Chris Black

How the Face died on the line

The Face, launched in London in 1980 by Nick Logan, was one of my first portals into subcultures that were far from my reach growing up in suburban Atlanta. The magazine introduced me to the photography of Corinne Day, Juergen Teller and David Sims. The original iteration stopped publishing in 2004 and then restarted, under new leadership, in 2019. The new version had some high points, especially an Olivia Rodrigo cover photographed by Jim Goldberg. Still, it could never capture the true spirit of the original and ownership unceremoniously pulled the plug last month. I knew the business was for sale, for a very affordable price, but they couldn’t find a buyer. I don’t blame it on the editor or contributors; I blame it on the times.

A trip to Fortnum’s turned me into an expert present-giver

I had only been to Fortnum & Mason once before. The first time I went, I wasn’t sure what I was getting in to. I remember that the distinct, pale eau-de-nil (mint green) exterior – its signature color – was framed by cream trim and Georgian sash windows stacked neatly across several stories. It was charming and slightly whimsical, like a confectioner’s box scaled up to building size. My maiden voyage was with the British skateboarder and artist Blondey McCoy, who excitedly led my wife around the hallowed halls as an unofficial tour guide during the bustling Christmas season last year, sporting an infectious Cheshire-cat grin. I was jetlagged and generally not festive, but the energy was palpable. I began to turn from a Scrooge into a believer.

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