Poem: ‘Shops of the New Age’
George Hughes, 22 January 1987
The shop I shop at has a marble floor and almost nothing in it. It looks like a clean mortuary with narrow shelves for folded swathes of black and white and grey. My cowled adversary the assistant stands and offers shapeless forms slung out on racks. There’s nothing gorgeous here; brocade is damned; but cutting has been done in secret ways.
This place is called Comme ça du mode. Is...
