Modern Feminist Femininity

I am wearing purple plaid in Chelsea, attempting to look (and thus be) artistic. The girls are off hitting the Designer outlet shops while I, attempting discipline, seat myself at Bluebird café on King Street, with my macbook out ready for prolific prose and whimsical wit. I fear that my novel is starting to turn into a mythological creature and thus am motivated to reinvigorate its life with mad typing.

Monica and Valerie, two character studies for my book, have given me much insight into varying depths of feminism and femininity. As self created women, we realize we typically fall on the brazen end of the spectrum.

Yesterday we saw the Tate Modern’s “Pop Life” exhibit, full of Andy Warhol soup cans, Keith Haring’s dancing stick figures, and Jeff Koon’s 18+ room. We didn’t have to enter the 18+ room, but the curious bold women that we were couldn’t let it pass in favor of a more subdued Matisse downstairs. The room was definitely not for the faint hearted; it was filled with life size images of the artist’s private parts to “create powerful communication.”

After such a er...large…spectacle we felt that we ought to wash our hands and do something distinguished and proper, such as have high tea with the wealthy at Claridges. At the desirable time of 4 o’clock we rushed into the 5 star hotel lobby barely pausing for the front gates to be opened for us, and approached the hostess. “I’m sorry, she said, eyeing our assertiveness disapprovingly, “unless you are a guest at the hotel you’ll have to book out one to two months in advance.”

Two months in advance for colored water and small cakes? We got a bit puffy chested; booking a full set dinner at The French Laundry was easier! But instead of arguing, we fought against our rising testosterone and walked ladylike out of the hotel. In fact, we even waited for the doormen to open the doors for us.

However, do not think acting as ladies made us meek and tealess. We quickly made a new tea plan, opting for a recently written up modern tea bar, Sketch. Apparently a place called ‘Sketch’ was all us porn watching assertive gals could get into. Sketch, however, was a pleasant surprise. It was trendy and delicious; better than a snooty old ambience. And if the tea cakes and sour jams weren’t noteworthy enough, the bathrooms were. Each toilet was a separate porta potty enclosed in a giant white egg. Once you closed the door you listened to german language learning tapes. A DJ spun outside.

After spending too much time in Sketch’s toilets, we felt we should once again try for a classier British place. We headed toward the cocktail bar at the Ritz. The doorman (aka security guards) however wouldn’t let us in. Monica was wearing jeans. I am typically a huge fan of dress codes for they establish a sense of class and fashion. I am not a fan, however, when it applies to my group of friends and implies that we have no class. As if on cue, Monica started to unbutton her pants and asked if she would be let in if he took off her jeans under her (Burberry) trench coat. The doorman security didn’t find it amusing. We turned around, tails between jeaned legs, and decided to go back the next day in couture. But in the meantime we needed to save the evening. We went to a martini bar at Duke’s hotel where Ian Fleming wrote James Bond and apparently coined the phrase “shaken not stirred.” The white coated staff was beyond courteous and wonderfully charming. We let them remove our coats, treat us to appetizers, and make us martinis tableside with boutique gin and freshly grated lemons. We felt like proper Bond girls. Bond girls, after all, maintain a perfect balance of the feminine and feminist.