Rankin Around

Thursday night saw a mass migration of the fashion flock to Brick Lane so as to pay homage (and many a toast to) to lord of the nude and Dazed and Confused co-founder, Rankin, at the bash kicking off his retrospective at the Truman Brewery. Amongst those in attendance, Erin O'Connor and Jaime Winstone.

True to Rankin form, the evening was less about the art, and more about the oodles of fabulous flesh on display. Despite the fact that the cavernous labyrinth of a space (whose lofty enormity rivals that of a downtown NYC Apple Store) boasted an army of perfect naked bodies, some high res close ups of NC17 organs and entire rooms dedicated to Courtney Love, Kate Moss and Heidi Klum, after guests had had their fill of gazing at boobs in designer heels and snapping photos of themselves in the "Rankomatik" photo booth, the real party quickly congealed round the bar, lounge area and outdoor smoking space. The night truly smacked of Rank.

Speaking of smacking and Rankin, I myself had a close (albeit drunken) encounter with the legend himself. My camera and I had spent the better part of the night in search of a "quick Rank," as giant words printed on a fall facing the entrance offered. But every time I almost had him, I would lose him behind a bright red lipsticked bird sucking banana print or to the double-kiss of some model with her clothes actually on. When I had my best chance as yet to actually swoop, I was intercepted by an event snapper wanting to take my lowly pic and he disappeared behind the velvet ropes of the upstairs VIP section, where, I presumed, he was welcomed into the waiting ranks of his nude model minions...forever lost to me.

Resigning myself, my companion and I pushed our way outside to join the rest of the gallery-goers who had forsaken the photography in order to further advance the onset of lung cancer. We climbed to the top of this rickety little fire-escape staircase, sipping on red wine and surveying the progressively more and more randy crowd below when, suddenly, the door against which I was leaning flew violently open, sending a fountain of red wine down my white dress. Just as I turned to unleash my Ranky-cranky fury, whose dishevelled, blurry-eyed face should I find slurring an apology of sorts as he fumbled to join mouth to cigarette and cigarette to lighter? I of course immediately accepted his apology (as the crowd below began to chant "Rannn-kin, Rannn-kin!" upon spotting him) in exchange for a photo op. Master obliged apprentice and I ended up getting my quick Rank after all.

Some Photos

Scene