#scene maker

Born on this day: decadent and charismatic German-Italian actress, model, scene-maker, “Lady Rolling Stone” and ultimate rock chick Anita Pallenberg (6 April 1942 – 13 June 2017). Pallenberg was an alluring occasional presence in art-y bohemian nightlife in early 1990s London. I recall her DJ’ing at the Horse Hospital once and coming face to face with her when I opened the bathroom door (“I always need to pee!” she cackled). But before that, buried in the listings of Time Out magazine (in the pre-internet days when it was a dense essential bible that we all relied on), I read about a screening of Pallenberg’s old home movies in Shoreditch. It announced she would be present, possibly hosting or emceeing. The venue was a palatial industrial loft just before gentrification went full tilt boogie there. I sat alone in the back and overheard people conferring that a vintage Cadillac had been dispatched to collect Anita. She arrived late and alone - and sat next to me! Pallenberg radiated elegantly ruined glamour. I never got to meet Nico, but this was a very respectable equivalent. We made small talk. As Pallenberg’s friend Marianne Faithfull describes in her autobiography, “She spoke in a baffling dada hipsterese. An outlandish Italo-German-Cockney slang that mangled her syntax into surreal fragments.” Pallenberg glugged red wine and chain-smoked throughout (there’s a theory she was one of the inspirations for Patsy Stone in Absolutely Fabulous – alongside Amanda Lear). She also maintained a running commentary on what was happening onscreen (mostly images of herself – clad in Ossie Clark and vintage finery – and Keith Richards in the late sixties cavorting on their jet-set travels). At one point, things turned intimate – a seemingly post-coital Anita and Keef canoodling in bed together. The camera zoomed in on her naked breast. “That’s my neeeple,” she declared in her gravelly Marlene Dietrich voice. I spotted her just once more – she swept past me at a Marianne Faithfull concert in 2008. (I still haven’t seen the 2024 documentary Catching Fire: The Story of Anita Pallenberg yet. I’ve heard mixed things).

Have FUN! Can't wait what you guys make there!

PS: Go to my profile and give a look to the other signs too!😊

In Memoriam: pioneering scene-maker of early UK punk, a muse to Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren as well as filmmaker Derek Jarman, and the original one-woman Sex Pistol Jordan (née Pamela Rooke, 23 June 1955 - 3 April 2022) died on this day two years ago. If the 1970s London punk subculture had an “It girl”, it was Jordan. Her confrontational sense of style and intimidating demeanour made Jordan a natural employee selling kinky latex bondage wear at Westwood and McLaren’s outré SEX boutique on London’s King Road in 1975. As Jon Savage recalls in his definitive 1991 punk history England’s Dreaming, it was a perfect fit. “(Jordan) was a living advertisement for the new shop, having turned her own body into an art object.” I treasure my sole fleeting encounter with her in 2012 at the book launch party for Punk’s Dead by Simon Barker. Jordan was holding court, surrounded by admirers, in front of one of Barker’s portraits of her. I approached and she graciously autographed a postcard for me. To do it, Jordan turned me around and wrote it against my back, gripping my shoulder with her free hand – which melted my punk heart! Jordan was truly a woman and a half. Fun fact: a besotted John Waters admitted he used to keep a photo of Jordan pinned to the bulletin board above his writing desk for inspiration. 

Born on this day: decadent and charismatic German-Italian actress, model, scene-maker, style icon, “Lady Rolling Stone” and ultimate rock chick Anita Pallenberg (6 April 1942 – 13 June 2017). Pallenberg was an alluring occasional presence in art-y bohemian nightlife in early 1990s London. I recall her DJ’ing at the Horse Hospital once, and coming face to face with her when I opened the bathroom door (“I always need to pee!” she cackled). But before that, buried in the listings of Time Out magazine (in the pre-internet days when it was a dense essential bible that we all relied on), I read about a screening of Pallenberg’s old home movies in East London. It announced she would be present, possibly hosting or emceeing. The venue was a palatial industrial loft in Shoreditch (possibly someone’s apartment), just before gentrification went full tilt boogie there. I sat alone in the back and overheard people conferring that a vintage Cadillac had been dispatched to collect Anita. She arrived late and alone - and sat next to me! Pallenberg – looking just like she did in that 1995 Calvin Klein ad by Steven Meisel with that other ravaged countercultural survivor Joe Dallesandro – radiated elegantly ruined glamour. I never got to meet Nico, but this was a very respectable equivalent. We made small talk. As Pallenberg’s friend Marianne Faithfull describes in her autobiography, “She spoke in a baffling dada hipsterese. An outlandish Italo-German-Cockney slang that mangled her syntax into surreal fragments.” Pallenberg glugged red wine and chain-smoked throughout (there’s a theory she was one of the inspirations for Patsy Stone in Absolutely Fabulous). She also kept up a running commentary on what was happening onscreen (mostly images of herself – clad in Ossie Clark and vintage finery – and Keith Richards in the late sixties cavorting on their jet-set travels). At one point, things turned intimate – a seemingly post-coital Anita and Keef canoodling in bed together. The camera zoomed in on her naked breast. “That’s my neeeple,” she declared in her gravelly Marlene Dietrich voice. I can’t wait to see the upcoming documentary Catching Fire: The Story of Anita Pallenberg. Portrait of Pallenberg by Michael Cooper, 1967.