I am writing a book
A glimpse into the world of a designer throughout decades.
It is rather cathartic, fun and surprising as I dig deep into old diaries bulging with name cards from extraordinary people I have met along the way. Treasured visiting cards often printed with unpronounceable names so long, that the 35-40 characters are barely squeezed onto the card itself.
This exercise in an instant sweeps my mind to the moment cards were exchanged. I find it extraordinary each meeting has been stored deep within my brain waiting for a point in time, years later, to spring out and transport me to a particular hour on a particular day. These memories are vivid. I can see the smiles and feel the handshakes. Odd images flash before me of white, sweet smelling flowers entwined in jet black hair. A security chap guarding the gate of a potential new factory with a rifle slung over his shoulder, blinking fluorescent lights, hot chai, cold Limca and (always) a sense looking into the eyes of the person opposite me, as they politely ignore the sweat pouring down my face whilst my skirt flaps around due to an over enthusiastic fan.
The plan of the book goes everywhere with me. Scribbled on an A2 sheet of paper, nIcely folded and as well thumbed as a treasure trail highlighting significant moments of a 35 year career. It will cover the hotels I knew as oases, bonkers buyers, wonderful weavers, design inspirations, the hunt for the perfect colour, printing processes, fraught fitting meetings, magnificent manufacturers, gracious colleagues, pink bananas and the joy of eggs and chips.
