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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby ramseames » Sat Apr 02, 2016 9:49 pm

http://observer.com/2016/03/elle-on-earth/

Spoiler:
The press used to subsist on leaks; it now thrives on plants. The politician is not a liar or a demagogue but a product. It was therefore revealed a month ago that the hacks Marc Ambinder and Mike Allen of respectively the boring Atlantic and vapid Politico sold their souls to Hillary Clinton’s staff in order to get access: first reads were promised, quote approval, word veto, talking point insertion, narrative change and forced rewrite. Time Warner, Conde Nast and Hearst don’t hire editors in chief anymore but editors able to understand the value of the marketing division to the newsroom and how they should be merged, which is code for content branding.

A strong case in point is ELLE magazine.

Last June I obtained a very hard to get interview with the Japanese designer Rei Kawakubo from Comme des Garçons. Ms. Kawakubo is the Bob Dylan of fashion—a designer’s designer—probably the most interesting designer alive today and she knows it. She is also the head of an empire that has never accepted outside investors and in such her independence is total. She has her own praetorian guard in the person of her spokesperson/husband Adrian Joffe and an army of yes men and women who run away cowering at her first snap. She refuses to be photographed, has given the same bland elliptical interview every five years for the last thirty years, hates journalists and is known to answer a long, in-depth question with a lethal yes or no. She is fiercely intelligent and has no patience for goobers. She is probably killing herself in her old age by trying to find four times a year entirely new ideas for each collection as she refuses to tap into the archives of fashion and recycle the old into the new like most designers do when they start their ersatz collections. The result is breathtaking.

“Are you neurotic?” I asked her, cutting her cold through one of her standard default rants. A silence fell in the room as if the guillotine had just fallen on the fat neck of this irreverent Robespierre, which actually happened just a few yards from where this interview took place. For a second I thought she was about to end the interview but she smiled at me. She understood what I was doing.

“Have you cut yourself off because of your status?” I later asked her. Of course she said no but every single celebrity has, even the local celebrities in your families and in the god forsaken villages you grew up in before you came to New York to be as far away as possible from this kind of crassness.

Before I could sit in front of her in Paris I had to find a publication that could ship my pathetic ass across the pond. The bores at New York Magazine said no because I would not be able to get her to say anything interesting. The New York Observer cried poverty at even the tiny budget I proposed. David Remnick at the New Yorker very politely took the time to cut and paste an old profile that his magazine ran ten years ago and to tell me that they never repeat a profile except when it’s a puff piece on Hillary. Although Judith Thurman’s “The Misfit” from 2005 is the smartest one written so far on Ms. Kawakubo the piece was academic, bizarrely self-absorbed and often wrong. Very Reader’s Digest meets GQ, like what the entire New Yorker unfortunately became. CDG hated it because Ms. Thurman committed the crime of lèse-majesté when she said that Adrian Joffe was afraid of his wife. I observed them interacting, he is. Mr. Remnick is nice but he’s no William Shawn, as his past reporting on Russia can attest. They were treasure troves of platitudes and predictions that all turned out to be wrong. I realized Anna Wintour had never invited Rei, the goddess of fashion, worshipped by every single designer from Karl Lagerfeld to Marc Jacobs and Alexander Wang, to her insufferable annual ball at the Met. Had Rei refused the yearly extortion of ad buying in Anna’s September issue too many falls in a row? So Vogue was out, which left us with Robbie Meyers at ELLE.

Yes I want it, the woman famous for wearing this soufflé pompadour on her head instantly told me, but please give me the chance to meet you and tell you why talking about the Met Ball slight would be a bad idea. I was never invited either she told me, if this can make you feel any better. Robbie was very excited about the interview but strangely, CDG wasn’t. Who is Robbie? Adrian asked in front of me. The behived he was told. Haaa yes he said. In London The Guardian asked me to write about it and I convinced CDG that we could do a joint venture—London and New York with the same interviews. This could cut the heavy costs of sending people to Paris in the middle of the high season. Robbie as editor in chief sees her job as putting out fires and delegating, a strange mutually defeating combo. She told me that Anne Slowey, the news top editor would work with me on this. I will not do The Guardian piece I told Anne if you need an exclusive. I don’t care, she told me, we are two different outlets. Come meet me at 3pm tomorrow. At 2:30 the meeting was cancelled; something better came up. You would think that the extremely rare interview of the most sought after and talented living designer in the world would be of importance to ELLE. It was to Robbie but apparently not to her underling. I’m sure Anne was annoyed that her boss told her that she had accepted my interview with Rei and that she was assigned to it. Fair to bet that she thought: who is this asshole coming out of nowhere?

By 3:45 the meeting was suddenly back on in a bar in the West Village. Then by 3:30 the location was changed to the East Side. By 4:00 as I just crossed town it was cancelled again and back on by 4:15 at a different place but Anne had to go pick up her young kids by 5 so the meeting would be short. Although Anne had my phone she was sending these directives via CDG as if I was working for them and they were then relaying them to me by phone. I had more luck meeting that Hezbollah leader in downtown Beirut for an interview.

Realizing I was dealing with a power angry maniac I called the meeting off and stood her up. Almost famous people have a tendency to act even more obnoxiously than the famous ones. Graydon Carter, who knows a thing or two about fame, has this parable about a peasant like me arriving in New York from his hamlet and trying to make it in the big city like in a Balzac novel. The provincial enters a dark room and tries to find a door that will enable him to enter another room and so on until he finally reaches success but at each room the door to the next is more difficult to find. Usually in New York society very few arrivistes make it past the first room. I have no idea what he’s talking and it’s probably why his magazine is a giant bore.

I chose Edith Wharton when time came to learn about New York social cues and suffice to say there was no mirth in the house of ELLE. I thought the hell with it I’ll go somewhere else but by then CDG was set on ELLE and the Guardian, the same outlets I had to work (is it clear here that it was CDG I had to convince into accepting the outlets?) hard in convincing in the first place. I understood that once you set the process forward with the egomaniac genius and precise designer, the slightest change might send the whole apparatus crashing. Too often the fear instilled by mediocrity and incompetence, the two tits that nourish capitalistic societies, can only feed the beast if patterns and routines are kept as is. The slightest changes might unravel the whole company because they will unveil a paper-like deus ex machina.

We all know most of our colleagues at work are incompetent frauds but it is the smallest unexpected change in our routines that reveal how easy it would be for our collective inefficiency to bring about destruction—how close we are from complete collapse. A box cutter brought down the World Trade Center and our air defense system with it.

I talked to Robbie and explained to her what had happened and that I couldn’t work with a power hungry flake. Ten minutes later Anne was calling me. I could tell I was on speakerphone. We decided that better than Paris, Tokyo should be the venue for the interview since Rei lives and works there. I told Anne that I see Rei as a Romantic from early 19th century, a time when painters started depicting fires, ruins, decay and painted people from the back in a rebuke to the sickening self righteousness of the Enlightenment and by extension as a Dada trying to destroy art.

That’s great I love it, she said, people are so fucking stupid nobody knows what Dada is. I told her I would ask other big designers to contribute to the piece as a sort of homage to the grande dame of couture—Lagerfeld, Jacobs, Tom Ford, Alber Elbaz, Wang, Nicolas Ghesquière—in order to place Rei in the annals of fashion. I also thought about including people from outside of fashion—people she admires, like Ai Weiwei, for instance—and asking them to produce something for the piece. It would be a great piece.

I wanted to talk about the Anna Wintour slight at the Met Ball and she told me everybody is sick and tired of fucking Anna Wintour. Let me deal with the other designers’ tributes, you do the interview and write the piece, she told me. She never did any of it, of course. My impression of Anne was that she was loud and tacky. I had heard that working with her was a mess akin to making a mule piss in a public bathroom.

I then decided that the interview would take place in Paris, the sooner the better at the end of last June during the men’s collections. Forget Tokyo, I thought, this woman is unstable and the longer this will take the worse it will be. I told CDG of the latest change of plan and Anne told them when she learned the news that she would send someone else to Paris, which was obviously her plan from the beginning. I had that intuition so I bluffed CDG and told them that I heard of Anne’s plan to take me out of the interview. Yes it’s true, they said, but not to worry it wasn’t going to happen. I guess now they wanted the Guardian too.

This went on till the day of departure. I asked Anne to get the green light directly from Robbie regarding the expenses and fees and that I would not step on that plane the next day unless Robbie herself gave me the go. I got it on a Friday night at 10 pm, which is when I bought the tickets, and we left for Paris the next day in the evening. My writing partner accompanied me. Adrian Joffe, Rei’s husband, told me people will come after you from every angle, once they know you got that interview. We met with Rei twice. In order to secure the interview I had to promise a first read with the Faustian understanding that only facts would be checked by CDG, not content. We don’t do first reads Anne screamed on the phone and I don’t want you to meet with her in passing—you must spend time with her, she said, as if she were Katharine Graham.

Fashion is a strange world. Living in New York I had tangentially approached it when, being a douche, I dated models, a fashion editor and a designer who worked with Alexander McQueen. A friend and mentor of mine tried to launch his own line and even had one of his dresses in Barney’s Uptown window. He was gay. He would hit on a friend of mine and I would tell him, Tony, the guy is straight. Straight to bed, he would fire right back. He was a poet, a beautiful loser like me. He ended up living in his bed in his mother’s house in Brooklyn.

Every other gay guy has, like Tony did, a beautiful dress tucked away in his closet for special occasions. Most of the women gay guys worship work in the fashion industry. They all have the aura of a Bette Davis, Joan Crawford or Lucille Ball or the mom in Grey Gardens. Steely strong women, cold, authoritarian, powerful, slightly unhinged, aloof but charming, tender but cutting, vain but elitist, superficial but cultured, terribly cruel and laudatory in the same sentence, frivol, cunning and manipulative, overdramatic, superb, all bringing, as Hamish Bowles ridiculously once said, ‘a powerhouse of pizzaz’. Their mothers, for most.

Rei Kawakubo in that respect would be the queen bee.

For someone of her stature to smile when I asked her if she were neurotic goes beyond the fact that no one has ever talked to her like this in 40 years. It was the moment that I could see she was playing, that it was all an act. She knows she is the most important designer alive and she plays the part down to her refusal to give interviews or have her photo taken, which I did anyway on my iPhone. Her work, even for someone like me who hates fashion, is breathtaking. A folly in the sense that Federico Fellini and Pier Paolo Pasolini’s films were follies.

Anna Wintour herself said it recently, fashion works from the street up to designers not from the top down. The most attractive women in New York wear a leather jacket, beat up boyfriend jeans and used combat boots. Most of the clothes the best designers—mainly gay men—put on the runways are restricting, repressing camisoles that restrain women as if they were hysterics on the way to the loony bin, not to say anything of the sadistic high heels that submissive women awkwardly don, torture apparatus meant to apparently please an ethos from the worst patriarchy.

The models I have dated were fashion proof in their daily lives. They would never be caught dead wearing any of these sartorial debasements. But models more than any designers and fashion editors, who mostly remain part of a very limited, incestuous cast, had a remarkable impact on society over the last three decades. Most of them in order to stay skeletal did coke in the 80’s, ate sushi in the 90’s and sweated on these yoga mats at the turn of the century before any of us did. They all worship Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha and spent their afternoons at the Rubin, which makes for easy break ups. They probably did more for Buddhism than the Dalai Lama in his Gucci loafers, all in the name of that size zero so searched after by designers who looove women. When I grew up, size zero was only spoken to in reference to the death camps.

It was a no hold barred interview. Rei opened up for the first time about the way she creates, her excitement at the punk movement in the late 70’s, her support for Hillary Clinton, her interest in the Dada movement, her disdain for feminism, the folly of her constant search for the new, her consternation at the corporatization of today’s fashion, her hatred of the jingoistic current Japanese Prime Minister, the restraints that she imposes on herself and therefore her work, the limits of freedom.

None of this will make it in the interview ELLE publishes. Spending time with Rei and her husband Adrian was extraordinary, stimulating, challenging, extremely refreshing. Her work reminds me of Pessoa I told Adrian. Yes of course he said, the Saudade. We left Paris and went to the south of France to write the piece that I had promised would be 10,000 words. The Riviera is the perfect place to make you forget what a schmuck you are. A week later Anne had a copy of the piece on her desk. I’ll edit it next week she told me. I never heard from her.

By late August I contacted her as we had to coordinate with the Guardian, which was running the story front page early-mid September during London fashion week, in order to not overlap. No answer. The Guardian was becoming impatient. Why hasn’t Anne sent me her edits I finally asked Robbie—now the Guardian is going to press in two weeks, don’t you guys want to know what I’m gonna write for them? This is the first time I heard of this Robbie said. When did Anne get your piece? Almost three months ago, I said. She asked me to send to her and a coterie of managing editors the e-mail chain so I could substantiate my claim, as if I were lying. I sent them the discovery of evidence. The Guardian is going before us? Robbie asked me. How is that possible?

I sent her my piece for London. Great, she said—now obviously irritated—this is exactly what we would have run. I could hear the fascist and anti-Semite William Randolph Hearst turning in his grave. The Hearst perfume magazines, among them ELLE, Harper’s Bazaar, Cosmo, Marie Claire, O can thank for their survival the drug data company, First Data Bank—the credit rating agency Fitch Ratings (part of Fitch group) own at 80 percent by Hearst and the software company Homecare Homebase that bring in the bigger share of Hearst revenues. One can easily see why.

It became clear to me that Anne was hell-bent on sabotaging the piece after I had dared that day to cancel our manic ever-changing meetings. She was not in a position of power to outright kill the piece, since Robbie had originally commissioned it, but she was ready to let it die by Lingchi, a thousand cuts.

By that time I had spent thousands of dollars of my own monies and I just wanted to get paid. I know I told you it would be better not to talk about Rei’s slight at the Met Ball by Anna Wintour, but how does she feel about it? Robbie asked me. Not good I told her. What is her relationship like with Adrian, everybody is curious, she asked. I think he’s gay I told her. We really focus on how women live in this world at ELLE, she said, what does she think of being a powerful woman in fashion, of women’s issues, feminism? She hates it, I told her.

Anne finally told me she would send me her edits. That was in October. Two weeks ago her minion Noah asked for my address to send me an advanced copy of the March issue. Where are your edits, I asked Anne? You didn’t receive my emails? She said. I sent them to you before Christmas when we closed the March issue. Adrian helped me with the interview part—we just changed a few things—he acted as the literary translator, his words not mine she said. It’s a terrific interview, she added, sensing the storm coming. I never received your emails because you never sent them you liar, I told her—making sure to cc Hearst’s entire masthead. Since when does the brand rewrite an interview at ELLE? I asked her. Your name is on top in big letters she said trying desperately to massage my ego.

The interview published in ELLE this month is surprisingly tight, concise and actually quite good. Only an eye well trained in the art of George Orwell’s double speak would be able to detect the branded content at play in full force here. It is bland, milquetoast, uninformative, safe above all, boring. An infomercial. Adrian Joffe made sure of it. It has nothing to do with the interview Rei gave us. It is marital beardy betrayal of the worst kind. Anne discarded the text I had written entirely but not before she stole its structures and plagiarized its ideas. Because she cannot write and is not very bright she succeeded, no small feat, in making a fascinating and revolutionary person such as Rei sound mediocre. Her text is replete with platitudes and clichés, with no insight or intelligence to speak for it and now looks like a perfect Wikipedia entry. You could read these lines and rightfully find them quite presumptuous and arrogant. So you will be the judge.

When the Guardian heard about this they made sure that the British fashion magazine 10 would publish a text I would write on Rei. It is now on sale in every newsstand in New York, uncensored, unpurloined. Adrian Joffe did not content brand it. The real interview, which according to her husband was the best she had ever given? It will stay locked in a vault at ELLE and a contract signed by a broke writer will make sure that nobody ever reads it.


edit: probably the wrong thread for this but its kind of amazing so oh well

here's the link to the elle piece he references, it indeed is not good:

http://www.elle.com/fashion/a33802/rei- ... interview/

dubbel edit:@une_impasse is it online yet or just in the magazine for now? couldn't find it myself.

he's getting trashed by the media for this but i do find the lack of subtlety or willingness to suck up entetertaining
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby une_impasse » Sun Apr 03, 2016 12:40 am

ramseames wrote:http://observer.com/2016/03/elle-on-earth/

Spoiler:
The press used to subsist on leaks; it now thrives on plants. The politician is not a liar or a demagogue but a product. It was therefore revealed a month ago that the hacks Marc Ambinder and Mike Allen of respectively the boring Atlantic and vapid Politico sold their souls to Hillary Clinton’s staff in order to get access: first reads were promised, quote approval, word veto, talking point insertion, narrative change and forced rewrite. Time Warner, Conde Nast and Hearst don’t hire editors in chief anymore but editors able to understand the value of the marketing division to the newsroom and how they should be merged, which is code for content branding.

A strong case in point is ELLE magazine.

Last June I obtained a very hard to get interview with the Japanese designer Rei Kawakubo from Comme des Garçons. Ms. Kawakubo is the Bob Dylan of fashion—a designer’s designer—probably the most interesting designer alive today and she knows it. She is also the head of an empire that has never accepted outside investors and in such her independence is total. She has her own praetorian guard in the person of her spokesperson/husband Adrian Joffe and an army of yes men and women who run away cowering at her first snap. She refuses to be photographed, has given the same bland elliptical interview every five years for the last thirty years, hates journalists and is known to answer a long, in-depth question with a lethal yes or no. She is fiercely intelligent and has no patience for goobers. She is probably killing herself in her old age by trying to find four times a year entirely new ideas for each collection as she refuses to tap into the archives of fashion and recycle the old into the new like most designers do when they start their ersatz collections. The result is breathtaking.

“Are you neurotic?” I asked her, cutting her cold through one of her standard default rants. A silence fell in the room as if the guillotine had just fallen on the fat neck of this irreverent Robespierre, which actually happened just a few yards from where this interview took place. For a second I thought she was about to end the interview but she smiled at me. She understood what I was doing.

“Have you cut yourself off because of your status?” I later asked her. Of course she said no but every single celebrity has, even the local celebrities in your families and in the god forsaken villages you grew up in before you came to New York to be as far away as possible from this kind of crassness.

Before I could sit in front of her in Paris I had to find a publication that could ship my pathetic ass across the pond. The bores at New York Magazine said no because I would not be able to get her to say anything interesting. The New York Observer cried poverty at even the tiny budget I proposed. David Remnick at the New Yorker very politely took the time to cut and paste an old profile that his magazine ran ten years ago and to tell me that they never repeat a profile except when it’s a puff piece on Hillary. Although Judith Thurman’s “The Misfit” from 2005 is the smartest one written so far on Ms. Kawakubo the piece was academic, bizarrely self-absorbed and often wrong. Very Reader’s Digest meets GQ, like what the entire New Yorker unfortunately became. CDG hated it because Ms. Thurman committed the crime of lèse-majesté when she said that Adrian Joffe was afraid of his wife. I observed them interacting, he is. Mr. Remnick is nice but he’s no William Shawn, as his past reporting on Russia can attest. They were treasure troves of platitudes and predictions that all turned out to be wrong. I realized Anna Wintour had never invited Rei, the goddess of fashion, worshipped by every single designer from Karl Lagerfeld to Marc Jacobs and Alexander Wang, to her insufferable annual ball at the Met. Had Rei refused the yearly extortion of ad buying in Anna’s September issue too many falls in a row? So Vogue was out, which left us with Robbie Meyers at ELLE.

Yes I want it, the woman famous for wearing this soufflé pompadour on her head instantly told me, but please give me the chance to meet you and tell you why talking about the Met Ball slight would be a bad idea. I was never invited either she told me, if this can make you feel any better. Robbie was very excited about the interview but strangely, CDG wasn’t. Who is Robbie? Adrian asked in front of me. The behived he was told. Haaa yes he said. In London The Guardian asked me to write about it and I convinced CDG that we could do a joint venture—London and New York with the same interviews. This could cut the heavy costs of sending people to Paris in the middle of the high season. Robbie as editor in chief sees her job as putting out fires and delegating, a strange mutually defeating combo. She told me that Anne Slowey, the news top editor would work with me on this. I will not do The Guardian piece I told Anne if you need an exclusive. I don’t care, she told me, we are two different outlets. Come meet me at 3pm tomorrow. At 2:30 the meeting was cancelled; something better came up. You would think that the extremely rare interview of the most sought after and talented living designer in the world would be of importance to ELLE. It was to Robbie but apparently not to her underling. I’m sure Anne was annoyed that her boss told her that she had accepted my interview with Rei and that she was assigned to it. Fair to bet that she thought: who is this asshole coming out of nowhere?

By 3:45 the meeting was suddenly back on in a bar in the West Village. Then by 3:30 the location was changed to the East Side. By 4:00 as I just crossed town it was cancelled again and back on by 4:15 at a different place but Anne had to go pick up her young kids by 5 so the meeting would be short. Although Anne had my phone she was sending these directives via CDG as if I was working for them and they were then relaying them to me by phone. I had more luck meeting that Hezbollah leader in downtown Beirut for an interview.

Realizing I was dealing with a power angry maniac I called the meeting off and stood her up. Almost famous people have a tendency to act even more obnoxiously than the famous ones. Graydon Carter, who knows a thing or two about fame, has this parable about a peasant like me arriving in New York from his hamlet and trying to make it in the big city like in a Balzac novel. The provincial enters a dark room and tries to find a door that will enable him to enter another room and so on until he finally reaches success but at each room the door to the next is more difficult to find. Usually in New York society very few arrivistes make it past the first room. I have no idea what he’s talking and it’s probably why his magazine is a giant bore.

I chose Edith Wharton when time came to learn about New York social cues and suffice to say there was no mirth in the house of ELLE. I thought the hell with it I’ll go somewhere else but by then CDG was set on ELLE and the Guardian, the same outlets I had to work (is it clear here that it was CDG I had to convince into accepting the outlets?) hard in convincing in the first place. I understood that once you set the process forward with the egomaniac genius and precise designer, the slightest change might send the whole apparatus crashing. Too often the fear instilled by mediocrity and incompetence, the two tits that nourish capitalistic societies, can only feed the beast if patterns and routines are kept as is. The slightest changes might unravel the whole company because they will unveil a paper-like deus ex machina.

We all know most of our colleagues at work are incompetent frauds but it is the smallest unexpected change in our routines that reveal how easy it would be for our collective inefficiency to bring about destruction—how close we are from complete collapse. A box cutter brought down the World Trade Center and our air defense system with it.

I talked to Robbie and explained to her what had happened and that I couldn’t work with a power hungry flake. Ten minutes later Anne was calling me. I could tell I was on speakerphone. We decided that better than Paris, Tokyo should be the venue for the interview since Rei lives and works there. I told Anne that I see Rei as a Romantic from early 19th century, a time when painters started depicting fires, ruins, decay and painted people from the back in a rebuke to the sickening self righteousness of the Enlightenment and by extension as a Dada trying to destroy art.

That’s great I love it, she said, people are so fucking stupid nobody knows what Dada is. I told her I would ask other big designers to contribute to the piece as a sort of homage to the grande dame of couture—Lagerfeld, Jacobs, Tom Ford, Alber Elbaz, Wang, Nicolas Ghesquière—in order to place Rei in the annals of fashion. I also thought about including people from outside of fashion—people she admires, like Ai Weiwei, for instance—and asking them to produce something for the piece. It would be a great piece.

I wanted to talk about the Anna Wintour slight at the Met Ball and she told me everybody is sick and tired of fucking Anna Wintour. Let me deal with the other designers’ tributes, you do the interview and write the piece, she told me. She never did any of it, of course. My impression of Anne was that she was loud and tacky. I had heard that working with her was a mess akin to making a mule piss in a public bathroom.

I then decided that the interview would take place in Paris, the sooner the better at the end of last June during the men’s collections. Forget Tokyo, I thought, this woman is unstable and the longer this will take the worse it will be. I told CDG of the latest change of plan and Anne told them when she learned the news that she would send someone else to Paris, which was obviously her plan from the beginning. I had that intuition so I bluffed CDG and told them that I heard of Anne’s plan to take me out of the interview. Yes it’s true, they said, but not to worry it wasn’t going to happen. I guess now they wanted the Guardian too.

This went on till the day of departure. I asked Anne to get the green light directly from Robbie regarding the expenses and fees and that I would not step on that plane the next day unless Robbie herself gave me the go. I got it on a Friday night at 10 pm, which is when I bought the tickets, and we left for Paris the next day in the evening. My writing partner accompanied me. Adrian Joffe, Rei’s husband, told me people will come after you from every angle, once they know you got that interview. We met with Rei twice. In order to secure the interview I had to promise a first read with the Faustian understanding that only facts would be checked by CDG, not content. We don’t do first reads Anne screamed on the phone and I don’t want you to meet with her in passing—you must spend time with her, she said, as if she were Katharine Graham.

Fashion is a strange world. Living in New York I had tangentially approached it when, being a douche, I dated models, a fashion editor and a designer who worked with Alexander McQueen. A friend and mentor of mine tried to launch his own line and even had one of his dresses in Barney’s Uptown window. He was gay. He would hit on a friend of mine and I would tell him, Tony, the guy is straight. Straight to bed, he would fire right back. He was a poet, a beautiful loser like me. He ended up living in his bed in his mother’s house in Brooklyn.

Every other gay guy has, like Tony did, a beautiful dress tucked away in his closet for special occasions. Most of the women gay guys worship work in the fashion industry. They all have the aura of a Bette Davis, Joan Crawford or Lucille Ball or the mom in Grey Gardens. Steely strong women, cold, authoritarian, powerful, slightly unhinged, aloof but charming, tender but cutting, vain but elitist, superficial but cultured, terribly cruel and laudatory in the same sentence, frivol, cunning and manipulative, overdramatic, superb, all bringing, as Hamish Bowles ridiculously once said, ‘a powerhouse of pizzaz’. Their mothers, for most.

Rei Kawakubo in that respect would be the queen bee.

For someone of her stature to smile when I asked her if she were neurotic goes beyond the fact that no one has ever talked to her like this in 40 years. It was the moment that I could see she was playing, that it was all an act. She knows she is the most important designer alive and she plays the part down to her refusal to give interviews or have her photo taken, which I did anyway on my iPhone. Her work, even for someone like me who hates fashion, is breathtaking. A folly in the sense that Federico Fellini and Pier Paolo Pasolini’s films were follies.

Anna Wintour herself said it recently, fashion works from the street up to designers not from the top down. The most attractive women in New York wear a leather jacket, beat up boyfriend jeans and used combat boots. Most of the clothes the best designers—mainly gay men—put on the runways are restricting, repressing camisoles that restrain women as if they were hysterics on the way to the loony bin, not to say anything of the sadistic high heels that submissive women awkwardly don, torture apparatus meant to apparently please an ethos from the worst patriarchy.

The models I have dated were fashion proof in their daily lives. They would never be caught dead wearing any of these sartorial debasements. But models more than any designers and fashion editors, who mostly remain part of a very limited, incestuous cast, had a remarkable impact on society over the last three decades. Most of them in order to stay skeletal did coke in the 80’s, ate sushi in the 90’s and sweated on these yoga mats at the turn of the century before any of us did. They all worship Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha and spent their afternoons at the Rubin, which makes for easy break ups. They probably did more for Buddhism than the Dalai Lama in his Gucci loafers, all in the name of that size zero so searched after by designers who looove women. When I grew up, size zero was only spoken to in reference to the death camps.

It was a no hold barred interview. Rei opened up for the first time about the way she creates, her excitement at the punk movement in the late 70’s, her support for Hillary Clinton, her interest in the Dada movement, her disdain for feminism, the folly of her constant search for the new, her consternation at the corporatization of today’s fashion, her hatred of the jingoistic current Japanese Prime Minister, the restraints that she imposes on herself and therefore her work, the limits of freedom.

None of this will make it in the interview ELLE publishes. Spending time with Rei and her husband Adrian was extraordinary, stimulating, challenging, extremely refreshing. Her work reminds me of Pessoa I told Adrian. Yes of course he said, the Saudade. We left Paris and went to the south of France to write the piece that I had promised would be 10,000 words. The Riviera is the perfect place to make you forget what a schmuck you are. A week later Anne had a copy of the piece on her desk. I’ll edit it next week she told me. I never heard from her.

By late August I contacted her as we had to coordinate with the Guardian, which was running the story front page early-mid September during London fashion week, in order to not overlap. No answer. The Guardian was becoming impatient. Why hasn’t Anne sent me her edits I finally asked Robbie—now the Guardian is going to press in two weeks, don’t you guys want to know what I’m gonna write for them? This is the first time I heard of this Robbie said. When did Anne get your piece? Almost three months ago, I said. She asked me to send to her and a coterie of managing editors the e-mail chain so I could substantiate my claim, as if I were lying. I sent them the discovery of evidence. The Guardian is going before us? Robbie asked me. How is that possible?

I sent her my piece for London. Great, she said—now obviously irritated—this is exactly what we would have run. I could hear the fascist and anti-Semite William Randolph Hearst turning in his grave. The Hearst perfume magazines, among them ELLE, Harper’s Bazaar, Cosmo, Marie Claire, O can thank for their survival the drug data company, First Data Bank—the credit rating agency Fitch Ratings (part of Fitch group) own at 80 percent by Hearst and the software company Homecare Homebase that bring in the bigger share of Hearst revenues. One can easily see why.

It became clear to me that Anne was hell-bent on sabotaging the piece after I had dared that day to cancel our manic ever-changing meetings. She was not in a position of power to outright kill the piece, since Robbie had originally commissioned it, but she was ready to let it die by Lingchi, a thousand cuts.

By that time I had spent thousands of dollars of my own monies and I just wanted to get paid. I know I told you it would be better not to talk about Rei’s slight at the Met Ball by Anna Wintour, but how does she feel about it? Robbie asked me. Not good I told her. What is her relationship like with Adrian, everybody is curious, she asked. I think he’s gay I told her. We really focus on how women live in this world at ELLE, she said, what does she think of being a powerful woman in fashion, of women’s issues, feminism? She hates it, I told her.

Anne finally told me she would send me her edits. That was in October. Two weeks ago her minion Noah asked for my address to send me an advanced copy of the March issue. Where are your edits, I asked Anne? You didn’t receive my emails? She said. I sent them to you before Christmas when we closed the March issue. Adrian helped me with the interview part—we just changed a few things—he acted as the literary translator, his words not mine she said. It’s a terrific interview, she added, sensing the storm coming. I never received your emails because you never sent them you liar, I told her—making sure to cc Hearst’s entire masthead. Since when does the brand rewrite an interview at ELLE? I asked her. Your name is on top in big letters she said trying desperately to massage my ego.

The interview published in ELLE this month is surprisingly tight, concise and actually quite good. Only an eye well trained in the art of George Orwell’s double speak would be able to detect the branded content at play in full force here. It is bland, milquetoast, uninformative, safe above all, boring. An infomercial. Adrian Joffe made sure of it. It has nothing to do with the interview Rei gave us. It is marital beardy betrayal of the worst kind. Anne discarded the text I had written entirely but not before she stole its structures and plagiarized its ideas. Because she cannot write and is not very bright she succeeded, no small feat, in making a fascinating and revolutionary person such as Rei sound mediocre. Her text is replete with platitudes and clichés, with no insight or intelligence to speak for it and now looks like a perfect Wikipedia entry. You could read these lines and rightfully find them quite presumptuous and arrogant. So you will be the judge.

When the Guardian heard about this they made sure that the British fashion magazine 10 would publish a text I would write on Rei. It is now on sale in every newsstand in New York, uncensored, unpurloined. Adrian Joffe did not content brand it. The real interview, which according to her husband was the best she had ever given? It will stay locked in a vault at ELLE and a contract signed by a broke writer will make sure that nobody ever reads it.


edit: probably the wrong thread for this but its kind of amazing so oh well

here's the link to the elle piece he references, it indeed is not good:

http://www.elle.com/fashion/a33802/rei- ... interview/

dubbel edit:@une_impasse is it online yet or just in the magazine for now? couldn't find it myself.

he's getting trashed by the media for this but i do find the lack of subtlety or willingness to suck up entetertaining


i can't seem to find it online, i should try to scan it or take pictures or something.

not surprised the fashion media is distancing themselves and trashing him, if i addressed the evil of banality like that i'd imagine people would run from me too

EDIT: i don't have a scanner or access to one so i transcribed this monster, here it is. before you doubt it was me, think again, i'm THAT nice. this is my payback for all of the amazing articles everyone else has dredged from the new yorker etc.

Spoiler:
There is a direct line passing from Athens, Rome, Paris and on to Las Vegas, following the path the simulacrum of art and architecture took, dropping at each pit stop along the way a generation of originality and leaving in its trail an increasing number of depreciated buildings, monuments and representations.

Paris with its stale palaces, arches, columns and obelisks, the New Rome as Napoleon wanted it, is a worries some reminder of how fake and kitsch the West can become the further it sprawls from its axis mundi, Athens, proving that Jean Baudrillard’s viral notion that, in America, Disney World starts in the parking lot, had long ago spread to the Seine’s banks.

The genius is somehow part of this scheme, another totem created by lost souls in search of pithy. There are very few geniuses left standing nowadays, postmodernity having thankfully eradicated the absurd need of a father sitting at the head of the table.

Alfred Hitchcock, Ingmar Bergman, Luis Buñuel, Andrei Tarkovsky and Federico Fellini are dead, so are John Coltrane, Billie Holiday, the artist Francis Bacon, Hannah Arendt and Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida and Marguerite Duras; Bob Dylan is not far behind. And then there is Rei Kawakubo. And she chose Paris.

When Kawakubo arrived in Paris in the early 1980s, fashion was all about Château de Versailles. Her first collections, all black with holes, tears and fringes, was the equivalent of an atomic blast detonating the bourgeoisie capital of the sartorial world, a sweet karmic revenge on the enlightened West and its patriarchal certitudes, universality and superiority that had lead to gas chambers in Poland and nuclear destruction in Japan.

Cristobal Balenciaga, 30 years prior, had used black extensively and made it a stape of haute couture, but Comme des Garçons established the colour and its different shades as a weapon, a black hole. A black sweater full of holes become, in Kawakubo’s hands, lace. Very quickly it became difficult to not look at shoulder pads and cringe.

There lies a delicious poetic justice for the “Orient,” so condescendingly labeled by the West, coming to the heart of Western fashion and making it implode on its own weight. There is also a long tradition of Orientalist blowback Trojan Horse subversion. Once artists, trying to define and harness a vile modernity that had started to sprout up during the Middle Ages, tasted the “Oriental” paradigms by hollowing them out, the academies and conventions of the West were no match. Many forget that Cézanne’s dream was to exhibit his work in the best salons and museums of the West. Some revolutionaries… Already at the end of the 19th century, Japanese and Chinese images were being pillaged by the impressionists and postimpressionists.

Kawakubo had o endure the same treatment from the fashion elite that now, of course, sees her as the goddess of design and an endless source of flintstone. In this sense,, Kawakubo is profoundly postmodernist. She brought the “superior” West to its knees. And she has perdured for more than 40 years.

Kawakubo could have chose New York instead – the epicenter of piled-up trash and perpetual renewal – but she strangely decided to burn Paris down, year after year.

Kawakubo was three years old when Little Boy and Fat Man fell on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and she came of age in a country awash in the pop culture of the American occupier, a confusing situation that probably had a devastating effect on millions of Japanese.

For decades now, fashion critics have been trying to use her personal life in their quixotic attempt at piercing this petite woman’s mystery, ultimately the most fascinating fashion designer alive. She gives names to her collecitons, red herrings thrown in pasture to philistines.

With 230 stores worldwide and a £170 million yearly turnover, Comme des Garçons is a steady success by fashion-house standards, and its head designer and CEO has certainly achieved a cult status among her peers. Yet her name and brand have had difficulty blossoming in the land of the free and the brave. Anna Wintour, in charge for a few years of the annual social ball of all balls at the Met, has yet to invite Kawakubo to the ersatz bacchanalia.

The ideas she designs, which could as well have jumped straight out of an Emil Cioran, Yukio Mishima, Duras, Fernando Pessoa or Cesare Pavese book, never jived too well with the America manifest destiny spirit. America has little time for the kind of melancholia and intense soul-searching that Kawakubo subject herself to each year when she starts the concept of her collecitons. Europeans are used to cultivating despair, regrets, and nostalgia. Cioran named his book Treaty of Decomposition; Pessoa, inheritor of the Portuguese saudade, famously said “I failed in everything in my life, but since I had no ambition this everything was probably nothing.” Duras wrote a book about a woman performing oral sex on a man in a hallway and finding the come on her face both disgusting and sublime; Mishima performed hari-kiri and Pavese killed himself. Not exactly the kind of topics a football coach might discuss with his team on Friday nights. America deals differently with this kind of darkness, one pill at a time. However, Kawakubo is probably the smartest businesswoman, fashion designer and CEO of the past 50 years and the fact that she has been able to preserve her artistic integrity and her longevity in a profession inclined to musical chairs is a testament to her acumen.

Comme des Garçons has nine lines, not counting collaborations, accessories, and perfumes, which might sound redundant and exploitative, but a close look reveal a rich diversity and horizontal integration of the brand that allows for its multifaceted and seemingly ad-hoc components to organically coexist while flushing a stream of cash back up to the main lines. It’s a very astute business model that forces the sempiternal foes of creativity and money to cohabitate with the fluidity under the same house.

Indeed, for an enterprise such as Comme des Garçons, wth hundred of employees worldwide and an impressive yearly turnover with no debt, it is not surprising that many on Wall Street and in the City are eyeing such a treasure chest of liquidity, apparently for the first considering the idea of accepting outside investment.

The starting point of Comme des Garçons came about in the late 1960s, when Kawakubo was searching for personal freedom in the very misogynist culture that was Japan. Sexism and misogyny were always heavily reliant on hierarchy, order, and respect of the centre. One of the attributes of Comme des Garçons that makes it such a postmodernist brand is Kawakubo’s hatred of the centre, this relic of a conformist West that had, since the siècle des Lumières, relied so heavily on reason and empiricism. The centre and its corollary, the beginning, were tools used by the forces of reaction desperately trying to hang on to power. Many would want us to forget that it was the bourgeoisie, not the people, who cut off the king’s head, both in England and France. Kawakubo is, if nothing else, quintessentially punk. Being centered has only some meaning if you live in New York, Paris or London and try to lose some of that Häagen-Dazs weight on the yoga mat. We learned our lesson with the unfortunate heliocentrism incident that probably cost religion in the West its prerogative on power, but the myth of the universal truth still prevails in most circles.

If Kawakubo is an artisan, she is a tailor by excellence. Where most designers jostle with departing from the axis mundi and explore asymmertry, their main marker is the human body and its preposterous symmetry so often used to define Barbie’s beauty. They rarely depart from the body and, as a result, their play on asymmetry looks tentative, a non sequitur that forces them into the vapid maze of the copy. Kawakubo, unafraid of unevenness, used the body like Michelangelo who, following Plato, saw it as a marker, a route to the world of Ideas. Strait-laced Leonardo da Vinci, the creator of the preposterous Vitruvian Man, once remarked that Michelangelo’s bodies looked like potato sacks. He was right, but which gay genius has ever drawn more beautiful manly women? Kawakubo has no interest in anatomy, and some of her tops have notoriously been deprived of sleeves. After graduating from Keio University, she worked in the advertising department of the acrylic fabric company Asahi Kasei in Tokyo. Her interest in fashion came second to her desire to be self-sufficient, free.

Kawakubo first debuted her women’s collection internationally in 1981 in Paris at the Intercontinental Hotel. Her work was anti-establishment, consisting of a black colour palette; her garments were shapeless but magnificently tailored, with asymmetrical hemlines, a direct challenge to the conventional, sexualised and form-fitting clothing that was in vogue at the time in Europe and America with shoulder-pad designers such as Theirry Mugler, Claude Montana, Gianni Versace, Calvin Klein, and Donna Karan. Her use of different “shades” of black would later become a staple in the fashion world, but at first she endured criticism that bordered on bullying, if not outright racism. She created a rule-breaking collection that turned fashion on its head and still continues to do so to this day. That collection was internationally dismissed by critics not only as “ragged chic” or “appropriate for someone perched on a broom,” but also laballed as “Hiroshima chic” or “post atomic,” outrageous philippics aimed at someone who had to live in a country ravaged by the atomic lunacy of the West.

Roland Barthes’s The Death of the Author comes to mind, with his views on creators being unrelated to their creations, the final stage of a creation coming from a place that allows biographical influence to subside and the subconscious to take control. Her influence on the world of fashion as a designer’s designer is felt all over the world. It is inconceivable to imagine the Urban Outfitters windows in the British and American malls displaying so much black without the import of Kawakubo’s work. Although Martin Margiela and even Karl Lagerfeld have made news by presenting fragmented hems and deconstructed patterns, it surely could never have happened without Kawakubo’s pioneering and experimental spirit. She premiered cross-marketing collaborations with Speedo and Lacoste, J.Crew, Levi’s, North Face, The North Face, Nike, Monocle, Undercover, and Moncler but also Louis Vuitton, and it is only recently that Stella McCartney did the same with Adidas. Kawakubo was the first, in 1998 in Chelsea in New York, to ask architects (Future Systems) to collaborate with her on a fashion store, a move that probably incited Miuccia Prada to do the same in SoHo with her store designed by Rem Koohaas.

Comme des Garçons also has grown to consist of fragrances (she recently teamed up with Pharrell Williams to create the scent Girl) and afforadable fashion lines after the 2008 world financial crisis (including a limited-edition collection for H&M). Kawakubo is the point person in all affairs Comme des Garçons, with the exception of her husband, Adrian Joffe, who also heads up the Dover Street Market locations that bring different types of brands together under the same roof.

It is nonetheless difficult not to see the mind-blowing beauty of her collections, where peace and violence often clash. Freud’s The Uncanny comes to mind, as well as the new objectivity movement, such as Christian Schad painting in which a beauty mark on the naked back of a woman, who could just as well be a man, might actually, on closer inspection, be a fly that just landed there, or the aperture of a bullet hole. But always the refusal of authority, the revolution.

Her designs are postmodernist in the sense that they tend to always mix high and low culture, as though aiming to annihilate culture altogether. Fabrics associate dby the reification with luxury, such as silk, are depressed ad those attached to a working-class stigma, such as polyester, are given the spa treatment.

“When I hear the word culture I pull out my cheque book,” a character in Jean-Luc Godard’s Le Mépris famously said. It is not uncommon for models to be sent down Kawakubo’s runways sporting the most elaborate, refined and incricate of top garments over a pair of ripped-up slacks. A coat is usually randomly slashed in the back, a lining is either showing or left unsewn in places. Fringes are left pending, hems are uneven or unfinished, impeccable tailoring is coupled with an extra piece of fabric uncut, as though to show the process of design, which has lead many to incorrectly see her as a modernist. Wearing a Comme des Garçons piece is prolonging the careful thinking that Kawakubo has placed in its making, continuing its conception in real life, espousing a philosophy, a way of life. There is no distinction to be made from the studio to the street, it’s a total, all-encompassing process. Some designs combine in the same piece different steps of that process when they are not simply composites, hybrids of completely dissimilar styles.

Kawakubo has no respect for style, this all-enslaving feiths that most consumers of fashion confuse for clothing. It is not even certain that what she makes are clothes. Many of her designs envelop the body, placing it within a principial cocoon or egg, the fabric becoming a shell. In these cases, the fabric can be seen as protective, like a carapace. Most of her designs are outgrowths, whether they are amorphous or architecturally structured, but always somewhat organic. There are restraints everywhere – harnesses, ligaments, and tendons, making sure that the armour that never lets anything in will also bar any attempt at flight. They are reminiscent of the self-imposed restraints of the work of Matthew Barney, but mainly they recall the magnificent slaves of Michelangelo lining the path to David at the Accademia in Florence. Stuck in the marble and fighting to get out, the neoplatonist sculptor saw our condition as marred by our constant desperate attempts to elevate our souls from the venalities of the world into the world of Ideas, our bodies being dragged back down to earth after each attempt by a glue only glanced at in our worst nightmares. The body seen as a tomb and Kawakubo’s designs as extraordinary and beautiful coffins.

Kawakubo doesn’t own factories, 10 houses or a Gulfstream G550. Many, bonded by the tyranny of influence, have seen markers of the Meiji, Taisho and Showa eras in her work, and even if she has played with tradition, it is in the dichotomy betweenr revolution and tradition that her interest lays.

In this sense, Kawakubo is less of an avant-gardist and more of a Romantic, the kind that sprouted up in the late 18th and early 19th centuries on the heels of the revolutions and who, while working within the strict confines of the academies, ignited implosions that would have massive ripple effects for the centuries to come. These artists started painting fires, ruins, floods, people with their backs turned to the viewer and destructions; they became obsessed with fragments, a proto-postmodernity already challenging the absurdities od the siècle des Lumières and its absurdist overreliance on science. A direct lineage can be traced from Friedrich Schlegel’s unfinished novel Lucinde, subtitled Confessions of a Blunderer, to Kawakubo’s work. His attempt at “shaped, artistic chaos,” as he himself proposed, at a work “meant to be chaotic and systematic” echoes throughout Kawakubo’s work, in which the fragmentary line of her tailoring never impairs the wholeness of each piece presented. For Schlegel, “A fragment, like a small work of art, has to be entirely isolated from the surrounding world and be complete in itself, like a hedgehog.”

Each model walking down the aisle at Comme des Garçons show clashes with the preceding and following design of fragmentary tailoring, strangely creating a whole, or that “chaotic universality” so dear to Schlegel. But Kawakubo is also a Dadaist, her work being highly political. In Berlin, George Grosz and John Heartfield explored with montages as well as, on the heels of Vladmir Tatlin and the constructivists of Russia, with the notion of the artist as an engineer. A work of art could now be phoned in, with the artist literally calling his assistant on a phone in a lab with his instructions as to how to produce the work. I recently asked Kawakubo, “Aren’t you in some ways a dada engineer?” “Yes, I really like that idea,” she answered. “Find me more documentation on this,” she asked an assistant.

The punks and Kawakubo had this in common. They all knew from the get-go that, while they would destroy the norms, the world of conventions would ultimately win. And the scars are here to show exactly that. John Lydon went from brilliant political animal to fat, balding blowhard, and his recent concerts are exercises in ultimate sadness, while Kawakubo shows signs that this endless search for the new might very well be akin to a morbid exhaustion. The myth of the 49 Danaïdes comes to mind, those young women condemned to fill up a bottomless basin after they had killed their husbands on their wedding nights on the order of their father so he could settle a power issue with his brother.

Kawakubo might not be a feminist, but she is nobody’s instrument. The forces of convention and conformism might be greater and more dangerous than anyone with a desire to confront them might ever have imagined.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby Copeland » Mon Apr 04, 2016 6:34 pm

Is this present Margiela's status? I'm late to the game, and would like to think this is against everything the label stands for. I thought the elbow patches of last season was a nice touch. Their clothes fit me and I like wearing it. How do I reconcile their artistic spirit with this music video?

[youtube]watch?v=-rO7_UAxBqk[/youtube]

Hook:
We all in Margiela
I'm the new Tony Montana nigga
These niggas is jealous
They just can't understand a nigga no
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby earthonator » Mon Apr 04, 2016 8:34 pm

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/04/05/fashion/anthony-vaccarello-yves-saint-laurent.html?_r=0

haven't seen anybody post about this? what does this mean for the brand? in what direction is YSL going to go?
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby ramseames » Mon Apr 04, 2016 10:09 pm

They don't need to pay Hedi a few million a year to reproduce Kurt Cobain clothes from the thrift store on la brea and make "the best" skinny denim pants

He's set them up well to continue doing what they're doing until it's unpopular, at which point they'll hire someone new to change directions and he'll still be remaking his mid 00s Dior homme collections for whoever wants to fund his habit(s)
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby Blastoise » Tue Apr 05, 2016 12:46 am

serious question

why is this forum against kurt cobain clothes from the thrift store

while purposefully ugly supreme running shoes are considered cool

do they not share a common ground in forced apathy
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby une_impasse » Tue Apr 05, 2016 1:04 am

Blastoise wrote:serious question

why is this forum against kurt cobain clothes from the thrift store

while purposefully ugly supreme running shoes are considered cool

do they not share a common ground in forced apathy


i don't hate kurt cobain clothes!

for me, what i hate are the implications of thrift store clothes sold at an egregiously high price with the absurd justification the cost is reflective of the time saved hunting for these "authentic vintage" pieces, essentially killing the authentic act of thrifting and replacing it with money. it's the idea that supports the "Derelicte" joke in Zoolander, why would you pay so much money to look like someone with no money when you could actually, you know, step into a salvation army and mingle with the commoners. and i understand the fabrics and construction are nice, but i highly doubt SLP acolytes aren't in it for anything other than the look.

cynicism and apathy is a major threat in fashion and the world at large, the musicians who inspire Hedi were politically energized figures, and reducing all of that to "cool jackets and pants" foolishly and lazily strips away the political content of their existence, reducing someone like Bob Dylan to a two-dimensional image for the sake of being cool. (and yes i know Bob Dylan often rejected his political impact, but sorry Bob, everything is political)

edit to respond to Blastoise: Supreme admittedly produces purposely (mostly) ugly stuff in limited quantities and people go bananas over it, and they don't really seem to care enough to capitalize on that in a major corporate way. i don't know enough about Supreme to fully understand why it's cool, other than my instinct is that people have always eaten up everything they produce and they refuse to sell out (pun intended) which i suppose is a point of pride/smugness and no one really has a counter-argument.

i think if i substituted my response with a bunch of dollar signs it would be the same thing
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby CheerUpBrokeBoy » Tue Apr 05, 2016 1:24 am

supreme hasn't """""sold out"""" in the way that in-n-out burger hasn't """sold out""""

maybe they don't have any desire to expand in any momentous way, but they're still doing serious numbers
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby Blastoise » Tue Apr 05, 2016 1:32 am

I absolutely agree with the degradation of a cultural/political figure into shallow imagery, but at the same time I don't think the intent is to necessarily strip them of any other connotation or their personality -- it's simply the act of being inspired by a particular side of the figure. I think a large number of brands/designers are totally guilty of this, not only speaking of SLP here. While it would be nice if more of the reference were fleshed out and incorporated for relatability and "honesty" I don't think that presenting a reference to the image side of a figure is that harsh of a crime in a primarily aesthetic/visual work (ignoring Slimane's views, I agree with everyone else on that). High fashion obviously can and should be used for more than a visual statement.

But with that said I'm in the minority for liking SS16, it's one of my personal favorite collections. I can understand why some would be against it but I love the juxtaposition of "Kurt Cobain clothes" with deliberate construction and highly polished presentation.

I guess the closest thing that I can relate it to is the idea of post-skate. Skating/snowboarding fashion to me was whatever was cheap and my parents were willing to buy me from Zumiez in middle school, and now I'm still wearing $65 Vans but with $200 jeans and UC jackets (insert expensive Supreme collabs and whatever niche Japanese designers you're into here).
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby fun_yunchables » Tue Apr 05, 2016 1:49 am

une_impasse wrote:for me, what i hate are the implications of thrift store clothes sold at an egregiously high price with the absurd justification the cost is reflective of the time saved hunting for these "authentic vintage" pieces, essentially killing the authentic act of thrifting and replacing it with money.

to me this sounds kinda like visvim, blackmeans, or even undercover to some degree. or any other designer/label that takes heavy flintstone from the past (a lot??).

personally i just think just something in fashion is always being villified, and we're seeing slp transitioning into that role.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby Blastoise » Tue Apr 05, 2016 1:51 am

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Last edited by Blastoise on Tue Apr 05, 2016 2:12 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby une_impasse » Tue Apr 05, 2016 2:05 am

fun_yunchables wrote:
une_impasse wrote:for me, what i hate are the implications of thrift store clothes sold at an egregiously high price with the absurd justification the cost is reflective of the time saved hunting for these "authentic vintage" pieces, essentially killing the authentic act of thrifting and replacing it with money.

to me this sounds kinda like visvim, blackmeans, or even undercover to some degree. or any other designer/label that takes heavy flintstone from the past (a lot??).

personally i just think just something in fashion is always being villified, and we're seeing slp transitioning into that role.


understandable, but to me, visvim and the like are design(ed), SLP is just clothes and Hedi has become more of a glorified stylist than anything else. mcqueen, perhaps the best historian in fashion ever besides galliano, used the past liberally but it was adapted, molded, transformed, whatever you like. hedi does not and has not done this with SLP. his work at dior homme, coinciding with raf, is groundbreaking, no question. but, and there's a showstudio panel that elaborates on this, the press rocketed hedi into the stratosphere and at some point, his abilities as a designer became secondary. i certainly don't hate him, i loved his couture show surprisingly (i hate his projection of predominantly white, emaciated beauty), but i certainly don't hate him nor his insanely impressive overhaul of SLP. i just find it evocative of what's wrong with fashion: there's a lot of "stuff," expensive and cheap, and most of it isn't particularly good.

if I'm vilifying anyone, it's jacquemus, and i will stand by that forever.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby thecanadiancook » Tue Apr 05, 2016 6:41 pm

Gucci to Combine Women’s and Men’s Shows
http://www.businessoffashion.com/articl ... -immediacy
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby thecanadiancook » Tue Apr 05, 2016 6:50 pm

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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby ramdomthought » Tue Apr 05, 2016 9:14 pm

They should stop making such flammable shirts!

My shirt caught fire once, I'm just thankful I wasn't wearing givenchy at that moment
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby jrisk » Wed Apr 06, 2016 9:25 am

How flammable is standard 100% polyester? Should I be very afraid when wearing vintage 100% polyester sweaters?
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby tomsfood » Wed Apr 06, 2016 10:02 am

gap outlet kids pajamas are usually sold with a big tag that says "WARNING THIS IS HIGHLY FLAMMABLE" or something to that effect. great warning to see on your toddler clothes.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby teck » Wed Apr 06, 2016 4:00 pm

the problem with fashion is that i have only one body to wear clothes on
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby alby » Wed Apr 06, 2016 5:16 pm

@mclunar yo I saw you on that meetup thread and was wondering what bag you were wearing it looks sick
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby trasparenti » Thu Apr 07, 2016 12:00 pm

une_impasse wrote:
fun_yunchables wrote:
une_impasse wrote:for me, what i hate are the implications of thrift store clothes sold at an egregiously high price with the absurd justification the cost is reflective of the time saved hunting for these "authentic vintage" pieces, essentially killing the authentic act of thrifting and replacing it with money.

to me this sounds kinda like visvim, blackmeans, or even undercover to some degree. or any other designer/label that takes heavy flintstone from the past (a lot??).

personally i just think just something in fashion is always being villified, and we're seeing slp transitioning into that role.


understandable, but to me, visvim and the like are design(ed), SLP is just clothes and Hedi has become more of a glorified stylist than anything else. mcqueen, perhaps the best historian in fashion ever besides galliano, used the past liberally but it was adapted, molded, transformed, whatever you like. hedi does not and has not done this with SLP. his work at dior homme, coinciding with raf, is groundbreaking, no question. but, and there's a showstudio panel that elaborates on this, the press rocketed hedi into the stratosphere and at some point, his abilities as a designer became secondary. i certainly don't hate him, i loved his couture show surprisingly (i hate his projection of predominantly white, emaciated beauty), but i certainly don't hate him nor his insanely impressive overhaul of SLP. i just find it evocative of what's wrong with fashion: there's a lot of "stuff," expensive and cheap, and most of it isn't particularly good.

if I'm vilifying anyone, it's jacquemus, and i will stand by that forever.


in regards to the japanese brands (i know... here comes that japanese fashion weirdo to bore us about japanese clothes again), brands like Blackmeans, McCoys, Vis, whatever, are doing their best to provide a reasonable facsimile of the vintage pieces they love so much, with some twists to the design and quality materials used in the creation process. It's still a 'fashiony' garment but it's of extremely high quality and the price generally reflects that. My personal problem with Saint Laurant was that the high prices didn't reflect quality garms. I've handled loads of it here, from the leathers to the shirts, to the jeans, to the shoes, and everything feels chintzy, especially considering the price. I can get a Sugar Cane shirt or whatever for 1/10th the price and the quality destroys SLP (disregarding the different styles/cuts obviously). You could even a Lounge Lizard, Lad, Attachment, etc. shirt with similar cut for a fraction of the price. Even overpriced brands like Fagassent are both nicer and cheaper than Saint Laurent secondhand. This sums it up nicely:

i just find it evocative of what's wrong with fashion: there's a lot of "stuff," expensive and cheap, and most of it isn't particularly good.


Furthermore I dislike the 'skinny rocker' look proliferated by Hedi and co. and if I never see another fit pic of someone wearing skinny jeans, peter pan boots, and a flannel it'll be too soon. I find it excessively boring but that's certainly up to personal taste. However, I do want to highlight a misconception regarding Hedi's role as the Saint Laurent designer. I don't disagree with his position as being that of a glorified stylist, but the man really did do some interesting stuff at SLP. Don't care for any of it, but to deny that it was there is simply unfair. Charlie Porter wrote a good piece about the situation:

http://charlieporter.net/stories/17445

Don't get me wrong, at the end of the day, Hedi's design acumen didn't make the company money - his skinny jeans did. Still, some of stuff released under his direction had some cool ideas, cuts, concepts. It merely ends up swept aside by the jeans/shirt/boot uniform seen everywhere.

For what it's worth, I don't think anyone dislikes Kurt Cobain clothes. Miyashita has made them for over a decade and the idea has been toyed with from Gaultier to Mugler. It's all in the execution. I actually have nothing against SLP runway. The women's stuff is pretty bad but the men's is fine for what it is. It's moreso a backlash elicited by the swath of fans who select the blandest pieces to wear in the blandest ways possible. Nothing wrong with that by any means, of course. You do you, yknow? It's just exhausting to see so much of the same and thus the inevitable backlash. For what it's worth I feel very similarly about Undercover and Vis.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby ASTROCHIMP » Thu Apr 07, 2016 4:04 pm

Wikipedia is really lacking when it comes to fashion brands and designers. I'd consider starting to edit/create them myself but I don't know where to start with Wikipedia and I'd need sources. I might start trying to find sources and see what I can do from there.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby Blastoise » Thu Apr 07, 2016 5:37 pm

Furthermore I dislike the 'skinny rocker' look proliferated by Hedi and co. and if I never see another fit pic of someone wearing skinny jeans, peter pan boots, and a flannel it'll be too soon.


This is how I feel about Adidas and Seinfeld inspired normcore.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby freddy » Thu Apr 07, 2016 6:53 pm

I just got a pair of drop crotch tapered jogger/sweat pants any they're AMAZINGLY comfy af! Wow. I might have to expand my steez to incorporate more of wearing this.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby une_impasse » Thu Apr 07, 2016 10:50 pm

speaking of leaving high profile jobs, is there a topic here for people working in clothes/fashion, from independent designers/student, to retail on upwards? is there any interest? i only ask because i need help with my resume (now that i've realized my dream job is a NiGhTmArE)
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby Copeland » Fri Apr 08, 2016 4:12 pm

Every time I browsw a WAYWT thread I feel like there should be a WAYAWT (what are you actually wearing today), thread.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby jrisk » Fri Apr 08, 2016 4:31 pm

That's a weird thing to say because:

1. How do you know everyone's not going out in what they post?
2. Pedantry aside, why does it matter? If it looks good, it looks good.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby Copeland » Fri Apr 08, 2016 9:47 pm

Sorry, didn't mean to be presumptive. Just meant that in my case, when during bad weather/rushed for time/feeling braindead, I wear almost the same thing every time (parka, sweats, sneakers). Would like to see what others wear in similar situations, as in what they look like if they threw on the most worn pieces in their closet. Was also addressing other waywt threads where they it's not as casual as this one and stuff, not that the folks in this one don't look great. I understand this depends on culture, what people do for work/school, where they live, etc. Didn't mean anything negative by it.
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby ramdomthought » Fri Apr 08, 2016 10:02 pm

every time i browse a what are you wearing today thread i think

i wonder what that person wishes they could be wearing today

who would they be

i would be a gangster of love

wearing bernhard willhelm

somewhere in montana where i own a bar that serves three cocktails and homemade cider and is bring your own food

people will bring in lots of slow cooked food

most of that food will be terrible
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby pirxthepilot » Mon Apr 11, 2016 8:09 am

this made me sad, it's a pretty good rule of thumb that anyone who references ayn rand unironically is a fucking idiot

http://tankmagazine.com/live/tank/peir-wu
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Re: random fashion jersey bibs

Postby teck » Mon Apr 11, 2016 10:11 am

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