When we discover we like something, REALLY like something, we can get a little stuck on a few superficial details, the things that attracted us from the start. Moving to London for university a year ago had been extremely positive for me for many reasons, but for my appreciation of art, it’s been monumental. It gave me the realisation that watching a few vintage YouTube clips and wearing some equally vintage clothes does not a sophisticate maketh: I was but a glittery but uninformed suburbanite in the big city.


London containing such an endless amount of galleries, book shops, plays, poetry readings and wildly knowledgable arty farty folk means it can release you from a self-formed creative ghetto and open your mind to more.


But on this particular occasion, it was something on a much smaller scale: reading the Home section of the London Evening Standard.

Months later after the picture with Camille’s Old Street artwork was taken, I read that very designer was having a launch party in Islington furniture shop Aria two weekends from then.

A chance to meet and greet my new favourite artist (the only one I knew of)!


The article was kind enough not to include the details of the event, so by grasping the vast power of the search bar on Instagram, I got the date, RSVPed and planned my outfit (something to flamboyantly draw attention to myself whilst complementing the artist’s aesthetic, a sartorial nod of respect.)


I made my glamorous entrance (two rides on classically pongy red buses) and joined the queue of the evening’s attendees: a typical North London ‘media’ crowd, or so the middle market dailies would say.

Hilariously, I signed up with my Mediterranean-inspired stage name Gavino di Vino, taking delight in correcting the host (no, not Davina {though she is fabulous.})


The showroom obviously heaving with art lovers and freeloaders, I asked was asked to wait in the queue until some people had left.

With a shrug of my shoulders, I took the opportunity to do my own spot of freeloading, asking polite strangers for spare cigarettes (something I love to do, but hate to reciprocate when someone asks me.)

I tapped the shoulder belonging to a lady with curly caramel blonde hair to flash the teeth of a cheeky beggar and oulah ! artist Camille turned with wild but friendly eyes.


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