Paul Smith’s office is full of beautiful rubbish. Up in the boardroom, a grand walnut table is slowing edging over to the back wall, as a great whirring mound of kitsch, tidbits and assorted trinkets creeps ever outward. The shelves on the wall overflow with colourful knick-knacks and handmade trinkets, while flashes of pastel and neon shapes vie for attention from a pile of garments on the oak floorboards.
The back wall is covered entirely by books, while down below the window sits an encyclopaedic collection of cassette tapes, vinyl records and CDs. If it wasn’t for Paul Smith sitting calmly and impeccably in the middle of it all, you’d think you had stumbled across the manic hoardings of some eccentric, wealthy, omnivorous lunatic. Perhaps, in a way, you would have – though there is some method in this madness.
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