Wednesday, 14 September 2011
This past uncharacteristically warm September Sunday I was free to do nothing beyond serving my own existence. As an inner London habitat having days without any scheduled commitments can be rare as the British summer itself. Whether it’s enjoying a glass a pimm's with a cone of chips and breaded coley overlooking the Regent's canal or attending a private viewing in Mayfair there is always something to keeping me out on the run.
Nevertheless the shelf was overcrowded. It couldn’t accommodate another book. It was a lighting realisation that in barely 5 months the shelf had graduated from a dust collector to a biblical library of all the 1,300 words of which I have recently consumed in less than 6 month. I’m officially a book worm; An individual who reads literature on Saturdays for recreational pleasure, gets excited over pressing the 1-click button on Amazon and gets anxious when a book has yet to be delivered by the time it’s 13:00am. Admittedly in the past, my attention span for books wasn’t long enough for me to read two pages without my boredom levels rising as I silently sat still, sliding my eye from right to left. An even bigger hurdle than reading was writing. Memories from my years as an 11 year old boy are still clear. Me, sitting there in the classroom, throwing gentle glances over my right and left shoulders to see whether my classmates have exceeded my paltry 3-4 lines of words. Quite often, the ambitious peers had their hands up to ask the teacher for more paper while I was scratching my head and looking out the window in search of sentence fillers that would extend my “essay” past my then magical half a page mark. Putting words onto paper was like trying to squeeze juice out of an organic sundried tomato. I hated writing, it was frustrating. Ambitions of becoming a writer, journalist, essayist or more crucially a blogger were as non-existent as polar bears on the South Pole.
I was a bit tentative about writing this post. It’s sort of like catching up with a friend whom you used to hold dearly 5-10 years ago. Curiosity and nostalgia is telling you to go ahead while a worrisome sense of doubt begs the question whether you both have departed from what once kept your friendship bond so strong. But having been such a pivotal element in my life, the blog has been begging for a rendezvous and a bit more – perhaps a different dialogue without any layers of moisturizer, apricot scrub, Egyptian cotton shirt and wool/mohair suit.
However mentally exhumed and departed from the world of blogging I was, I am still infatuated with fashion – even more than I was during my days of spending 8-10 crafting blog posts until 02:00am. Fashion and design are magnetic to me. My obsession for mating together words and photographs to give blow kisses that help people understand and appreciate aesthetics has led to my new mantra as a Luxury Brand Consultant. That tall and towering title can easily be dispelled as a stylist for brand. I’ve meet quite few committed and deeply passionate entrepreneurs, creative and professionals who radiate with enthusiasm for what they do. Unfortunately there are only 24 hours in a day which quite some hours short for playing jack of all trades. I lend a helping hand and a set of eyes and help style a businesses and their brand messages with the right imagery and words – leaving everyone else to spend 24 hours on what they do best and love most.
This post is my peek at all readers, supportive brands and people around the globe. Also it’s a finally dot of ink in Berkley Magazine before I mount another book shelf for a printed and preserved copy of Berkley Magazine to be slotted in between the grand bible of creative and aesthetics, Rudolf Armheim – Art and Visual Perception, and all the heart warming and encouraging letters I’ve been sent via email by you, the readers.