Exit Editor-in-Chief Mr Stephen Toner & EXIT Magazine Hosting and Celebrating The Black & White Masquerade Ball on New Year’s Eve at Soho Grand Hotel New York City.
Photography – Aria Isadora / BFA NYC
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Stephen Toner, founder and editor-in-chief of London-based Exit Magazine, has arrived in Soho for New York Fashion Week, and is taking us along for the ride. The “F” in NYFW is obviously an important part of this very fashionable week, but with the culture of the city – everything from art, food, music, and more – proudly on display, he’s intent on taking it all in. View the slideshow opposite, updated daily, to keep up with Stephen as he visits new and old NYC favorites throughout the week.
Photography – Stephen Toner
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Almost before it started, she was terrified that it would end.
The only thing she could compare it to was the feeling of getting high, as she used to do on endless college weekends, and the panic – which started as soon as the rush did – that the feeling wouldn’t last until the end of the queue, that the rush would rush up and out of you before you got to dance in the dark and the sweat.
It was hot in Los Angeles, as it always was, but this was the kind of heat which pleased nobody, not even the reddening tourists on the strip who sweated into their baseball caps and drank to make up for it. It was the third night of her stay and, aside from business, nothing had happened. She was beginning to wonder whether nothing ever happened to women over 35.
That evening, after showering, she descended to the bar and ate dinner alone. Although solo diners were far from unusual in this hotel, the attention of the young dark-haired waitress embarrassed her. She couldn’t tell whether the girl’s little spatters of conversation were patronising or flirtatious, and dreaded the latter. She used to enjoy this game, but now it made her feel old, pervy and uncomfortable.
The air-conditioning was doing little to stop the bar overheating. The waitress and the heat were already making her jumpy, so when a cool hand was placed on her wrist, she startled and gasped.
As she looked up, the boy standing above her chuckled at her overreaction.
In a British accent: “Jesus, love, I was only going to offer to buy you a drink.”
He was teasing her. He’d learnt early that women love to be teased. His tone should have annoyed her, but the dangerous art of flattery was already working. He was young, very good looking in an asymmetrical way and he was at her table to ask her for a drink, not anybody else. She looked up at him, and decided to indulge in flattery.
Before he’d even returned to the table, the panic (it won’t last it won’t last) began.
He was at the bar ordering drinks and chatting with the girl who had been her waitress, looking back at her and grinning with the boyish cockiness she used to see so often in her male friends – the ones she’d got high with and, usually, fucked, all those years ago – whereas now she only saw manly exhaustion. She smiled back at him, pushed the panic’s head under and wondered if he could afford to pay.
“So!” – as he sat beside her without invitation and presented her with a cocktail which was half ice – “Who are you then?”
She was amused by his bluntness. Did he really not know the approved script for such bar-side flirtations? Perhaps it was a British thing.
She told him her name, her reasons for being in town, and asked the same back. She let his enthusiastic chatter wash over her as she drank and admired him. Another drink followed, and another. She decided to take him seriously when he declared her career summary ‘impressive’, or when he laughed at something she’d said.
Another drink, and she decided she’d like to sleep with him. The panic flared again (it’s going to end it’s going to end) but this time she ignored it.
She was going to make an exception for him, this British boy on his first trip to LA, who didn’t understand that you don’t offer strangers a drink in a hotel like this. He was naïve and it turned her on.
The dark-haired waitress cleared their empty glasses, this time in silence. They watched her leave. It was nearing the end of the night and her vision had become pleasantly blurred. She excused herself for the bathroom and he asked her to hurry back. God, he really did know nothing about this. Perhaps they didn’t play it cool in London.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The alcohol and the boy were making her giddy. She giggled at herself. It wasn’t taking advantage, was it? She knew LA and she knew sex. She was going to give him the holiday of a lifetime.
When she returned to the bar, he wasn’t sitting where she left him. After a brief scan of the room, she wandered towards the terrace. As she passed the kitchen, she saw them. Dark hair across her face, pushed up against the wall, her skirt in his fist, thighs lifted, and him, grunting and thrusting, all teeth and tongue at her throat. The come-down crept along her back and shoulders and reached her face, locking her jaw in a dull ache. It was never going to last.
Photography – Stephen Toner
Words – Rosie Hore
Alex feebly lifted her tumbler of whisky to cheers the stranger who had been making eye contact with her intermittently for what seemed like forever. He was admittedly handsome, with his scruffy brown beard and inconceivably blue eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t exceptionally handsome by Los Angeles standards, but at 2am, sprawled on a red velvet sofa of the Chateau Marmont, he would do. She boldly sat next to him, her bare thigh two inches from his. He grinned a silly drunken grin.
“What do I call you,” he shouted over the nearly ironic 90s hip-hop tune.
“Alex.”
“Leonard” he said, shaking her delicate hand.
They were both unwillingly coming down from a week long bender. Unbeknownst to them they had attended several of the same parties in the past few days; the fete for the list of the “20 hottest party people in LA”, a private show for a local electro duo, some art thing sponsored by Absolut Vodka. Both yearned to pass out beside awarm body and face tomorrow’s hangover in the company of another degenerate.
“Come up to my room for a whisky,” he suggested.
“Sure,” Alex responded, noncommittally shrugging her bony shoulders.
The two strangers walked hand-in-hand towards the elevator of the infamous hotel, already full to bursting with actors, writers, socialites and musicians, both struggling and successful – engaging in similarly obvious one night stands. As it would turn out, Leonard was an “I work in media” type, who also played bass in a semi-successful LA indie band ironically called The London Boys. Go figure. His suite was on the fifth floor, and it was massive.
Leonard produced an expensive bottle of single malt whisky. “My dad had it sent up for me earlier today.” It was an endearingly boyish comment considering he was well into his 30s. “Ice?” The mere fact that he had asked exhibited to Alex that Leonard was someone who rarely drank expensive whisky, or whisky at all. He was trying to impress her and all the other pretty young things in LA by exhibiting the stereotypical traits of a reckless, indestructible hipster. Even his battered Rick Owens jean jacket, ratty converse sneakers and unshaven face consciously added to this played-out character. Alex ignored the predictability of this scene and pretended it was authentic.
They collapsed like ragdolls on his California king, jostling and nearly spilling their freshly poured nightcaps; his with ice, hers without. She turned towards him and brushed her thick brown hair off her face, once in coveted beach waves, now matted with sweat from hours of partying, purposefully revealing the tattoo on the inside of her left arm.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“I love her and it is the beginning of everything.”
She anticipated his next question.
“F. Scott Fitzgerald said it to his wife.”
“Do you think you’ll get married?” He asked.
“Of course.”
He smiled a genuine smile and she looked down embarrassed; their first unscripted interaction. Pleased in having revealed a chink in her armor, Leonard ventured another bold question.
“Have you ever been in love?”
“I’m not sure.”
Leonard leaned towards Alex and kissed her softly on the lips. She was caught off guard by how much she enjoyed it.
Photography – Stephen Toner
Words – Allyson Shiffman
It’s something of a surprise I’m allowed to leave the country. The last time I tried, I discovered at the front of the boarding queue that the name on my ticket didn’t match the name on my passport and I would not, therefore, be flying with Ryanair that day (or ever again). The time before that, I got so sunburnt that I couldn’t get out of bed.
But Iceland would be a different story, I decided. I was pretty sure that I’d got my own name correct and sunburn would hardly be a problem, in Iceland, in November. Besides, this time I had a guide: EXIT’s Editor-in-Chief, who has been visiting Iceland for the past decade, printing the magazine there for the past 18 months, and who takes the skincare of himself and those around him very seriously. But even so, we begged the man at Customs Control to give us an illicit stamp in our passports, despite his assurances that it would get him fired on the spot. I wanted at least some evidence of my stepping foot on Icelandic soil just in case someone caught me on the way through the airport and hauled me back to London where I couldn’t cause any trouble.
We were on our way to Reykjavik’s Harpa Concert Hall, after transferring the contents of our suitcases to our persons in an attempt to keep out the cold. This massive mirrored honeycomb was designed by Danish-Icelandic artist Olafur Eliasson and very nearly became a victim of the 2008 economic crash, but was built anyway perhaps against the best judgement of the city’s accountants. But like any sod-it-I’m-getting-it-anyway purchase, Harpa regrette rien, and certainly not on this night, when four übercool Berliners had flown into town. We were here to see Kraftwerk, along with every music fan in Iceland. It was a Monday night and the Icelanders were ready for some serious music appreciation.
On entering the venue we were handed 3D glasses, causing a slight issue for many in the audience who struggled to fit them over their hipster frames. But this was a sartorial blip soon forgotten during an epic two hour set with accompanying illuminations of man, machine and bicycle. The performance was nothing short of mesmerising, not least the grace with which the greying kings of electro pulled off matching silver bodysuits. The guy sitting next to us – out with his girlfriend on a Monday night in an opera house, please remember – had brought a few snortables in an empty cigarette case for the quiet moments and proceeded to sup from them throughout the evening. What strange and chilly fantasy had I let myself in for?
Stepping out of Harpa, we embarked on what would become a familiar ritual: a mad dash to the car in a whirl of lost gloves, hats flying off, snot and tears lost to the wind.
But made it we did, and all the way to Icelandair Hotel Reykjavik Marina, just one of the company’s many non-winged ventures in the country. Here we first encountered a particularly confusing brand of Icelandic humour: a note in a perfectly spacious bathroom that apologised in first person for its inadequacies of size, a model straw man using a urinal and some rather unprintable cocktail names. Our room was wallpapered with maps of Iceland (helpful) and had stunning views from the balcony of the harbour backing onto snow-tipped mountains.
We spent the rest of the evening in the Slippbarr. This was a hotel bar that pretended not to be in order to appeal to the locals who quite rightly view us tourists as awful sun-burnt lobsters who can’t stay upright in the slightest gust of wind. The dinner we ate of beetroot, blue cheese and walnut salads explained why the locals keep coming back here. An earlyish night called: Kraftwerk would be proud of us, at their age.
The next morning – after fully exploring that peculiar holiday craving to stuff yourself with fish and meat products before 9am which you would never dream of doing at home – we set off to explore Reykjavik, drool over vintage fur coats and take comedy photos next to comedy souvenirs.
At the top of the hill where the two main shopping streets meet is Reykjavik’s ‘parish’ church, the Hallgrímskirkja, work of Icelandic state architect Guðjón Samúelsson. We sat inside to hear the organ being tuned. Either that or the organist had been inspired by Kraftwerk to try something experimental. For lunch, we had a picnic of Skyr, the Icelandic yoghurt with an almost cult following, which they once sold in Waitrose but cruelly removed from the shelves.
That afternoon, we were back on the road towards the international airport in Keflavik to put to test my endurance of the cold once more. We were visiting The Blue Lagoon: a name good enough for pampered pirates, and certainly a good enough for me. You could easily lose a whole day here, and between the bar, the steam rooms and the pools, that we did. My clever ruse to avoid the painful walk between the changing room and the pool by entering through a side entrance was cruelly punished by your Editor who – in the spirit of journalistic integrity, I presume – forced me to man up and do it the hard way. Twice.
By evening, teeth just about chatter-free, we headed to live jazz at KEX, a hipster hostel and bar that, once again, impressed me with how much fun Reykjavik commits itself to on a school night. I’d recommend their Skyrimisu – Icelandic-Italian fusion food being far too rare.
From Reykjavik, we drove into the Icelandic countryside, with me in the passenger seat trying – unsuccessfully – to stay conscious given the heated seats in our rental car. After a few dashes outside to wipe snow from the road-signs, we arrived at Hotel Ion, which stretches out of the mountainside held aloft by pillars, like a concrete jetty over the snow.
The view from my room of nothing but snow and the white plumes of steam from the geothermal power station next door almost converted me to extreme weather. The epic outdoor hot tub or candlelit Northern Lights bar with floor to ceiling windows would be unbeatable viewing spots during aurora borealis. Unfortunately, the lights were being shy with us.
Despite appearing to be in the middle of nowhere, Hotel Ion is in fact a mere volcanic stone’s throw away from the Golden Circle, a group of natural features with a showbiz name, all a drive away from Reykjavik. It was a riproaring day out: I terrified a bus full of American tourists by screaming at a geyser erupting, walked precariously around a volcanic crater and was almost blown into the Gulfoss Waterfall. For most of the day I felt I was one false step away from the furious centre of the earth.
We also made a stop at Thingvellir National Park, the site of the Allthing, the ancient Icelandic Parliament and Iceland’s spiritual home where the republic was founded in 1944. For a nation brought up on the sagas, it wouldn’t have been hard to imagine the Viking heroes meeting here, and miscreants meeting their fates at the wonderfully grisly Drowning Pool, Gallows Rock and – presumably – Dismemberment Hillock.
By mid-afternoon, we realised it had been at least 24 hours since our last encounter with a thermal bath and in an attempt to rectify this unfortunate situation drove to Laugarvatn Fontana, the hot water spa and ‘wellness centre’ on the shore of Lake Laugarvatn to centre some wellness after a dramatic day. Although less spectacular (and less blue) than its flashier cousin, we had the pools to ourselves for a blissful few hours. The centre boasts the original 1920s steam-rooms, where heat rises up directly from the geothermal rocks below. My body lasted about 10 seconds in the hottest. You can then dive straight into the lake, which is warm at the edges, making this a popular baptism choice in the past for the wimpier of the Vikings.
Everyone knows that the packet of crisps from the vending machine afterwards is the best part of a trip to the swimming pool. We took that and got the upgrade. Emerging from the baths, we found a member of staff armed with a spade and a large loaf of dark rye bread, which had been slow-cooking geothermal-style in the sand for 24 hours. We scoffed it warm, with melted butter, spicy tomato soup and fresh trout.
And then to our final night in Reykjavik. We were staying at Kvosin Downtown Hotel which was, again, a hotel that pretended not to be. A bar, a juice bar, a café, a restaurant and apartment-style rooms all under different management were packed under one roof, sharing a square with the Parliament buildings and the Cathedral.
The rooms were designed how I would design my Reykjavik apartment if I had one and was awesome at interior-design, including a huge marble island and breakfast bar and a cubby-hole for the bed. I even quite liked the shower rooms that opened directly into the kitchen, just for the hilarious potential it held to burst out of one into an intimate supper gathering. The biggest rooms were more of a party location than a place for sleeping, with two huge balconies, a reception room which felt 90% kitchen (in a good way) and plans for a hot tub. And as we discovered on this trip, you can never have enough hot tubs.
The next morning, we ate our final helping of Skyr at the Kvosin Café, before driving to the Pearl which looks out over Reykjavik in 360 degrees. One final victory in a running race with the Editor around the viewing deck, and we were back on the road to Keflavik and our return flight to London.
Words – Rosie Hore
EXIT flew with Icelandair.
Flights depart from London Heathrow, Gatwick, Glasgow and Manchester.
EXIT drove with Europcar, available to pick up from Keflavik airport.
EXIT stayed with Icelandair Hotel Reykjavik Marina, Hotel Ion and Kvosin Hotel.
EXIT bathed with Laugarvatn Fontana
It’s time for a trans-Siberian fling with that grand old dame Russia; a vast enigmatic land teeming with contradictions. Like a babushka doll, it’s all about peeling back the layers of history and preconception to find a country bursting with imagination and a special kind of energy all coiled up like a spring.
The country – more famously known for its mushroom-shaped palaces, billionaires, ballets and a penchant for vodka – is currently buzzing with creative-types as Mercedes Benz Fashion Week Russia kicks off (21 – 25 October) kicks off with the likes of designer Aleksandra Zaguzova showing the world what the contemporary Muscovites are up to.
But it’s not all about Moscow, just down the road in St. Petersburg, the cosmopolitan crowd are breathing a new bohemian life into the city’s baroque architecture and with the design-forward bunch at W Hotels pitching up its latest new opening in the city, W St. Petersburg – it’s putting this Tsar city firmly on the sartorialist’s map. Time to go east.
For more information about Russia and to book, visit www.blacktomato.co.uk or call on 020 7426 9888.
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