I have known Scottee for a few years now, and we have worked together on projects such as Foreign! in East London, as well as our new venture Issue, and many, many things in between. He is comical to say the least but knows where he is going, and his mind, as everyone saw at The Hospital, is filled with such bizarre yet genius ideas. Who would have thought of such situations, let alone have the balls to perform them? Only Scottee.He has described us as 'the Andy Warhol and Grace Jones of our generation' and it is clear he really is the nu-Warhol. Scottee loves to capture people's imaginations, and failing that, their attention. Peaches Geldof once screamed, in horror, 'what is it?!' It's what you make of him – he does his thing, like many great artists, and then those who view him interpret what they see. Love it, hate him, or visa versa, Scottee is one of the best talents in London – and one of my best friends.
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( 2.9 / 177 )‘Happy Birthday to Jodieeeee…..’ everyone sung as two birthday cakes came out. Surrounded by my mum, friends and the hottest crowd in town, Movida was the location for my 23rd birthday. The large club, a favourite hangout for some royals – perfect being the Real Queen of England – looked decadent as candles lit the vast room and each section had their own coloured lighting. As the dressed up kids arrived, so followed some of my closet friends and the Jodie and Harsh cocktails flowed. I looked around to see everyone really getting into the party spirit, which is one of the best feelings in the world. Nothing like a good party to warm the cockles!
We had quite a star turn-out too. Looking one way I saw Mika, behind him Sophie Ellis-Bextor chatting to Will Young and Roisin Murphy, and then sitting close was Agyness Deyn and Lilly Allen. It was like ready a copy of your favourite celeb rag! Whilst everyone was on the dance floor or schmoozing, I hung out with my mum and shot between friends. It was such an amazing night, with some of the sweetest presents given to me, especially a homemade cake from Sophie E-B’s little boy, Sonny. Afterwards it was off to Bungalow 8 for some more fun and frolics.
But oh the hangover the next day….to make it worse I managed to trip over my make-up box (the irony!) and crack my head open. The bad thing was, it happened at 2pm and I hadn’t had a single drink, so I can’t blame the booze. We rushed to UCH hospital and I got stitches, yet still made it to Circus that night. The showgirl must go on, even if there is blood on the dance floor.
Images courtesy of dirtydirtydancing.com - go look, there's loads more! X
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( 3 / 168 )The first night of my new club with Scottee was last night. It's called Issue, it's a monthly shin dig and it's highly conceptual. And it rocked.
Check out the blog for pics etc:
WWW.ISSUECLUB.BLOGSPOT.COM
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( 3 / 168 )On Wedesday, I was asked by the ICA to give a talk on one thing I hold dear – I chose my razor. The five-minute talk was in fornt of 500 guests, and speakers such as Harry Enfield and Nigella Lawson joined me. A nerve-wracking but amazing experience and the choice of items were varied to say the least! Below is the transcript of my speech. Enjoy!
I am Jodie Harsh, and incase you haven’t realised, I use the medium of drag to express myself. Wigs, make-up, costume and high heels are vehicles for my creative expression, and have been for the past five years.
Drag is not something I thought I would fall into. I was raised not by fairy godmothers but in a stage school environment, and later did a degree in styling and Fashion journlism at London college of Fashion. Needless to say, I was always always going to end up doing something immensely creative. I don’t feel you could get any more creative than being a drag queen.
By day, I walk amoung you dressed-down. You wouldn’t look twice at me in the street. I wear jeans, converse trainers and a baseball cap. By night, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from staring at me. I wear my hair higher than Amy Winehouse, my rouge like a tart’s blush and my shoes stacked tall. And I love it.
The object I have chosen to show you is not particularly noteworthy. In fact, it’s an object that at least half the room posseses in their bathroom, if not more. It’s a razor. I use it to prepare my face for the transformation process – the application of make-up. Since under all this make-up I’m a boy, I need to remove that annoying, unnessary matter called facial hair. I hate beards and would never even kiss anyone how has one. I’ve seen a few in here tonight, so sorry boys, you’re out of luck.
Shaving is the catalyst of my transformation process.
Shaving is a chore. I don’t know a single man who enjoys it. I get through so many disposable razors. I should endorse Gillette Mach three rather than a makeup brand. Once my face is smooth and I’ve covered in after shave balm to prevent nicks and cuts, I need to leave my skin alone for an hour before I can apply my make-up. The foundation I use is a thick, oil based product that would irritate the open pores should I apply it immediately.
The make-up process is my therapy. It’s sixty minutes of solitude before I leave the house for a wild night out DJ’ing at a club or hosting a party. Locked in my room with no music and just a double espresso for company, I position a single spot light on my face and sit cross-legged on the floor in front of a mirror. After my foundation, I apply a bucket load of facepowder. This blots out the sweat when you’re working it on the dance floor.
I shave my eye brows off so that my face is a blank canvas on which to blend colours smoothely. Eye brows are drawn on an inch higher than where my natural ones should be. I look a bit like Edith Piaf before I caary on with the rest of my make-up. The base applied, I work on the contouring. Blusher gives me cheek bones I wasn’t born with, highlighter gives me a slender button of a nose. Next up is the colour – the bright eyes, the stained lips, the mask that slips on to create a charactature of the person I feel inside.
Finally, the hair. Yes, it is my hair. I bought it. My wig is the only hair I allow above my neckline.
You see, make-up is an art form and the greatest masquerede known to man. It takes a lot of time and effort, and takes almost as long to scrub off at the end of the night.. But the worst part of the ritual is the fucking shaving. For Christmas I’m asking santa for electrolosys.
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