the wild youth.

by kimberley veart.

Let's swim in our underwear, in the middle of winter. Drink wine from mugs in the afternoon.

 

Let's roll down the car windows and sing. Dance like we're drunk when we aren't, and have long conversations with interesting strangers. Take pictures and pull faces, not just smile sedately.  

When we're apart we can send postcards in the mail, so that we have more than bills in the letter box. We'll greet each other with all the excitement of friends reunited after several years, even if it was only last Tuesday.  

if i were paul simon.

by kimberley veart

If I were Paul Simon I would never have parted ways with Garfunkel. I know I had most of the talent, but he brought the ‘funky’ name. How memorable is Simon without Garfunkel?

If I were Paul Simon I would move to Barcelona because the only thing more awesome than playing Spanish guitar is playing Spanish guitar in Spain.

I would speak to everyone in the same obscure poetic way that I write lyrics.

kisses and cake.

by kimberley veart

We stumble out the door, overflowing with laughter and noise breaking the evening stillness. The neighbours switch on their porch lights.

Then everybody is gone; with the slamming of car doors and the hooting of horns. They leave me with the tangled streamers on the floor.

I suppose the party is over now.

feature: bookends

"Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you"

credits:

photography: alistair edwards

styling: clementine

words: 'bookends' by simon and garfunkel

not like the movies.

by kimberley veart

If you are anything like me, you avoid high school reminiscing at all costs.

I think part of me fears that if I think about it too long, some Freaky Friday incident might transport me back to those days of awkwardness, compulsory uniforms and the endless politics. Oh the terror.

However, Hollywood would appear to want to remind me of my experiences by consistently dreaming up increasing ways to make me feel that I did not live out my teen years in a satisfactory manner. There was certainly no singing in corridors, people weren't forever walking into each others' houses unannounced and no one hatched wacky but amusing revenge plots that ended in a dramatic self-realization.

chasing ghosts.

by kimberley veart

Woody Allen and I share a malady, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

We both are sufferers of the condition of 'nostalgia' and long for our spiritual homes in our idealised, rose hued visions of past decades. He wishes for the twenties, the 'golden age', when apparently walking in the rain in Paris was common practice.

I long for the sixties. For the time when Mary Quant dresses were in, the Beatles and their bowl cuts reigned and Edie Sedgewick was still Andy Warhol's muse.

somebody that i used to know.

by kimberley veart

We used to fit so well, it was all so comfortable.

We wore each other out, I suppose. Mended and patched until we matched.

You were like the trusty sweater I could reach for when the days turned cold. I knew (well, I thought) you would always protect me and brighten me up as the world grew grey. 

what to do with an arts degree.

by kimberley veart

There was a hot air balloon floating over the amber clouds as the sun set, and I almost drove off the road.

I was struck, gazing wide eyed through my windshield and almost breathless.

I had seen (dramatic drum roll please) ... my future.

optimists anonymous.

by kimberley veart

I had a dramatic moment of self realisation this week.

Previously, when people pointed out my tendency to saccharine sweetness and sugared happy endings, I would deny that I had a problem. I'm just a party optimist, I'd say. Merely a casual user of the upbeat.

I can give up whenever I want.

the way we were.

by kimberley veart 

You can feel distance in the delays on a telephone call. In the resounding, echoing quiet. If you count the seconds you can count the miles. 

To fill the void, you talk and I talk. We are drowning each other out, words descending into white noise. 

We are forced to abandon this futile attempt at communication.

"Can you hear me?"

bette davis eyes.

by kimberley veart

Bette Davis was the original cinematic bitch, her on-screen characters put Regina George and Miranda Priestly to shame.

Her life flows as freely with anecdotes of her feisty nature as the wine did at her house. After all there is only one way to get a voice as raspy as hers...

hanging by a moment.

by kimberley veart

“I don’t want life to imitate art; I want life to be art.” - Carrie Fisher

My mission, my goal in life is to experience a musical moment. By this I mean a moment where the crowds burst into joyous, perfectly choreographed dancing that looks absolutely spontaneous and people start belting out notes like Mariah Carey.

Why can’t life be like a musical?

houdini.

by kimberley veart


I've been bitten by the travel bug, and I don't think there is a cure. Places of cosy childhood familiarity no longer satisfy with one eye always on somewhere else.

However I have just come back from a trip which means, of course that I am pretty much broke. Therefore some cheaper means of escape have had to take the place of planes, clouds, and far away exotic destinations, at least for now. 

sculptures & soundwaves.

by kimberley veart

“Certain paintings make me imagine what they sound like as music. Often they suggest music that doesn’t exist yet – and invite you to make it.”  - Brian Eno

There is something thrilling about that unexpected collision between mediums. This is never more apparent to me than in art galleries where one of my favourite things to do is switch my mp3 player to shuffle and wander around (by that I mean methodically make my way through each piece in the gallery, I am not French, I am not a flaneur).

(re)calling history.

by kimberley veart

Today I was reminded of just how much I forget.

Saved into the temporary annals of my phone are notes that I've written to myself, important at one point, and now blinking on the screen.

One note begins without introduction:

“Paule vezelay construction: grey lines on pink background.”

dear internet users,

by kimberley veart

I understand that you appreciate wondrous abilities of the internet and have perhaps rejected the archaic practice of writing letters in favour of the efficiency of the email. However let me entreat you not to dismiss ‘snail mail’ so easily.

My main reason for this is self-preservation, as I am rather awkward email user. My issue with email is that I never want to respond immediately to a message for fear of getting caught in an awkward ‘instant reply’ situation which eventually someone has to end. I’d also rather people imagine that I have a life instead of being on the computer awaiting their message.

i want to ride my bicycle.

by kimberley veart

I blame Roman Holiday. Audrey Hepburn, I’m afraid is completely culpable for the romantic notions I entertain about bicycle riding.

My idea of riding my bicycle sees me effortlessly gliding along to a peppy yet mellow soundtrack, something bouncy with a xylophone perhaps. The breeze delicately plays with my hair and skirt and I smile happily as the world passes me by. I arrive at my destination looking and feeling like a goddess of health and beauty, which of course in my mind’s eye equates to Gwyneth Paltrow.