bungalow 8. Upon arrival, my friends and I find this crowd to be much younger, drunker, and more lively. Apparently there’s exodus from the all-you-can-drink Mulberry party. Central Saint Martins students rub against posh West End girls. The Buck magazine crew chats while lanky scenesters dance by them on the banquettes. People shake their jutting hipbones to Daft Punk, Inner City, and Robin S. Outside, chic things suck on cigarettes by enormous potted plants. Sober and sleepy, I hoof it back east.


Storm Models, House of Blue Eyes, House of Holland Afterparty, & Mahiki Tuesday 23 February 2009

On Tuesday, the Bora Aksu show is so mobbed I can’t even get in. So I decide to save some energy for the evening’s festivities. I was invited to the House of Blue Eyes catwalk show-and I want to go-but it takes place at the same time as the House of Holland afterparty. Photos of the show revealed that it was quite a theatrical event: semi-naked blood-crusted models in daring ensembles cavorting down the catwalk. Luckily I see a few of them in the flesh later in the evening…

My first stop is a party at the Azzaro shop in Mayfair. The champagne is running out but luckily attendees are distracted by the heavenly tower of Ladureé macarons: pale green pistachio next to cocoa praline, patterned with dark raspberry and salted butterscotch rounds…I sample a mango macaron and a chocolate one too-they melt on my tongue-before walking to a party hosted by Storm Models at Whisky Mist. Surrounded by stabby cheekbones and male models, I regret my sugary pillage and join my friends in a booth.

We consume free drinks and leave for the House of Holland after party. A female Cerberus growls at the door, ferociously wielding her clipboard. With my powers of persuasion and proof of an r.s.v.p. in the form of an email, we make it inside Quaglino’s, past the photographers, random hot girls (Agyness Deyn, Pixie Geldof, Alexa Chung, Nicola Roberts…) the bartenders serving thousands of glasses of champagne and cocktails, to the dancefloor. Drinks in hand we talk and run around and check everyone out and drink and drink more and kiss and dance.

“You look like a book I read,” I tell one fellow, thinking of a novel by S.E. Hinton. His friend kisses me. He’s got dried blood (fake- I hope) on his face, which he transfers to mine. I don’t notice until I go to the loo a couple hours later and notice I look suspiciously Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. I wash off the goo and return to the revelers. At one point, the song ‘American Boy’ comes on and I look up and realize Kanye West is up at the front, rapping along to the song. Henry Holland DJs with Agyness by his side. After intense socializing, my friends and I appear outside with a mixed entourage of emmaciated teenagers, frisky journalists, and friendly models. Hand in hand, we frolic down the street, and somehow end up at a cheesy club called Mahiki. There are open treasure chests of tropical cocktails and Mojitos on every other table. For the most part, the music is forgettable and the crowd is square, so I talk to local muse/musician Rory McKee and his friend who looks like Harry Potter. The morning hours are approaching so a few of us share a cab back to Hackney.


B Store & Tim Soar Wednesday 24 February

The B Store catwalk is comprised of two parades of models: first girls, then boys. The Womenswear outfits include military capes, high-waisted trousers, interpretations of French schoolgirl uniforms, and thick woolen tights. The boys, donning square rucksacks, lace-up boots, nautical stripes, and roll neck sweaters, either fit in the category of vintage preppy or young Breton fisherman.

The Tim Soar Menswear collection treads a wilder path. Serious young men with gelled-back hair march down the catwalk to German techno in trench coats with ruched belts, straightjacket style coats, rubber suits, loose leather trousers, and spurs on the heels of loafers. In contrast to these fetishistic designs, Soar also shows cream-coloured quilted outerwear, boxy wool jackets, and voluminous ensembles in red, khaki, charcoal, and olive green. The show ends and the crowds stream outside in photogenic herds.

I’m excited about getting home, writing, and, at some point, after reviewing a gig, catching up on sleep. Time to put on some Leonard Cohen and lie down…

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Most of the photographs here are taken by the talented teenage photographer Tania Leshkina. In addition to being an art photographer and having a solo show opening in Paris, soon she shoots for several magazines. One of her pictures, a self-portrait, is the cover on this month’s Italian Vice. Check out her website: www.leshkina.com.

The photographs from the House of Holland afterparty were taken by the dreamy photographer Diego Marin.