Lisa, the point of Moby Dick is ‘Be Yourself’ || An interview with Dolly Alderton
This week’s newsletter started its life as a story about my unyielding belief in the value of being yourself. I think it's what I needed this week, both to write and to read: a fond but firm reminder to keep listening to my instincts, like when you hold a seashell to your ear, and all the chatter fades away.
But then, somewhere along the way, it morphed into an account of my top three purple velvet outfits, ranked in order of how poorly they were received.
So, in honour of my original intention, I decided to go with that instead.
***
There was going to be a DJ at my friend Sasha’s birthday party. She announced this over lunch, three weeks before. We were ten, on the cusp of eleven-ness, and couldn’t believe what we were hearing. A DJ? In her living room? And he was bringing a dry ice machine?! This was a level of sophistication previously unheard of.
Needless to say, I dressed to impress.
This goal might have been within reach were it not for the fact that my two favourite outfits at the time were heavily dungaree-based. The first: corduroy, usually paired with a matching chenille jumper. The colour, and I say this without an ounce of remorse, was salmon.
I mean, salmon corduroy dungarees with a chenille jumper - also salmon - was fine for a relaxed yet pulled together daytime look, but for a disco? No. That wasn't going to work here. I needed a party outfit. And that meant my top-tier dungarees.
They were plum-coloured velvet, and I thought (still think) they were magnificent. I wore them over a long-sleeved t-shirt, black with little purple flowers. Tinker bell frosted lip balm tucked into the front pocket. My hair was pulled back (or ‘scraped back’ if this were a fashion magazine, which - for the obvious reasons - it isn’t) in a half-ponytail, and I don't think you need to ask if my scrunchie matched my dungarees.
As I walked into that party, with the swagger of Joseph Gordon-Levitt arriving on the set of Jeopardy in 1997, a quick scan of the room revealed three things:
Sequinned minidresses were now The Thing, and Somehow everybody else had just picked this up in the wind.
If they had a cowl-neck, all the better.
My outfit - so carefully chosen as to be laid out the night before - was neither sequinned, nor cowl-necked, and was therefore … less than ideal.
I couldn’t tell if my eyes were prickling from embarrassment, or just because I was all but engulfed in dry ice.
Either way, it wasn’t comfortable.
After a long night of crestfallen but committed bopping (I say this as though it could have been any later than 8pm) it was time for the undeniable zenith of every 90s party - the Barbie Girl singalong. Someone gestured to my trousered legs, as if to say ‘I shouldn't have to spell this out.’
I suspect that everyone has their own Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret memory, and I’d be deeply sceptical of anyone who said they didn’t.
I think mine was the moment I attempted to deliver the line ‘Come on Barbie, let’s go party’ with all the gruff machismo my mournful little voice could muster.
***
It tickles me to imagine that my thought process - only a few years on - must have been something like this: ‘Well, the fabric was an obvious winner, I just need to tinker with the format.’
My friend Viv’s Bat Mitzvah was another much-anticipated party, but not only that - it was an occasion that my ma had declared worthy of a New Dress. I was saucer-eyed, unable to believe my luck. So, like any normal mother-daughter duo shopping for a Bat Mitzvah party dress, we headed for The Black Rose in Camden Market. If you’ve ever been to Camden Market, alarm bells should already be ringing.
This was a shop that specialised mostly in petticoat-style skirts, stripy knee-socks, and latex bustiers. To give you a sense of how misaligned that was with my general aesthetic at this point: my school bag was a flowery pink German backpack, with hi-vis strips on the front and sides for when I was walking home from school in the dark. I couldn't eve ride a bike at this stage: I was a hi-vis pedestrian.
So no, I wasn’t The Black Rose's typical customer, but I'd spotted a dress in their window that I coveted beyond all reason. It was crushed purple velvet (I mean, say no more): full-length, with black lace at the hem, brocade straps and a criss-cross-pretend-corset thing happening at the front.
In my eyes, it was Much Ado About Nothing (be still my beating heart) meets Charmed (ditto), the exact cross-section of which is Helena Bonham-Carter in … every film she’s ever been in. That’s just science.
Unfortunately, on thirteen-year-old-me, the look turned out to be less tumbling raven curls and heaving porcelain bosom, and more Richard E. Grant in The Little Vampire crossed with a homunculus.
[The party was in early October, a fact that was about to become painfully relevant.]
My friend Lucy was picking me up from my house, and I was already dressed when she arrived. Giddy with pre-party, barely-teenaged excitement, I flung open the door.
I still remember her exact words.
At this point I should mention that in September, Lucy and I will have been friends for 25 years. In Kindergarten she taught me how to write the number eight - one fluid swirl, not two squat circles sitting on top of each other! - and I’ve been dazzled by her wisdom ever since. Aged nine, she was my first kiss, after which we scuttled off at the party to sit under our friend’s piano, and VERY earnestly discuss our future as lesbians. We’ve travelled across the world together, and danced around my kitchen more times than I could count. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t tell her, and I doubt there’s anything I haven’t told her.
I’m telling you all this only because the fact that our friendship survived the following moment is little short of miraculous.
So I fling open the door, wearing my brand new dress. My best dress.
I’m thirteen years old, and my sense of self is as diaphanous as a bee’s wing.
And she says, in total earnest:
‘That’s a great Halloween costume! But what are you wearing to the party?’
***
Okay, this next one wasn't purple, but there was velvet involved, and it was such a shocker that I've deemed it worthy of an honourable mention.
About a month after Halloween-gate, I had an audition for the music school where I would go on to spend my teenage years. (See? This story has a happy ending, it’s fine. I'm fine.)
I was small still - my pre-teenage growth spurt wouldn’t materialise for another year, lucky me - and impossibly nervous because I’d be playing for a panel of teachers (or Terrifying Classical Music People, as I saw them then) who would nudge me down one path or another, depending on on how well I played my scales.
I walked into the room, my violin clutched in one trembling hand, viola in the other. I played Schubert, Wieniawski, Bach, and Massenet, probably with my eyes closed, so they’d know I was a serious musician. (Everyone knows that serious musicians play with their eyes closed. That’s how you can tell.) It’s wild to me how clearly I can still remember every contour of those pieces, especially given that I couldn't tell you what I had for lunch two days ago, even under significant duress. Unfortunately, I also remember exactly what I had chosen to wear.
So, we’ve established that it was important to me that I present myself as a serious musician, closed eyes and everything. And yet, as I took the train from London to Manchester, these were the clothes - so carefully chosen - folded neatly in my suitcase:
A long-sleeved rainbow tie-dye top, with bright turquoise sleeves. Fabric-wise, I'm not above thinking it was hemp. (Another Camden Market special).
Big red sparkly trainers, the sort Dorothy would wear in an ‘updated’ school production of The Wizard of Oz, where everyone throws around the word 'cool' with wild abandon.
Black trousers. Or rather, black velour tracksuit bottoms, with a rainbow striped elastic waistband. These trousers - my best trousers - were from Tammy Girl, so needless to say, emblazoned across my bum in pink embroidered letters, was the word ‘sweet’.
Take me as I am, scary school! And what I am, as my trousers will attest, is sweet.
***
The year that I started sixth form, that same school (not so scary anymore) announced a new uniform policy: you could now wear a suit, not just in black, but in ANY COLOUR. I think it was meant to be a dark colour, but I was busy scampering off to H&M: I had no time for that sort of small print.
I came back with two new suits: one in black velvet, the other - hello, faithful friend! - purple. Both pairs of trousers were slightly flared.
As I walked into the cafeteria on that first day of the school year, I had a slow-motion realisation, the likes of which I hadn't experienced for over half a decade. And in that moment, I understood two things with devastating clarity:
Everybody else had opted for a plain black suit, a fact that baffles me to this day.
I had rocked up looking like Austin Powers.
Bloodied but unbowed, I wore those suits for the next two years. Of course, when school photo day came around, my black jacket was in the wash, so I looked like a tiny aubergine in a sea of olives. Well, no. That’s not quite right, scale-wise. But you get the idea.
My friend Adam, loyal and kind, described it as my 'Corporate Dumbledore look'.
Could be worse, I thought. Dress for the job you want and all that.
***
These days, whenever something embarrassing or regrettable happens - from the missteps that needn't have broken my stride (the hot-faced shame of a text sent to the wrong person, or that time I shaved off half my eyebrow) to the proper tumbles that I'd merrily give a kidney to forget - I think about when I stood on my front doorstep, in my new-best-dress.
I looked like a tiny wizard who'd just had their self-esteem pounded like a Schnitzel. But somehow, drawing on reserves I never knew I had, I was able to dredge up just enough confidence to say
'No? This is my party dress! And I think it's great.'
So I try my best to shrug off all the rest of it, in an attempt to do her proud.
The Cameo
My guest this week is Dolly Alderton.
Photo: Joanna Bongard for Free People.
What’s your job title/profession?
I am a freelance writer. I write features and interviews mostly for The Sunday Times Style. I also write scripts, mainly with my writing partner Lauren Bensted. I co-host a weekly news and pop culture podcast called The High Low with Pandora Sykes and my first book, Everything I Know About Love, is out in February.
What’s your perfect breakfast/lunch for a workday?
My perfect breakfast is berries with masses of full-fat, natural yoghurt (low-fat yoghurt is packed with sugar and lies and empty promises) and almonds. My perfect lunch is either tomatoes on toast or homemade soup. I also went to Thailand recently and got hooked on seared tuna steak dressed in chillies, chopped cashews, coriander and lime leaf. God my mouth is watering just thinking of it, but that takes an element of faff and after nearly three years of working from home I’ve realised the more opportunity I have to faff over lunch the less likely it is I’ll work in the afternoon. Nigella’s ginger and avocado rice bowl is also a perfect lunch.
(What do you actually have for breakfast/lunch?)
Too much coffee and too much bread.
What’s your alarm sound?
Classic FM.
Do you have a set morning routine?
I am normally pretty happy to get out of bed every morning. Unless I’m hugely overworked and therefore underslept then I hate it and I get the feeling I had every morning of GCSE study leave. My phone stays on airplane mode until I’ve brushed my teeth, washed my face and moisturised, made a coffee and either stuck Radio 4 or some good music on. Chet Baker is good morning music. So is Laura Marling. And Nick Drake.
Do you have a dedicated/preferred space for writing? If so, what does it look like?
Often my dining room table - that’s best for when I’m being efficient and replying to emails or setting up meetings or pitching ideas. I normally sit on my sofa under a blanket if I’m writing or creating something from scratch.
Preferred stationary/tools of the trade? Essential work items?
My laptop, my Filofax that has my whole life in it, my notebook of to-do lists.
Three things that inspire you?
A big sky, a beautiful piece of music, a brave and brilliant friend.
What’s your favourite thing about your job?
Connecting to people through stories.
Least favourite?
Fucking emails.
What do you do to get through days when you just don’t feel like it?
Remembering how much my teenage self longed for exactly what I am lucky enough to call my day-to-day working life. That, and the extortionate amount of London rent that goes out of my account on the 27th of each month.
Do you have a go-to treat to get you out of a slump?
A walk outside and an episode of Desert Island Discs. [Katya: I'm sorry to link to DID, as though you've been living under a rock since 1942, but if I learnt ONE THING from my years in America, it is that Desert Island Discs is not a known quantity there. Seriously, I probably burned upwards of 100 calories a day, just telling people about it.]
Go-to work sustenance, meal, drink or snack-wise?
Almonds. I must eat about a thousand calories worth of anxiety/exhaustion nuts a day.
What’s your favourite part of the day?
Right before bed. It always has been, since I was a teenager. That moment when the whole day is done, and your favourite record is playing and your bedside light is on and you’re in this space that feels so magically only yours. I went to boarding school and spent a long time sharing a room with other girls - I so craved a moment of the day that felt unobserved and only mine. I was always the last one to go to sleep.
Least favourite?
The sugar-lull of 4 pm.
How you define a good/successful day?
If I’ve created something I’m proud of, if my inbox is answered, if I’ve done something just for me and connected with someone I love.
Do you have any hobbies/passions outside of your work?
I love cooking and I play guitar very badly.
What’s one piece of advice you would give to someone who wants to do what you do?
Dream big but start small and specific. Be dogged. Get tired. Be polite and efficient. Write it all down. But most importantly, go live and feel and see as much as you can as, as my hero Nora Ephron told us, it’s all good copy. And good copy nourishes souls, make us feel less alone and helps us process this reality. Good copy builds a career, buys the house and pays the bills. This might seem like obvious advice but, when it comes down to it, if you want to be a successful writer it doesn’t matter what your routine is or where you write or how much you tweet or how good your personal brand is - that should all be second-thought accessorising. Good, honest, unique, rich, well-observed writing is what makes a good writer.
What are you evangelical about recommending to people?
Everyone needs to drink twice the amount of water they think they need and everyone needs to always carry a book in their bag.
What’s your top tip for getting shit done?
Sleep and no social media.
Which three songs should I listen to this week?
Winter - The Rolling Stones
Dancing - John Martyn
Cactus Tree - Joni Mitchell.
Follow Dolly on Twitter and Instagram: @dollyalderton / @dollyalderton
Listen to The High Low on Acast or download from iTunes.
Find out more about her work from her beautiful website.
Everything I Know About Love is Dolly's first book, and as of YESTERDAY, we can finally get our paws on a copy!
Two weeks ago, there was a fantastic extract in the Sunday Times Style. I realise this is less helpful now, than it would have been, say two Sundays ago, but still! How exciting!
I took this photo because a. I was excited, and b. the cover EXACTLY matched my lampshade. I was completely unable to capture this fact in the photo, which I hope redeems it, even a little.
Some Music
Last week, I wrote about making chicken soup, and my friend EJ (a kind and generous soul) wrote this:
Gemütlichkeit! Yes! That's EXACTLY the word I was looking for!
Gemütlichkeit is a German word that has achieved international stardom (along with Weltschmerz, Schadenfreude, andgesundheit) so maybe you already know what it means. But I'll tell you just in case.
It's one of those brilliant words that can't really be translated without remainder, but it's in the same neck of the woods as words like well-being, enjoyment, contentment, and cosiness. It is - exactly as EJ says - a kitchenful of chicken-soup-warmth. It's the feeling of clean pyjamas after an early evening shower, or sitting chewing the fat with a old friend, long after the candles have burnt out.
In my mind, Gemütlichkeit is the feeling that a day was well spent, and I'm ever-encouraged by the huge variations in what that can mean.
My dad often uses its adjectival form - gemütlich - as the highest compliment. If somebody is gentle, cheerful, and kind, they would be described as gemütlich in our house. But more than that, it signified that they were the sort of person with whom you could be completely yourself; the friend who always make you feel exactly like the very best version of yourself.
Anyway, this week's playlist is a collection of the the most gemütlich songs I could think of. In order to make the cut, every tune had to be an immediate panacea; to bring my shoulders down from around my ears, and soften the space between my eyebrows.
I think it's the best playlist I've made so far, and you can listen to it on Spotify here.
I hope you love it as much as I do.
A Poem
Happiness
by Paisley Rekdal
I have been taught never to brag but now
I cannot help it: I keep
a beautiful garden, all abundance,
indiscriminate, pulling itself
from the stubborn earth: does it offend you
to watch me working in it,
touching my hands to the greening tips or
tearing the yellow stalks back, so wild
the living and the dead both
snap off in my hands?
The neighbor with his stuttering
fingers, the neighbor with his broken
love: each comes up my drive
to receive his pitying,
accustomed consolations, watches me
work in silence awhile, rises in anger,
walks back. Does it offend them to watch me
not mourning with them but working
fitfully, fruitlessly, working
the way the bees work, which is to say
by instinct alone, which looks like pleasure?
I can stand for hours among the sweet
narcissus, silent as a point of bone.
I can wait longer than sadness. I can wait longer
than your grief. It is such a small thing
to be proud of, a garden. Today
there were scrub jays, quail,
a woodpecker knocking at the white-
and-black shapes of trees, and someone’s lost rabbit
scratching under the barberry: is it
indiscriminate? Should it shrink back, wither,
and expurgate? Should I, too, not be loved?
It is only a little time, a little space.
Why not watch the grasses take up their colors in a rush
like a stream of kerosene being lit?
If I could not have made this garden beautiful
I wouldn’t understand your suffering,
nor care for each the same, inflamed way.
I would have to stay only like the bees,
beyond consciousness, beyond
self-reproach, fingers dug down hard
into stone, and growing nothing.
There is no end to ego,
with its museum of disappointments.
I want to take my neighbors into the garden
and show them: Here is consolation.
Here is your pity. Look how much seed it drops
around the sparrows as they fight.
It lives alongside their misery.
It glows each evening with a violent light.
from Animal Eye (University of Pittburgh Press, 2012.)
Links!
Last week, two of my very favourite websites, The Awl and The Hairpin, closed their virtual doors. I wanted to include all the pieces from those sites that I've bookmarked over the years, (in the folder labelled 'Funny/cheerful/<3', if you must know) but once I started pulling them up, it became apparent that... well, 34 links seemed like ... too many. Even by my standards.So I thought we'll do five for today, and the rest I'll keep squirrelled away for future weeks.
Are You a Round or a Pointy?
If I'm truly honest with myself, I can admit that I'm a pointy, but I still harbour bone-deep aspirations to being a round.
A series of increasingly obscure forgotten Brontë siblings.
There’s something, too, in the way people forever seem to want to put forward a slightly lesser-known Brontë as if they are rediscovering a hidden treasure, like, “Have you heard of ANNE BRONTË? Only slightly less INCANDESCENTLY FAMOUS than the one who wrote JANE EYRE, she was the author of such forgotten classics as SLAGMIRE MANOR and THE DOWDY-EYED TUTORESS, both of which were shoved hastily under a rock in Lancashire in 1839 and only rediscovered this morning, by me.
The Best Time I Pretended I Hadn’t Heard of Slavoj Žižek.
This is the Žižek game, and I am going to teach you how to play it. [...] All you do is stonily deny any knowledge of a person or cultural touchstone that you should, by virtue of your other cultural reference points, be aware of.
Chef Joseph Brancaccio, of Windsor Terrace’s Brancaccio’s, said: “Sorry, Kelly, they’re not bullshit. Chicken soup, rice pilaf. I watched my grandmother use them. Taste the difference by cutting one in half in your cooking. Kale, on the other hand, is bullshit.”I love Joe’s sandwiches, but it is unsettling to find out that he would lie about bay leaves with such ease to me, a valued customer.
Aretha’s Version Is Always Better
Let’s not gloss over her version of Beatles hit “Let It Be,” perhaps the lowest of the covers hoops for our girl Aretha to dunk on. ***
Emojis: the new language of love
My friend Rosie wrote this brilliant essay, and it's no exaggeration to say that it has entirely revolutionised the way I think of the peach emoji.
I’m well aware that people getting my emoji sonnets may have no fucking idea what’s going on (although I maintain that, at the very least, they’re getting a vibe). But, I sometimes comfort myself, it’s quite chivalrous to declare yourself without hope of rejoinder.
Zadie Smith: ‘I have a very messy and chaotic mind.’
I adored this interview. The whole thing is fascinating, but this answer was a particular scorcher:
Do you believe, like Orwell, that all writing is political?
He went further: he argued that the apparent absence of politics is itself a political position. I agree.
This radio programme about L Cornelissen & Son, an art supply shop in central London, is completely and utterly gorgeous. It ticked every box for me: beautiful colour names, the history of a niche trade, and a glimpse into a tiny, whirring world that you could - as I have - walk past a hundred times without thinking anything of it.
I especially enjoyed this description: It’s full of things waiting to be turned into other things: materials, and memories too. Everything is on the brink of becoming something else.It's also perfect for anyone who, like me, has unreserved stores of adoration for beautiful art supplies, but without any artistic talent whatsoever, can only really enjoy them vicariously.
My grandpa was an artist, and I spent many happy hours lying flat on my tummy on the filthy floor of his studio (so filthy that we had to be barefoot or in shoes, otherwise we'd comeback upstairs with completely black socks) beavering away with the pastels and paper he gave us, tongue probably poking out in concentration. I don't remember him ever commenting on our creations, but a frequent lament from my grandma was what a pity it was that none of us inherited his talent. Harsh? Yes. Completely accurate? Also, yes.
Weirdly, minus the red tights, that's almost exactly what I'm wearing today! Who said my fashion mistakes were behind me?
I include this photo of partly just because I love it, and partly because it's always good to know what lies ahead, eyebrow-wise.
Quincy Jones Has a Story About That. This is one of the most fascinating interviews I've ever read. Truly, I was gaping in astonishment from start to finish.
This isn't the most interesting bit (not by a long shot) but it was my favourite:"I love to cook, man. To me, it's like orchestration. Like, what's the most prominent instrument in the symphony orchestra? The one that you always hear? Piccolo. And when I cook, I cook like an orchestrator. Lemon rules, man. Lemon knocks out hot sauce, garlic, onions, everything. Shit, I've got some great dishes, man. I cook gumbo that'll make you slap your grandmother. Oprah had my Thriller ribs on the show four times."Why are they called Thriller ribs?He shrugs amiably. "Oprah dramatizes everything.
At the risk of acting like I've just invented the stylus, I've recently rediscovered the joy of writing things out by hand. Back in December, Josie George shared her favourite quote, and it was such a perfect pearl that I couldn't write it out fast enough. Sitting on a shelf by the door in my living room, it now tops up my resolve every time I walk by. (I'm sorry the photo is rubbish. One day I might get better at taking photos, but that day is not today.)
And that's it!
Love,
Katya
The Katch-Up's header illustration is by the brilliant Tamsin Baker.