Inhabit The Other Store profits from a design that deliberately goes counter to retail common-sense
It appears that the designer of Inhabit The Other Store picked up a retail design bible and decided to go against everything in it. And for that masterstroke the upscale boutique on the second level of the Mandarin Gallery is at once fresh, witty, and given the type of clients that the original store draws to its Palais Renaissance precinct, highly appropriate.
The corner unit is obscured partly by its neighbour and partly by a pillar – a dire situation that calls for all manners of bells and whistles to extenuate. One is rewarded with a prospect of two small apertures on a dark timber wall instead of cheery, gaping show windows enthusiastically filled with this season’s merchandise. Don’t even look for mega-watt floodlights trained on a platoon of mannequins or a marquee spelled out in neon – the store’s name appears in white letters above a list of brands and again carved on a wall by the entrance.
But wait. The angled entrance suddenly flashes a view of the interior. You see a framed art on a wall and a mannequin clad in a long jersey dress seemingly in conversation with someone you can’t see. Within the darkened space a white canted structure glimmers, a light beam shoots out from a brown box towards the ceiling, and more dark timber strips arranged in herringbone pattern tie up the randomness. A familiar club music track is playing. You’re hooked.
There’s no denying the voyeuristic pleasure you derive from such chance encounter. And when you’re drawn inside, your eyes immediately adjust to the darkness, picking out a group of chairs huddled in a circle, wall recesses filled with clothes hanging from a rack, niches stacked with jeans, a cashier’s counter with a display of small accessories. Cool artworks, such as the ones you would hang in your own pad, share wall space with a singular cocktail dress on a hanger or a wrap on a peg. You get it: art to wear.
All Louboutin-padded footsteps lead to Inhabit and The Other Store’s opening is unsurprising given its broadening clientele. It has been clothing seriously fashionable women – and, increasingly, men – who have developed a taste for cult brands of rare, artisanal apparel and accessories. Its rise in the collective consciousness of the fashion set is uncanny, having survived and grown mostly by word of mouth endorsements.
The present space reflects the ethos of the company: intimate and sophisticated and yet never off-putting. This is a place where like-minded clients hang out as they try on clothes and accessories or discuss the minutiae of certain labels. In other words, it is a cross between an exclusive club and a home – the antithesis of a McMall outlet where a hundred pairs of hands go through thousands of minutely differentiated products.
The dark timbre sets a sophisticated tone; its herringbone pattern, repeated on walls, floor and fixtures, is a double play on both clothing and handcrafting. Wooden cubes become display tables and light boxes – among the original touches in the store. On it may be a vitrine displaying a collection of accessories arranged like surgical tools, or a metal-beaded blouse picked out by a soft-glow of a pin light. On it as well is a free-form light chute from which a beam of mottled light partially filtered by gobo is directed at the ceiling.
Three dressing rooms are suspended from the ceiling and tubes stuck on their walls provide a two-way peek – an arthouse-worthy bit that explores the dichotomy of what is inside and outside. A large mirror fixed on the outside wall, echoing what is inside, extends this conceptual riddle.
Although illumination is evenly and judiciously applied, the white ceiling helps distribute them. Its colour also alleviates the space’s lack of height and provides a balance to the otherwise sombre, if sensual, interior.
In the midst of such leisureliness, albeit a manufactured one, retail does become a form of therapy. You feel wise and deliberate about your purchases, making it easy to drop a mint on a bauble.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
PITCH PERFECT
The Link Home’s new boutique at Paragon is a heaven-sent for the ambivalent and the downright design-challenged
Although homes acquire their own personality with time, it is perfectly fine to nudge the process along. Save precious waiting time for the young Cabernet Sauvignons to mature in your cellar – when it comes to homemaking, personality should be hanging on the door by the time you move in.
There is, mercifully, a lot of professional help in this area and one of the best places to get it from is The Link Home. The uber tastemonger re-opened its doors at Paragon in February after a successful reign at Palais Renaissance and then Nassim Hill. Pitch-perfect furnishings and accessories complement an array of furniture in the new 2,200-sq ft shop. And the impeccable taste of style doyenne Tina Tan, CEO of The Link and creative director of fashion label Alldressedup is apparent in every item and expertly coordinated merchandise setting which one could purchase in their entirety to furnish a small corner or a dedicated sitting, dining or sleeping area.
Together with her team, Tina has culled the world for the 40 leading home and lifestyle labels including home textiles by Sabina Fay Braxton, porcelain from Bernardaud, exotic accessories by Augousti, tableware and complements from L’Objet, leather organisers and picture frames from Pinetti, and decanters and glasses from L’atelier du vin. A Diptyque scent bar also commands a prominent spot in the shop. Although these brands are accessible among trendy global nomads, The Link Home provides focus by sifting through thousands of samples to assemble the few that eventually make it to the shop.
Furniture suggests rooms in the open-planned space and appropriate accessories are incorporated in these settings. An unerring eye for luxurious details guides the seemingly haphazard organisation so that a fur throw casually tossed on a Chinese four-poster bed seems highly appropriate.
The shop also offers exclusive services such as gift registries, A Little Something hampers, gift certificates and interior styling of show apartments and private residences.
Although homes acquire their own personality with time, it is perfectly fine to nudge the process along. Save precious waiting time for the young Cabernet Sauvignons to mature in your cellar – when it comes to homemaking, personality should be hanging on the door by the time you move in.
There is, mercifully, a lot of professional help in this area and one of the best places to get it from is The Link Home. The uber tastemonger re-opened its doors at Paragon in February after a successful reign at Palais Renaissance and then Nassim Hill. Pitch-perfect furnishings and accessories complement an array of furniture in the new 2,200-sq ft shop. And the impeccable taste of style doyenne Tina Tan, CEO of The Link and creative director of fashion label Alldressedup is apparent in every item and expertly coordinated merchandise setting which one could purchase in their entirety to furnish a small corner or a dedicated sitting, dining or sleeping area.
Together with her team, Tina has culled the world for the 40 leading home and lifestyle labels including home textiles by Sabina Fay Braxton, porcelain from Bernardaud, exotic accessories by Augousti, tableware and complements from L’Objet, leather organisers and picture frames from Pinetti, and decanters and glasses from L’atelier du vin. A Diptyque scent bar also commands a prominent spot in the shop. Although these brands are accessible among trendy global nomads, The Link Home provides focus by sifting through thousands of samples to assemble the few that eventually make it to the shop.
Furniture suggests rooms in the open-planned space and appropriate accessories are incorporated in these settings. An unerring eye for luxurious details guides the seemingly haphazard organisation so that a fur throw casually tossed on a Chinese four-poster bed seems highly appropriate.
The shop also offers exclusive services such as gift registries, A Little Something hampers, gift certificates and interior styling of show apartments and private residences.
THE LIGHT CATCHER
Narrow and deep, shophouses have long challenged architects’ imagination and resources to open them up to light and air. But with just a simple device, Teh Joo Heng worked out an incredibly artful solution
Until a few years ago, an airwell, a skylight and a bank of windows were the only antidote to the poorly lit and ventilated interiors of a shophouse. Strict regulations covering their renovation were often thought to impinge on creative solutions to problems inherent to the structure. Those who work around the problem invariably impose a climate-controlled environment that effectively diminishes the shophouse’s true character and charms.
But continued interest in shophouses as alternative dwelling spaces, for practical and sentimental reasons, goads architects to find ways to harness light and air in a more personalised and spirited manner.
For Teh Joo Heng, principal and founder of the self-named architecture firm, one solution lies in a device that is so simple and ubiquitous it should not have escaped attention for so long. Called the light scoop, this architectural device draws in light, bounces it off several curved planes and distributes it to specific areas within the enveloping structure. The resulting illumination is nuanced and soft, changing character as the sun crosses the threshold. Its successful application in shophouses on No. 26 and No. 63 Emerald Hill anticipates progress in bringing natural light into challenging structures.
Besides the brief from the owners, Teh had to work with the Urban Redevelopment Authority regulations that prevented him from rebuilding the enveloping structure including the façade and the front half of the roof. He had freer rein in the back structure, often a later addition to the original, and has decided to demolish and rebuild it in one of the shophouses.
Inside No. 63 the system is articulated around the airwell like a swath of cloth unfurled from the ceiling all the way down to the first storey where it disappears into the walls. Another part of it looks like faceted cathedral doorways, perhaps a Gaudi study in white stucco. It draws the eyes towards the lofty ceiling whose summit has been opened up with a pitched skylight. As it spirals downwards, it passes through glass stairs and glass footbridge dragging the eyes towards the sparse space on the first storey where the line of sight goes beyond immediate physical boundaries.
“We like to describe it as a sculpture in space – because it does look like a piece of art in a room – but it is also a space in sculpture because it forms a structure that helps define and configure a room,” enthuses Teh. The design – including the revamp of an identical property on No. 65, which Teh revamped in a more traditional manner - bagged the 2005 URA Architectural Heritage Awards and an honourable mention at the SIA Architecture Design Awards in 2006.
Howard Wee, director of 7 Interior Architecture, stepped up to the challenge of designing the interiors with light and thoughtful touches that do not interfere with the stunning architecture.
Teh first installed a light scoop in the shophouse in No. 63 Emerald Hill. Its reappearance in No. 26 was in fact requested by its owner who, while shopping for ideas for his own shophouse, chanced upon it. In this second version, however, the device is more elaborate and enormous – a virtual organism that dominates the second storey where it pierces the roof into skylights, melds with the walls that enclose the private domain and swings all the way to the back where it terminates like an umbilicus on the rear wall. “We can replicate the idea behind the light scoop because it is based on the same principle, but it will always be artistically integrated each time – depending on the location and the requirements of the owner,” Teh explains.
One should be forgiven for thinking that the light scoop is architectural gimmickry. It is after all flamboyant, encompassing and painstakingly wrought. Built with timber and metal frames, its undulating surface is covered with wire mesh and layers of plaster. As it is meant to catch light, it is primed and coated with layers of white paint. “But this has very serious underlying principle,” Teh qualifies. As reflected sunlight moves across voluptuous, wavy surfaces and dim recesses, a dynamic effect is created. They create false surfaces, coating the stark white planes with texture. Instead of hitting just one a spot for several minutes, as it would through an ordinary fenestration, light through the scoop is distributed on several surfaces at once in uneven, dramatic intensities.
Its incorporation into the walls of the master bedroom in No. 26 is serendipitous. Although the owner asked for light and a general sense of openness throughout the domain, he also requested for a very private sanctum, and Teh obliges with a free-form brooding chamber that is enclosed by curved walls and sliding doors. With all openings closed the space turns pitch dark. The structure is evocative, recalling archetypes of primal condition from the collective unconscious. “Childhood fantasies of living in a cave, a nest or under a canopy of trees are powerful inspirations. They reside in our memory bank waiting to be retrieved and reused. In this particular room, we wanted to create an organic form – a womb or a cocoon – instead of the rectilinear,” explains Teh.
“We spend our days in places dominated by rectilinear structures, boxes, 45-degree angles – and there is nothing wrong with that. But I feel that we also crave for exciting spatial treatments and configurations; we search for a balance and this space is a response to that need,” he theorises.
The NUS and MIT alum claims his practice is driven by passion for design, particularly for the tropics. “But we prefer the fun, exciting and unusual route towards these,” he says. The firm is a laboratory that churns out myriad ideas, which partly explains its lack of one signature stroke to push it to the forefront of the market. “I’ve not thought about creating a signature look; maybe I should,” he says with a laugh. “But we’re more interested in design principles that come through our experimentation. And we want to grow with these principles, not to be limited by them.”
Until a few years ago, an airwell, a skylight and a bank of windows were the only antidote to the poorly lit and ventilated interiors of a shophouse. Strict regulations covering their renovation were often thought to impinge on creative solutions to problems inherent to the structure. Those who work around the problem invariably impose a climate-controlled environment that effectively diminishes the shophouse’s true character and charms.
But continued interest in shophouses as alternative dwelling spaces, for practical and sentimental reasons, goads architects to find ways to harness light and air in a more personalised and spirited manner.
For Teh Joo Heng, principal and founder of the self-named architecture firm, one solution lies in a device that is so simple and ubiquitous it should not have escaped attention for so long. Called the light scoop, this architectural device draws in light, bounces it off several curved planes and distributes it to specific areas within the enveloping structure. The resulting illumination is nuanced and soft, changing character as the sun crosses the threshold. Its successful application in shophouses on No. 26 and No. 63 Emerald Hill anticipates progress in bringing natural light into challenging structures.
Besides the brief from the owners, Teh had to work with the Urban Redevelopment Authority regulations that prevented him from rebuilding the enveloping structure including the façade and the front half of the roof. He had freer rein in the back structure, often a later addition to the original, and has decided to demolish and rebuild it in one of the shophouses.
Inside No. 63 the system is articulated around the airwell like a swath of cloth unfurled from the ceiling all the way down to the first storey where it disappears into the walls. Another part of it looks like faceted cathedral doorways, perhaps a Gaudi study in white stucco. It draws the eyes towards the lofty ceiling whose summit has been opened up with a pitched skylight. As it spirals downwards, it passes through glass stairs and glass footbridge dragging the eyes towards the sparse space on the first storey where the line of sight goes beyond immediate physical boundaries.
“We like to describe it as a sculpture in space – because it does look like a piece of art in a room – but it is also a space in sculpture because it forms a structure that helps define and configure a room,” enthuses Teh. The design – including the revamp of an identical property on No. 65, which Teh revamped in a more traditional manner - bagged the 2005 URA Architectural Heritage Awards and an honourable mention at the SIA Architecture Design Awards in 2006.
Howard Wee, director of 7 Interior Architecture, stepped up to the challenge of designing the interiors with light and thoughtful touches that do not interfere with the stunning architecture.
Teh first installed a light scoop in the shophouse in No. 63 Emerald Hill. Its reappearance in No. 26 was in fact requested by its owner who, while shopping for ideas for his own shophouse, chanced upon it. In this second version, however, the device is more elaborate and enormous – a virtual organism that dominates the second storey where it pierces the roof into skylights, melds with the walls that enclose the private domain and swings all the way to the back where it terminates like an umbilicus on the rear wall. “We can replicate the idea behind the light scoop because it is based on the same principle, but it will always be artistically integrated each time – depending on the location and the requirements of the owner,” Teh explains.
One should be forgiven for thinking that the light scoop is architectural gimmickry. It is after all flamboyant, encompassing and painstakingly wrought. Built with timber and metal frames, its undulating surface is covered with wire mesh and layers of plaster. As it is meant to catch light, it is primed and coated with layers of white paint. “But this has very serious underlying principle,” Teh qualifies. As reflected sunlight moves across voluptuous, wavy surfaces and dim recesses, a dynamic effect is created. They create false surfaces, coating the stark white planes with texture. Instead of hitting just one a spot for several minutes, as it would through an ordinary fenestration, light through the scoop is distributed on several surfaces at once in uneven, dramatic intensities.
Its incorporation into the walls of the master bedroom in No. 26 is serendipitous. Although the owner asked for light and a general sense of openness throughout the domain, he also requested for a very private sanctum, and Teh obliges with a free-form brooding chamber that is enclosed by curved walls and sliding doors. With all openings closed the space turns pitch dark. The structure is evocative, recalling archetypes of primal condition from the collective unconscious. “Childhood fantasies of living in a cave, a nest or under a canopy of trees are powerful inspirations. They reside in our memory bank waiting to be retrieved and reused. In this particular room, we wanted to create an organic form – a womb or a cocoon – instead of the rectilinear,” explains Teh.
“We spend our days in places dominated by rectilinear structures, boxes, 45-degree angles – and there is nothing wrong with that. But I feel that we also crave for exciting spatial treatments and configurations; we search for a balance and this space is a response to that need,” he theorises.
The NUS and MIT alum claims his practice is driven by passion for design, particularly for the tropics. “But we prefer the fun, exciting and unusual route towards these,” he says. The firm is a laboratory that churns out myriad ideas, which partly explains its lack of one signature stroke to push it to the forefront of the market. “I’ve not thought about creating a signature look; maybe I should,” he says with a laugh. “But we’re more interested in design principles that come through our experimentation. And we want to grow with these principles, not to be limited by them.”
AN ENCOUNTER WITH THE DIVINE
The launch of Gucci’s flagship boutique in Singapore revives obsessive interest in one of world’s leading luxury brands
For those who find spiritual solace in, ahem, shopping, the Frida Giannini-masterminded Gucci boutique launch in Paragon signals a renewal of faith. Its grandeur is expressed in dimension (10,000 sq ft), spatial configuration (areas dedicated to specific merchandise) and adornment (old Midas comes to mind). It is vintage Gucci, i.e., unblinkingly opulent with just a smidgen of decadence, but it is also a departure from the overt sensuality that distinguished its boutiques previously. The underground VIP club touches are mostly gone, replaced by an open plan bathed in natural light. The most important innovative touches, however, lie in the assemblage of materials such as ribbed glass, warm polished gold, smoked mirrors, smoked bronze glass, miles of marble tiles and even cracked lacquer.
Official communiqué suggests it “recalls the elegance and richness of Art Deco”, but there is also a latent medieval quality to it by way aged gilding. That and a sense of timelessness.
Launched in February this year, the Gucci shop announces its new location, just across its old precinct on the ground floor of Paragon, with a five-storey façade, although the boutique actually occupies just two. A row of golden rods wraps a corner of the building on which Gucci logos are emblazoned in signature burnished golden hue. Beneath this prominent signage are rows of show windows coinciding with the first and second storeys.
Gucci’s creative director since 2006, Giannini has been receiving plaudits for her design oeuvre as well as successful brand-building activities. She has also worked with top auteurs Chris Cunningham and David Lynch to produce ethos-defining advertising campaigns, even getting involved in UNICEF and Raising Malawi campaign. Rolling out her design for the Gucci flagship stores worldwide brings an element of fullness to her body of work for the brand.
“My objective for the new concept is to bring light into the interiors of the store,” Giannini explains. “The Singapore store is awash in both natural light from the large windows, as well as for the golden hues I have chosen for the interiors.”
Inside, dynamic straight lines created by the black marble strip on the floor, the repetitive shelves on the walls and even the trenches on the ceiling hurtle and converge at a vanishing point, deepening the space even further. From one of the two gilded entrances they seem to terminate at the staircase – the shop’s sculptural focal point and an access to the rarefied second storey.
The ground floor, where the latest handbags, luggage, fine jewelry, watches and other accessories pull in a steady crowd, is efficient and well-stocked with merchandise. Although a crowd three deep settles around the counters, there is enough space to stand back and peruse the pin-lit articles.
On the second level, meanwhile, women’s evening wear, runway looks, men’s ready-to-wear, suits and accessories are displayed in salon-like areas. Here deep banquettes and commodious couches are at the disposal of those deciding between the classic Gucci loafers or the sombre lace-ups. The environment is decidedly more genteel, the merchandise arrayed artfully in a few corners or assembled as looks on mannequins. On any reflective surface, from polished vitrines to mirrored walls, one encounters his image, making life-changing choices about neckties much easier to execute.
Over 30 stores have received the same gilded treatment including New York and Rome, London and Shanghai, ensuring familiarity and consistency in encounters with the divine.
For those who find spiritual solace in, ahem, shopping, the Frida Giannini-masterminded Gucci boutique launch in Paragon signals a renewal of faith. Its grandeur is expressed in dimension (10,000 sq ft), spatial configuration (areas dedicated to specific merchandise) and adornment (old Midas comes to mind). It is vintage Gucci, i.e., unblinkingly opulent with just a smidgen of decadence, but it is also a departure from the overt sensuality that distinguished its boutiques previously. The underground VIP club touches are mostly gone, replaced by an open plan bathed in natural light. The most important innovative touches, however, lie in the assemblage of materials such as ribbed glass, warm polished gold, smoked mirrors, smoked bronze glass, miles of marble tiles and even cracked lacquer.
Official communiqué suggests it “recalls the elegance and richness of Art Deco”, but there is also a latent medieval quality to it by way aged gilding. That and a sense of timelessness.
Launched in February this year, the Gucci shop announces its new location, just across its old precinct on the ground floor of Paragon, with a five-storey façade, although the boutique actually occupies just two. A row of golden rods wraps a corner of the building on which Gucci logos are emblazoned in signature burnished golden hue. Beneath this prominent signage are rows of show windows coinciding with the first and second storeys.
Gucci’s creative director since 2006, Giannini has been receiving plaudits for her design oeuvre as well as successful brand-building activities. She has also worked with top auteurs Chris Cunningham and David Lynch to produce ethos-defining advertising campaigns, even getting involved in UNICEF and Raising Malawi campaign. Rolling out her design for the Gucci flagship stores worldwide brings an element of fullness to her body of work for the brand.
“My objective for the new concept is to bring light into the interiors of the store,” Giannini explains. “The Singapore store is awash in both natural light from the large windows, as well as for the golden hues I have chosen for the interiors.”
Inside, dynamic straight lines created by the black marble strip on the floor, the repetitive shelves on the walls and even the trenches on the ceiling hurtle and converge at a vanishing point, deepening the space even further. From one of the two gilded entrances they seem to terminate at the staircase – the shop’s sculptural focal point and an access to the rarefied second storey.
The ground floor, where the latest handbags, luggage, fine jewelry, watches and other accessories pull in a steady crowd, is efficient and well-stocked with merchandise. Although a crowd three deep settles around the counters, there is enough space to stand back and peruse the pin-lit articles.
On the second level, meanwhile, women’s evening wear, runway looks, men’s ready-to-wear, suits and accessories are displayed in salon-like areas. Here deep banquettes and commodious couches are at the disposal of those deciding between the classic Gucci loafers or the sombre lace-ups. The environment is decidedly more genteel, the merchandise arrayed artfully in a few corners or assembled as looks on mannequins. On any reflective surface, from polished vitrines to mirrored walls, one encounters his image, making life-changing choices about neckties much easier to execute.
Over 30 stores have received the same gilded treatment including New York and Rome, London and Shanghai, ensuring familiarity and consistency in encounters with the divine.
FOP DADDY
Is Gilles Hennessy as smooth and distinctive as the cognac he sells?
Suited in Dior, shod in Berluti and speaking in that confident tone – all rounded vowels and aspirated Ts – Gilles Hennessy is the portrait of a modern day dandy, that is until he brings up his fashion hero, the inimitable but long dead Beau Brummel. “I’ve only heard what people say about him, but he seemed to me the embodiment of manly elegance,” he concedes in good humour.
Of course Gilles refers to Brummel, hardly a name on the fashion set’s lips, as paragon of manners and taste to which only a few pay heed nowadays. “People don’t dress up anymore,” he laments. “It’s a bit of a shame, really. At least the ladies still change for dinner, but the men have no excuse not to do so.”
Gilles knows that elegance is all about a consideration for others and an attempt to be one’s best self. In his case, it is also about propriety – he assembles his workday uniforms from Dior, a part of the LVMH conglomerate that owns Hennessy cognac which once belonged to his family.
Gilles spent his boyhood in boarding schools in France and England where, formal uniforms notwithstanding, he learned the rudiments of both dressing and carriage. Today he refers to his style as ‘classical’, which by his appearance can only mean sporty but not vulgar, formal but not sombre.
As vice-president of Moet Hennessy, the wines and spirits branch of LVMH, Gilles travels the world, as he puts it, “to sell some drinks”. Things are looking up, however, on this side of his universe. “We’re acknowledging change,” he beams, adding that cognac is now popularly enjoyed as cocktails – a downright heretical idea just a few years ago. “But drinks will stay the same for some time; they haven’t invented machines that will replace humans – one that can smell or taste.”
Well, they haven’t invented a machine that can replicate style either.
Suited in Dior, shod in Berluti and speaking in that confident tone – all rounded vowels and aspirated Ts – Gilles Hennessy is the portrait of a modern day dandy, that is until he brings up his fashion hero, the inimitable but long dead Beau Brummel. “I’ve only heard what people say about him, but he seemed to me the embodiment of manly elegance,” he concedes in good humour.
Of course Gilles refers to Brummel, hardly a name on the fashion set’s lips, as paragon of manners and taste to which only a few pay heed nowadays. “People don’t dress up anymore,” he laments. “It’s a bit of a shame, really. At least the ladies still change for dinner, but the men have no excuse not to do so.”
Gilles knows that elegance is all about a consideration for others and an attempt to be one’s best self. In his case, it is also about propriety – he assembles his workday uniforms from Dior, a part of the LVMH conglomerate that owns Hennessy cognac which once belonged to his family.
Gilles spent his boyhood in boarding schools in France and England where, formal uniforms notwithstanding, he learned the rudiments of both dressing and carriage. Today he refers to his style as ‘classical’, which by his appearance can only mean sporty but not vulgar, formal but not sombre.
As vice-president of Moet Hennessy, the wines and spirits branch of LVMH, Gilles travels the world, as he puts it, “to sell some drinks”. Things are looking up, however, on this side of his universe. “We’re acknowledging change,” he beams, adding that cognac is now popularly enjoyed as cocktails – a downright heretical idea just a few years ago. “But drinks will stay the same for some time; they haven’t invented machines that will replace humans – one that can smell or taste.”
Well, they haven’t invented a machine that can replicate style either.
THE ART OF GOING IT ALONE
The once hallowed territory marked ‘private’ is shrinking by the hour. It’s time to defend it
With social networks on overdrive, there’s hardly any moment when you can tune out to hear your own thoughts much less process them. Yes, you can select your privacy settings and de-friend people, but they will always be there buzzing, tracking your moves, commenting on your photos and giving your status the thumbs up.
For all their noble intentions, social networks that aim to unite like-minded people have turned into tawdry confessionals where everyone is subjected to varying levels of banality. (“I hate women drivers,” rants one Facebook member. It elicited 11 thumbs up, and a chain of 32 comments.) It’s pervasive; it’s insidious and it makes occasion of the commonplace. (“Behind Jay Chou at a supermarket…,” a Twitter feed announces. Twelve comments followed. ) Through them, people have found a way of thwarting your best efforts at attaining cerebral hygiene by offering you the minutiae of their lives in the form of 140-byte feeds. (Bought iPad!!! Woohoo!, exclaims another Facebook post.)
Those who refuse the receiving end of what should have been an exchange are quickly dismissed as anti-social, a pejorative term that has – not surprisingly – since lost its sting.
I have been called anti-social on account of my inability to enjoy company-sponsored socials, the type where you stand around a punch bowl and tentatively trade blather. But even before that discovery, various recluses have always been my heroes: Emerson on Walden Pond, Garbo in NYC, Harper Lee in Monroeville, JD Salinger in New Hampshire. In them I find courage and true grit rather than insecurity cloaked as conformism cloaked as all-around amiability.
Just think, even Jesus went to the desert for 40 days to clear his head; wouldn’t this world be a better place if opinion mongers took just a couple of days off to actually think before they return to tweeting?
It is difficult to go it alone. Social structures will test your fortitude whenever you dine, watch a play or go to a polo match without company. Even an innocent stroll in the park is suspect if you are by yourself. People expect you to have company; hosts encourage you to bring someone along. If you happen to sit next to an empty chair, your crestfallen hostess will move things around to find you a suitable seatmate and, hopefully, a future match.
As I will not suffer fools gladly or endure a boring conversation, I devised the following to protect my precious solitude. Firstly, remain accommodating to reasonable requests. Most people will not quit until they get through to you, until they feel you’re friends. Secondly, don’t call attention to yourself. People are naturally curious and will not stop probing until they feel they’ve solved the mystery. Thirdly, if all else fails, tell them that for reasons relating to race or creed, you are not joining the company chorale. They’ll get the hint.
So as the self-appointed leader in your office collects the six-odd members of his platoon of co-dependents, whose ritual cafeteria lunches are the highlights of their working lives, roll up your copy of the Financial Times and know in your heart that instead of mindless patter you will find a column inch or two of lucid intellectual display.
Remember: People who need people are just needy people.
With social networks on overdrive, there’s hardly any moment when you can tune out to hear your own thoughts much less process them. Yes, you can select your privacy settings and de-friend people, but they will always be there buzzing, tracking your moves, commenting on your photos and giving your status the thumbs up.
For all their noble intentions, social networks that aim to unite like-minded people have turned into tawdry confessionals where everyone is subjected to varying levels of banality. (“I hate women drivers,” rants one Facebook member. It elicited 11 thumbs up, and a chain of 32 comments.) It’s pervasive; it’s insidious and it makes occasion of the commonplace. (“Behind Jay Chou at a supermarket…,” a Twitter feed announces. Twelve comments followed. ) Through them, people have found a way of thwarting your best efforts at attaining cerebral hygiene by offering you the minutiae of their lives in the form of 140-byte feeds. (Bought iPad!!! Woohoo!, exclaims another Facebook post.)
Those who refuse the receiving end of what should have been an exchange are quickly dismissed as anti-social, a pejorative term that has – not surprisingly – since lost its sting.
I have been called anti-social on account of my inability to enjoy company-sponsored socials, the type where you stand around a punch bowl and tentatively trade blather. But even before that discovery, various recluses have always been my heroes: Emerson on Walden Pond, Garbo in NYC, Harper Lee in Monroeville, JD Salinger in New Hampshire. In them I find courage and true grit rather than insecurity cloaked as conformism cloaked as all-around amiability.
Just think, even Jesus went to the desert for 40 days to clear his head; wouldn’t this world be a better place if opinion mongers took just a couple of days off to actually think before they return to tweeting?
It is difficult to go it alone. Social structures will test your fortitude whenever you dine, watch a play or go to a polo match without company. Even an innocent stroll in the park is suspect if you are by yourself. People expect you to have company; hosts encourage you to bring someone along. If you happen to sit next to an empty chair, your crestfallen hostess will move things around to find you a suitable seatmate and, hopefully, a future match.
As I will not suffer fools gladly or endure a boring conversation, I devised the following to protect my precious solitude. Firstly, remain accommodating to reasonable requests. Most people will not quit until they get through to you, until they feel you’re friends. Secondly, don’t call attention to yourself. People are naturally curious and will not stop probing until they feel they’ve solved the mystery. Thirdly, if all else fails, tell them that for reasons relating to race or creed, you are not joining the company chorale. They’ll get the hint.
So as the self-appointed leader in your office collects the six-odd members of his platoon of co-dependents, whose ritual cafeteria lunches are the highlights of their working lives, roll up your copy of the Financial Times and know in your heart that instead of mindless patter you will find a column inch or two of lucid intellectual display.
Remember: People who need people are just needy people.
THE ANTI-HOOPLA
Marc Newson breaks down his work in simple terms
Like the magician who takes a perverse pleasure in showing you exactly where the rabbit is hiding inside the hat, Marc Newson is the first to deflate your media-fuelled vision of what a star designer should be. “My job is about solving problems through design,” he says. Just that – no drama, no irony, no pomp – a bit like a Formula 1 driver who describes what he does as “driving fast”. Anyone who’s expecting a preening star designer with a wardrobe worthy of Willy Wonka or a vocabulary comprising complex polysyllabic jargons will find the 47-year-old a bit of a letdown. Or a refreshing change.
Marc would rather that his designs speak for themselves. And given his body of works, his public should hear diverse languages. He has designed nearly everything: sex toy for Myla, shaker for Ajinomoto, airplane interiors, concept car, champagne coffret, house numbers, timepieces for Ikepod – a company he co-owns – and airport lounges. Is there anything he wouldn’t touch? “I have turned down some projects,” he replies casually, “because I simply don’t have the time.”
In the universe of his creations, one would be hard pressed to see a signature Newson touch – the leitmotif by which his public can identify his work. “I think there is some consistency – the organic, intuitive, old communication and a sense of simplicity, symmetry and use of materials.” A prime example is the hourglass that he designed for Asia’s leading luxury watch retailer The Hour Glass. Crafted from a single piece of 3mm-thick borosilicated glass, the hourglass contains 21 million low carbon, gold-plated .035mm nanoballs – enough to tell an elapsed time of 60 minutes. The piece commissioned to celebrate The Hour Glass’s 30th anniversary is instantly recognisable. “I wanted it to be so,” Marc says. “We put in a lot of effort in design and craftsmanship, working with specialist on uniform sized balls that will not scratch the inside of the glass – and undermine the timepiece’s accuracy – over time.”
Fame came fast and early for Marc, then 23, with his chaise longue – the Lockheed Lounge – a sensuous patchwork of aluminium plates wrapped around a fiberglass body and held together by rivets. But he continuously built a tremendous portfolio and along the way gathered plaudits for truly remarkable designs, select pieces of which have been acquired by leading museums including MoMA and the V&A, and culminated in honours such as this year’s honorary Doctor of Visual Arts degree from the University of Sydney. Ironically, what the public remembers of him most is the dubious honour of setting new auction record for a living designer’s work when a Lockheed prototype fetched US$968,000 in 2006 at a Sotheby’s auction. In 2007, one was sold for US$1.5 million at Christie’s, and in May this year, another was sold at a Philips DePury auction for US$2.1 million. “I don’t understand,” he says resignedly but with a hint of amusement, “that anyone would pay such amount.” Marc reportedly created them, with his own hands, and in limited quantity because that was the only way he could afford to get them produced.
Rather than resist the label, Marc graciously admits that he has indeed become a brand, yet he expresses discomfiture when the media hypes up his persona rather than his work – proof that to him, at least, they are two different things. “Everything is designed nowadays,” he concedes, except things in nature. “Sometimes design is just there in the background; sometimes it is more apparent. But (industrial design) is not like architecture, which is more imposed on the individual in the sense that he can’t do anything about it. In (industrial design), the consumer still wields the power to choose,” he adds.
Like the magician who takes a perverse pleasure in showing you exactly where the rabbit is hiding inside the hat, Marc Newson is the first to deflate your media-fuelled vision of what a star designer should be. “My job is about solving problems through design,” he says. Just that – no drama, no irony, no pomp – a bit like a Formula 1 driver who describes what he does as “driving fast”. Anyone who’s expecting a preening star designer with a wardrobe worthy of Willy Wonka or a vocabulary comprising complex polysyllabic jargons will find the 47-year-old a bit of a letdown. Or a refreshing change.
Marc would rather that his designs speak for themselves. And given his body of works, his public should hear diverse languages. He has designed nearly everything: sex toy for Myla, shaker for Ajinomoto, airplane interiors, concept car, champagne coffret, house numbers, timepieces for Ikepod – a company he co-owns – and airport lounges. Is there anything he wouldn’t touch? “I have turned down some projects,” he replies casually, “because I simply don’t have the time.”
In the universe of his creations, one would be hard pressed to see a signature Newson touch – the leitmotif by which his public can identify his work. “I think there is some consistency – the organic, intuitive, old communication and a sense of simplicity, symmetry and use of materials.” A prime example is the hourglass that he designed for Asia’s leading luxury watch retailer The Hour Glass. Crafted from a single piece of 3mm-thick borosilicated glass, the hourglass contains 21 million low carbon, gold-plated .035mm nanoballs – enough to tell an elapsed time of 60 minutes. The piece commissioned to celebrate The Hour Glass’s 30th anniversary is instantly recognisable. “I wanted it to be so,” Marc says. “We put in a lot of effort in design and craftsmanship, working with specialist on uniform sized balls that will not scratch the inside of the glass – and undermine the timepiece’s accuracy – over time.”
Fame came fast and early for Marc, then 23, with his chaise longue – the Lockheed Lounge – a sensuous patchwork of aluminium plates wrapped around a fiberglass body and held together by rivets. But he continuously built a tremendous portfolio and along the way gathered plaudits for truly remarkable designs, select pieces of which have been acquired by leading museums including MoMA and the V&A, and culminated in honours such as this year’s honorary Doctor of Visual Arts degree from the University of Sydney. Ironically, what the public remembers of him most is the dubious honour of setting new auction record for a living designer’s work when a Lockheed prototype fetched US$968,000 in 2006 at a Sotheby’s auction. In 2007, one was sold for US$1.5 million at Christie’s, and in May this year, another was sold at a Philips DePury auction for US$2.1 million. “I don’t understand,” he says resignedly but with a hint of amusement, “that anyone would pay such amount.” Marc reportedly created them, with his own hands, and in limited quantity because that was the only way he could afford to get them produced.
Rather than resist the label, Marc graciously admits that he has indeed become a brand, yet he expresses discomfiture when the media hypes up his persona rather than his work – proof that to him, at least, they are two different things. “Everything is designed nowadays,” he concedes, except things in nature. “Sometimes design is just there in the background; sometimes it is more apparent. But (industrial design) is not like architecture, which is more imposed on the individual in the sense that he can’t do anything about it. In (industrial design), the consumer still wields the power to choose,” he adds.
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