Saturday, 20 August 2016

Normally I Don't Like Pink

Diana Ross by Bruce Davidson
Kwesi Abben Sett Studio


I haven't done a moodboard in a while. These are some images I've recently reblogged on my tumblr. The photos of the estates were taken by Laurent Kronental in Paris, and they're of these estates which I find amazing. All the thousands of photos I've seen of Paris, I've never seen any of the estates. Here's an article about the photographer's project covering the forgotten modernist estates of Paris.

Thursday, 18 August 2016

Kennedy Trash

I've been going to bed around 3am almost everyday since I quit my job. The half hour before I shut my laptop is spent on Youtube confirming my ultimate trashiness by watching JFK tribute videos. 

I wish I could tell you how this started but I honesty have no idea. Okay, maybe a little bit of an idea. Probably some sort of latent yearning for the return of Scandal and House of Cards, and all the mess of the US presidential elections, and it's summer and I live in a sort of inner city village. I felt to take a visit to "Camelot" via Vermont

Now. Everything I know about the Kennedys I know from A Level History studying the Cold War, Conan O'Brien's impressions, The Simpsons, a couple documentaries on Yesterday and good old Wikpedia. 

But it's far too easy, especially when you're curled up on the sofa in the early hours of the morning, to fall into the trap of the aesthetic. It's easy to get drawn into the tell-me-I'm-your-National-Anthem-Kennedy. Especially when Baby!Kennedy had a face like this:

And I've been unable to resist on multiple occasions. I've steered clear of the fanfiction, though. Yes, there absolutely is presidential fanfic. Most of it is just downright surreal and hilarious ... from what I've heard! There's a lot of tribute videos out there from the more objective and historical record of achievement, to the dreamy and nostalgic. 

Here are my favourites. Bobby gets a shoutout too. 

I'm not naive, I know how problematic the idealisation of the Kennedys and "Camelot" are. But sometimes I just want a little escapism, you know? I mean I once made a zine analysing in intense detail THIS moment between Reagan and Former Soviet Union leader Mikhail Gorbachev (nothing sexual, mind you! Just to amuse myself because I sometimes have the sense of humour of an 80s comedian, and conspiracy theories make me laugh. Look at Gorbachev's face).

So yeah, this is how I've been spending the last few evening this week.

p.s I just remembered a story I wrote a couple of years ago about Gorbachev working in Pizza Hut. Does that count as presidential fanfiction?? Gah, I'm trashhhhhhh!!!

Wednesday, 17 August 2016


To say it has been a while would be an understatement. And not a lot has even happened.

I turned 22, and the day began as usual with feelings of despair, and annoyance because 22 isn't easily divisible by 7 or 4, by favourite numbers and a whole load of other things I made up to explain why I felt weird about turning a year older. 

I also left my department store job so I can have a little bit of a holiday because I'm intending to go back to University for a Masters in September. We had a leaving do, one I was reluctant to organise for fear of rejection, but it was great. We had fun, we laughed, took photos, I was presented with cute gifts. On the train I felt strange, like I was suspended above my seat. There was the jarring feeling of something having been severed prematurely, but also the weightlessness associated with finally being free. 

I bought the diaries of Franz Kafka, King of Anxiety but I'm waiting to finish re-reading Keith Haring's Journals for the third time. I also bought Maggie Nelson's Bluets, which I'm excited to read, my favourite colour being blue.

It's about 335 days since restarted my writing streak. I've made the promise that when I get to 365 and I'll start blogging here every day, so no more long absences.

What's been going on with you lot?



Sunday, 24 July 2016

Jeff Goldblum is Trying To Kill Me

If anybody is out there, this may be the last time we speak for a while.

I'm currently bunkered down in a location I can't disclose. I packed up what I could and left before daybreak in fear for my life. The farewell to my family and my Steve Buscemi framed print was gut-wrenching but they understood that I had to leave for their safety as well as mine because...

Jeff Goldblum is trying to kill me.

Anybody who reads this blog and knows me, will have sensed that I love Jeff Goldblum. And despite not personally knowing me, I would have thought Goldblum would reciprocate in that vague but universal teen superstar agape "I love all my fans" way. But no, I am convinced he is trying to kill me.

My suspicions first arose when he took this photoshoot but I brushed it off. He may be eccentric, but he's no killer.

But then I saw this, and I knew it was no mistake. He is actually gunning for me.

by Michael Schwartz for Icon El Pais

by Michael Schwartz for Icon El Pais

The tan. the salt and pepper. The long ass legs. The man is in his 60s! LET ME LIVE!

And I'm not the only one. Even Evan Ross, the style editor for Mic, was alarmed.

Mr Goldblum, you cannot do these things to people. It's not right. I don't know when I will be able to emerge from this safehouse, but I will forever be on guard. Who knows when this man will strike again!

Stay safe


Thursday, 21 July 2016

Hi, My Name Is

By Kerry James Marshall

My name is Aida Amoako and I need to confess. 

My name is actually Aida Odurowaa-Amoako and I've often avoided putting my surname on things for reasons I feel perhaps others with surnames like mine might understand. 

It started at secondary school, when they thought Odurowaa was my middle name and not part of a double barrelled surname. At 11 years old, already having been through multiple cringe worthy moments of mispronouciation, I was more than happy to relegate half my name if it meant it would be easier to say.

But I can barely pronounce it myself.  I was once on the phone,  talking to someone semi-official, when they asked for my surname. It left my mouth in a mangled mess of vowels, my tongue feeling heavy. I jumped when I heard my mother's voice, loud and righteous beside me. "Odurowaa-Amoako!", she shouted, hitting me on the arm. I felt sick with shame and embarrassment and finished the phone call. But afterwards I went to the bathroom and closed the door and practiced in the mirror, like I was rehearsing some hard convoluted Shakespeare monologue and not trying to say my own name.

Whenever I signed up for something new I left the Odurowaa out, convincing myself with the semi-true excuse that I shouldn't have my full name absolutely everywhere on the Internet. But really I felt it would put people off seeing this BAIT AFF NAME for both the well-meaning and the lazy to trip over. I'm including myself in that.

I went to this leadership and networking event as a freelance blogger and was listening to a speech by Dr Sandie Okoro, general counsellor at HSBC. She talked about when she was starting out and people would advise her to change her name to a more English sounding one on her applications in order to get hired. But she refused, saying if they didn't want her name paper, she wasn't prepared to work there.

If someone is put off from reading my blog, from hiring me,  from considering my work, because of my long ass vowely Ghanaian surname, then they can eff right off.

I can barely speak Twi but I can understand it. I'm going to learn how to pronounce Odurowaa properly. I'm going to learn how to say "They call me Aida Odurowaa -Amoako" properly. 

Aida Odurowaa-Amoako