Kanye, Juergen, Kim & Me

As a writer, I adore print. As an artist, I admire photography. As a reality tv lover, I'm addicted to Keeping up with the Kardashians. As a woman and eyebrow connoisseur, I bow down to Kim and as a sometimes, wine-enthused, rapper extraordinaire, I enjoy Yeezus too. All of these things meant that I could be found seventh in the queue outside Dover Street Market at 10:06am on a Saturday morning, when I could have so easily been in bed. Instead of the latter, I took my last £20, which could have been spent on food or bills or things essential to living, to pick up the questionably essential 'Kanye, Juergen and Kim,' a portfolio of photographs published via System Magazine. (Please don't tell my mother.)

For the first ten minutes, I waited in the wrong queue. I didn't even know there would be a queue, let alone a plural. The original plan had been to go over to west London early for breakfast in the area, then saunter down to the market at 11am and collect my magazine. A romantic Saturday in London, with myself.

As I wandered down Dover Street to scout the area for the nearest Pret, I noticed a small crowd had already formed. Dismissing the middle class white family waiting by the door as tourists, I placed my bets with the edgier, younger crowd that had started up on the opposite side of the shop. Soon after, a guy approached me (the only female in the queue) to ask what I was actually there for.

'The Kimye Book' I said with instant regret, remembering that combination names should be left on the internet. For a moment it seemed he agreed, looking at me with confusion. As it turns out I was in a queue for men's shoes, the so called 'Kimye Book Queue' started over behind the middle-class white family. (Shame on the guy for assuming that a woman couldn't buy men's shoes.) ((Shame on me for not knowing what the shoes were.)) (((Update, I have since googled said shoe and I'm glad I switched queues.)))

I tutted my way through the tedious one-in-one-out system the shop had going on, half expecting Kim  herself to be working the shop floor with the amount of security and precaution Dover Street Market were taking. (Guess the shoes are a pretty big deal after all.) Once down in the shop's basement, no Kim in sight, and pushed to the back of the line by the shoe-crazed youth, I managed to exchange that controversial last £20 and get my set of photos of the king and queen of controversy.
After I finally found a Pret and bought myself a salad ('with what money?' I hear you ask - good question!) filled with coriander that I would spend ten minutes picking out and an avocado that was lust-worthy, I positioned myself down in Green Park to have a flick through the magazine.

It's bizarre. This is definitely not a criticism by any stretch of the imagination. I had wondered why the photographer, Juergen Teller, had been listed central in the title when the subjects were seemingly so narcissistic. Inside, the answer was sprawled out across pages of Juergen hiking and climbing and awkwardly existing between shots of the all-powerful-power-couple. Kim's stares were haunting and her curves were to-die-for and Kanye succeeded in looking brooding as the pair frolicked about in piles of dirt and grass somewhere in France.

I would give and arm and a leg and some more of my non-existent money to have been there during the shoot. I think that's where the collection's magic lies, in what the heck happened to even get to the end result. Why is Juergen Teller crawling through he dirt in extreme short shorts to find a gold ring and why did Kanye style Kim in that skin colour body-suit and bra and get her to pose with a tractor and a hundred more whys. Thank you Juergen Teller. Maybe I'm hideously biased (because I truly believe that Kim can do no wrong) but this is genius. Thank you.

My back ached from the tree I was awkwardly leant against. It always looks so chic in the movies, sitting and reading under the shade of a tree when in reality you're just uncomfortable with dirt on your hands, bug bites on your back and pins and needles in your butt. I persevered, wanting to capture my cliche summer in London moment. Instragramming a picture from the magazine, to update the world that I had, in fact, made it out of bed, I received nothing but hate (in the form of vomming and sick emojis) -in true Kimye style. But I guess, that's what I love about them; love or hate, they force you to actually have an opinion.

They force you to comment on that stranger's Instagram with hate or devote unmentionable hours on that bloody Kim Hollywood Life game. They force you to start petitions to get Kanye out of Glastonbury or to actually kind of agree when he says he's the 'Greatest Living Rockstar'. Love them or hate them, they force you to talk about art. And that's a conversation we all need to get more involved with. (Because I said so.)