The road spins out, wide and straight at first so the scrub flies past, then curving through the Scribbly Barks where the sun lies in shafts. You’re driving away from the city, away from care. And when you get there, the country air is crisp and you can smell a log fire burning.
Bella Freud is cool as fuck. This is the girl that makes sweaters models want to wear. Sweaters. Oh, and she happened to model for her father Lucian Freud, worked for Vivienne Westwood, ran her own design firm, and called Sigmund her granddaddy.
Ginsberg is God was a slogan sweater first, irony slapped on thick in film like the scrawling text (cc John Malkovich FFS). But the scent Bella created is sincere, sweep you off your feet seduction. Not of the roses and sweet nothings and celebrity kind. Instead it’s leather and frankincense and smoke. It’s poetry read while the incense burns down with the candles. It’s padding past the open window to stoke the fire in the cool autumn afternoon, far away from the city, away from care.