​Dearest Oona,

 

1,000 thanks for your letter, and apologies for not replying sooner. I’ve committed myself, only yesterday too, to devoting myself to my Maman this weekend, and I’m such a neglectful and intermittent daughter that I can’t put it off now. 

 

You sweetly ask how I'm doing. Well, since you ask: messily... 'The hair, the bed, the words, the heart. Life.' Everything just seems a tad all over the place at the moment. I have however found joy in the creation of a publication called Anthophile. It is a small, jewel-box of a publication filled with art, fiction and novelty. An anthophile is a person who loves flowers but the publication has become more of an umbrella for the natural world, than a bloom-filled odyssey. It's an excuse to meet some wonderful established artists and writers and to champion less well-known talents of which there are so many. 

 

I am curating a small shop too and intend to fill it with all sorts of strange and wonderful things. Do you remember my father's antique shop filled with all those objects d'art and curios? Today, I got slightly carried away at an auction bidding for a rocking horse with no tail -- I swear I could hear my father cheering me on. I was outbid unfortunately. You always say that the work we end up doing has its roots in childhood. It felt so today. 

 

What sad news about David. I am sorry to hear that. I cannot say I am surprised. A few months ago I saw him on the Kings Road, charming and shoeless, carrying a huge bit of taxidermy. We had the most enjoyable chat about carnivorous marsupials and he promised he'd write something on the subject for 'my little publication.' If only he had - he was an exceptional writer. I shall miss him. 

 

Do get the word out about Anthophile. If you want to support, please buy a copy and tell your friends to do so too. 

 

Take care, 

Emma x

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