Het leven zoals het is: online solden shoppen…

De rits van een Dries Van Noten kleed niet dichtkrijgen. Om dan vervolgens een bak leftover chinees van gisteren op te eten. Want ja, het was waarschijnlijk een productiefout.

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Visual Studies

So once upon a time I was a nice Belgian girl, who started a 1 year course at London college of fashion to not only improve my knowledge of the world of fashion, but also to get some life experience and learn to think outside my small bubble.

The reality: I partied 24/7. The only reason I made it in on mondays, was to see who would be joining me to Trash that night (we are talking 2005, facebook didn’t exist and phones were Nokias with no credit on them). Good thing about London club nights during the week : they close at 2. So I would have a lie-in on tuesday. (And piss off the journalism teacher big time cause I was never in). Only to get dressed around 10am and drag myself to college, because Visual Studies was on at 11.

The scary thing about Visual Studies was that our first teacher, Kevin H, was an absolute bastard, who always made us feel like we were the biggest idiots on the planet (which we kinda were, looking back). The other interesting thing is that he disappeared one day and nobody ever heard from him again (I guess his family did, I just mean we didn’t). His replacement was a friendly older Irish gentleman, who went by the name of Michael H. We could tell immediately he was probably an alcoholic – if you went by this tremor and the sound of his rusty voice. So we loved Michael. He was such a breath of fresh air (not literally), especially since that awful bitchy Kevin. Because Michael H. didn’t. give. a. sh*t. From that first day, we hit it off straight away after I asked him where the litter box was. I honestly thought litter box had the same meaning as bin. It has not.

He encouraged us to keep trying (and by us I mean me and my friend/flatmate Niamh, who are the least talented people on earth when it comes to the visual arts), and he always pretend that the end result was perfectly normal. Not Tracey Emin/Damien Hirst league. But perfectly o-k. So one of the first lessons he instructed us to keep ‘a visual diary’ throughout the year. A secret notebook that we carried everywhere, where we wrote down our mental notes. And where we could translate our ideas into little doodles. You get the idea.

Fast forward to the end of that school year, on the night before we were supposed to hand in our finals: we had nothing. By we, again I mean Niamh and I. So we were desperate. Especially since Michael dropped a bomb on us that day, by informing the group that our final score depended on the contents of the visual diary. He said it was the best indication of the effort we had put into that class, regardless of any talent for drawing – which is not really important if you want to become a journalist, I guess.

Sooo we were fucked. Big time. And not in a good way. We had one night, and one night only to start a fake diary, and make it look like we carried it EVERYWHERE the past 6 months. First things first: we had to buy a nice notebook. We eventually found one and basically emptied the contents of a DIY shop. Our living room was an absolute mess. We had feathers, pieces of leather, pencils, watercolour paint, markers, 10000’s of magazines (old Vogues dating back to the 90’s, last week’s Heat and Grazia,…), and last but not least: a lot of inspiration. We spent the night drinking, laughing and listening to ‘First Impressions of Earth’ from The Strokes, which was our soundtrack to that year. And creating art, people! Eventually I gave up at around 2 and went to bed. The next morning Michael H. looked into my diary and started laughing. I don’t mean friendly laughter. I mean snorting with laughter, while trying to keep a straight face. Because yes folks, the man felt genuinely sorry for me, I could tell. I got a pass that day, which was waaaaay out of order. But I guess us alcoholics have each others backs no matter what. God, I loved LCF.

You can check out my amazing art here. Yes, it is crap!

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