Sunday, 15 March 2015

Why Thom Browne is a G

S/O to Style.com for the images, Fall 15

If I could cook, I would invite Thom Browne to dinner. Fuck it, I like him so much I'd just get a caterer and call it a day. It feels like right now in fashion, you can't really define a single movement, or classify certain fashion moments as trends because everything feels like it's all one big ball of fluff.

My fascination, borderline obsession with Thom Browne began a few years back when I was working in menswear and it is one that hasn't really died down. Browne is a certified G and gives me hope, knowing that he started on the shop floor at Giorgio Armani and led a design team at Club Monaco until the launch of his eponymous line, is admirable. In simple terms, the New York based designer is smart *DJ Khaled voice*, mainly because he recognises the ability to mix theatrics with form and function. He understands that although being dressed down is a thing right now, there needs to be an element of surprise somewhere, something that separates the catwalk from real life - otherwise we may as well stop fashion week altogether.

I always pick on my mum for watching cheesy Bollywood movies. This is mainly for two reasons, one being that I don't really understand Hindi and secondly because who the fuck has the time to sit through a four hour film? Each and every time I begin to criticise her choice to watch one, she simply replies that is her escapism; and not only hers but these films provide escapism for everyone in the village (at this point I assume she is referring to villages in India). For weeks now, I haven't been able to get the image of Browne's latest Fall 15 collection out of my head and that is what I believe makes a successful show; the ability to generate an emotional response from your audience in just under five minutes. It is particularly impressive considering I never even attended the show (don't worry Mr. Browne, I am sure the ticket got lost in the post, damn USPS) taking what I could by flicking through the photographs on Style.com.

This monochrome collection began dramatically as you would expect and opened unto a series of looks that made me feel a range of ways. It was as if widows were mourning the loss of colour in their wardrobes - Browne of course was inspired by the Met exhibition, Death Becomes Her - and was not afraid to show it. Eerie, darkly seductive and somewhat peculiar, the blurring lines between reality (in the significant cut of his tailored pieces etc.) and a dreamlike world really came into play to create something truly special. The best way I can describe his take on proportion is this: I like a man who can cut a suit for a gentleman whilst also knowing how to dress a woman.

Street style albeit inspirational for the everyday dresser like myself, has almost left us numb when it comes to being creative with individual style. I love minimalism as much as the next person but fuck I really do miss seeing that one piece that is so ridiculous no one could ever fathom wearing it, until one cuckoo from the nest does and we all decide we want to flock too. The focus has become too much on the piece; the perfect tee, the perfect jeans and whatever you call it and it seems the message of seeking something unique has been lost. A few years ago, Browne recalled to the NY Times that his father, an attorney was a great source of inspiration. 'The last thing he ever thought about was clothes, and yet somehow he always looked good' - damn straight homie, because surely this is the true definition of style. During a time where the fashion industry is completely over saturated, it really is important to pick out and praise the ones who influence you, no matter how great or small. So as I write this, while going through an entire bag of Popchips, I applaud TB for making a huge impression on me. You da man.

I need a man to open a jar


Today I woke up at exactly 1.30pm and didn't feel an ounce of guilt. I had pretty much earned one night of what felt like eternal sleep after two weeks of pure mayhem. For the past five or so hours since I've been awake I have flitted back and forth between my friend's living room and bedroom. Every now and then I get tired of not doing anything so I treat myself to mini nap - only for like six or seven minutes just to rejuvenate and start my lazy day again. I'm house sitting/dog sitting this weekend, and Bobo, my Pekingese companion is more chilled than stoner kid who skates everyday. And to be honest, who I am to intrude and kill her vibe? So instead I decided to live like her for a day, minus licking myself and eating food from her bowl.

I love Saturday's and even though all the days in my week right now feel like one big blur, I still like the way Saturday's define the start of a weekend, especially a spring weekend. There is something about a Saturday that feels particularly Saturday-ish, for instance brunch on any other weekday feels like food at lunch time, whereas on Saturday's it really feels like b-r-u-n-c-h. Although it was rainy today (more of a reason to be lazy), it still felt like spring. This past winter which still appears to be lurking via the remnants of snow on the sidewalk, was my first in NYC and has been a long and at times a painful one. It was only this week that I finally parted ways with my Kooples coat which needless to say stylishly saw me through the devastating icy cold winds, snow showers and sub zero temperatures (S/O to The Kooples for combining both form and function to create a sort of duvet/coat that prevented me from getting pneumonia again). For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt the need to shave my legs in hopes of getting them out and I even managed to give them a bit of sunshine yesterday with a sleek shirt dress and ankle boots. Hello spring, i'm ready for you mate. 

The reason I know that being lazy is an art form is because it really takes a lot to be able to not do anything. I even just lost the flow of this sentence because I was too lazy to think of what to write next and just scrolled my Tumblr feed, becoming distracted by kids in something called 'streetwear', whatever that is. Ok let's try again. I finally remembered the whole point of this post. I had been lurking in the kitchen for a while, snacking on salt and vinegar crisps (not chips) and debating on what to make for dinner. This was going to be the first time in months that I would have actually made food as opposed to buying something ready made and I wanted it to be special, that was until I remembered my friend left me spag bol in the fridge. Perhaps I'll make dinner tomorrow I told myself as I reached in the fridge to grab the leftovers. You see, my friend is a really good cook so if it came between my attempt to make food versus her already-made plate, it would definitely be hers. I started to get a tad excited and the timing was appropriate as I was running out of crisps - the moment literally could not have been more perfect until it wasn't anymore. 

It took about thirty minutes before I completely gave up. Thirty minutes on a lazy day is a long time and a lot of effort when you are meant to be doing nothing, but the fucking jar of meatballs and sauce would not open. I even had intervals where I was pacing the apartment hoping that if I left the jar unattended for a sec it would magically open only to come back to the scene and realise it hadn't. I then considered calling a friend over and asking them to open it but who on this earth would do that unless they were within arm's reach. During this painful half hour, I started to have dark thoughts about life as a singleton. I figured that I couldn't open the meatball sauce because I didn't have a man around to do it for me and therefore I didn't deserve to eat. You see how delirious hunger can make a person? In the end I felt completely defeated and just put the jar back in the fridge and my spag bol dreams to rest. The only thing left to do now was to open a Budweiser and write about this tragic moment while browsing the Dominos menu, easing back into single life.