CHARLES LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS

I used to be an extremely sensitive child

Therapy Horses in hospitals do exist and that’s what they look like (for real).

I was born in London in 1979. Age twenty, I intoxicated myself with a mix of magic mushrooms and codeine and fell into a coma. When I woke up I started drawing and made a career out of it. A couple of years later I launched an eponymous label Charles Anastase that became in two thousand and twenty one Charles Little Shop of Horrors.

 

When I was nine or ten, Mother would forbid me to wear at school those acid house badges that I used to find quite elegant, having no idea what they were about. It was my boyfriend, who was then much older (Jean-Charles was eleven or twelve) that was selling them to me, and Mother was alarmed we might be involved in a drug dealing business.I had to wait two thousand and four and my first show to put smiley buttons on all my clothes.

 

Mother would always tell me to stand up straight. I had therefore assembled a team of experts to tackle this problem. And it took Jeanne and Alex a few years and a dozen thousands of hours to correct my skeleton to make it straight.

As a young teenager I was privately sponsored by my grandparents to be first of my class and therefore I had quite an attitude towards my parents and my elite school. Dressed in Vivienne Westwood and Helmut Lang, age 14, I had no problem getting the grades in science, mathematics, literature, and everything else (except for geography my weakness). So, on my spare time I was always fomenting a revolution coup of some sort to take down the school and was a terrible influence on my fellow students. My parents had to summon me for meetings to literally ‘negotiate’ with me to be less of a troublemaker because, it’s true, I was two years younger than my classmates and then smaller (and also… I had an history with the police when I got arrested when I was nine) but still, I was changing my regular clothes in the staircases to some teenage gothic inspired looks, and even if I was reported on multiple occasions to my parents by the baker from the corner of the street or by the School Parent Association I couldn’t help but show up in morning class with makeup, home-made piercings or scarification.

The pressure on me was extreme but I got some moments of rest when it was my then boyfriend who ran away (he also got arrested by the police at eleven) and everybody was busy searching for him at night scared he would be abducted or something.

After two years of hard-clubbing, surrounded by drag-queens high on ecstasy, in the most dangerous parts of Paris where people used to get stabbed on the dance floor (I obviously became an expert at sneaking out) I passed with success the high school final exams at 16, took a year off and started working on my label at eighteen.

I finally stopped smoking at thirty-one after twenty proud years of shenanigans.

Age 5 mother would certainly not understand anything to my genius, and she wouldn’t let me finish my horse. She seemed in a hurry and for no reason there was school today she asked me to pack my little cardboard suitcase. Strange idea as there was trip planned or holidays. The cat was not part of her plan. Little did I know I would not see her again for the next couple of years. The snow. The kitchen. Comme des Garçons synthetic igname. The silence. The yoga in Brussels. I eat horses.

I was born in London in 1979. Age twenty, I intoxicated myself with a mix of magic mushrooms and codeine and fell into a coma. When I woke up I started drawing and made a career out of it.

First it was Suzy Menkes pulling a knife out of her bag, then she had breakfast first row. After an hour late we realised Beth would never make it. Her dress was too large and didn’t fit so we had to start the show without her. But when the audience started laughing at a model because the metal sequins on her dress were so heavy and noisy that the only thing you could hear was a walking clatter of saucepans, I knew I would never want to do a show ever again. I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that the music of my show must have been the reason for the heaviest rain London had ever witnessed that day. The last thing I heard before Brigitte Fontaine and I were escorted out was Boy George mumbling in my back “Who the fuck is that?”.

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