Wednesday, 17 February 2010

¡Soy Un Icono De La Manera!*

I do love a random moment, and today provided a rather good one. Whilst ambling through Soho Square, on my way to the Angel to do some heavy calculations**, I was most pleasantly accosted by a fashion writer and her hipster camera monkey and asked if I would mind having a few photos taken and answer some questions on, and I quote, my philosophy of style (yes, I know; I was doing my best to keep a reasonably straight face - I'm good at that shit, I have to deal with architects on a regular basis).

Naturally I agreed***, I mean who wouldn't want to expound on their clothing Weltanschauung when asked to by an extremely attractive woman, especially when y're told that "I saw you walking across the square, and you just looked... sharp". That sort of flattery will probably get you anywhere with me, even when I know it's probably bullshit, because I do care about clothes, the cut, the fabric, the feel, the hang§, (go read 'The Way We Wore' by Robert Elms, he explains this shit way better than I could ever hope for, plus it's a fascinating, and brilliant look at 20th century British culture viewed through a sartorial lens), and it's always nice when someone chimes with yr aesthetic, even on a shallow level (oh yes, I can be a pretentious tit, if it's good enough for Eno, it's good enough for me) - it was the use of the word 'sharp' that did it, sharp tailoring will always fucking be where it's at as far as I'm concerned.

So I posed for some shots (is it ok if we do a closeup? is not a phrase I hear very often), waffled on about classic British cloth cutting and mod(ernists) - i.e. before the parkas, when the severely tailored suit was king and cheap speed meant you could go without food to afford said suit - along with the untouchability of Aviator sunglasses as a design classic and the importance of really good shoes§§. Turns out this was all in aid of an article about unusual winter street style (whatever the fuck that is) for a (rather popular) magazine - I'll tell you which one when the article actually comes out, so you can all go down to the newsagents/stands and have a good fucking giggle.

So, in case anyone else out there wants to attract the attention of random fashionistas, it turns out that mirrored aviators, a shortened SS-style greatcoat, enormous workboots§§§ and pinstripe drainpipes works. Which, frankly, I find surprising. But what the fuck do I know?

Must go now, I've been called to the Bar, but there's going to be a lot more stoned rambling on this blog in the next few weeks as I'm in a much better mood than I have been for a good while, and whereas I used to write more when I was in a pitch black mood, the opposite seems to be the case now, fuck knows why...

*Spanish language geek note: if I'd have titled this entry in English, I'd have used the word style instead of fashion, because I give not a toss for fashion, but pay a great deal of attention to style, but the Spanish for style is estilo, whereas the Spanish for fashion, 'la manera', translates as 'the way', which just sounds... better.

**A lot of science/engineer/maths types like to do heavy brainwork in odd places, Richard Feynmann, (one of my very few genuine heroes, in any field, and the one person who has probably influenced my thinking (such as it is) more than any other single person), used to do a lot of thinking and writing in strip clubs. I discovered many years ago that grotty pubs are most conducive to grinding through the mind-flappingly hard AC theory problems that plague my working life.

***Mainly because I wanted her phone number.

§But most definitely not the label, the price, or Satan preserve us, the hipness.

§§Like I said, I really wanted her phone number. Although I will happily pontificate about this crap if (lightly) pressed, particularly about the shoes and sunglasses.

§§§Really huge. People have laughed at my massive feet all my life. I'm 5'10 and have the feet of a basketball playing freak. I'm never going to fall over in a high wind tho.

1 comment:

  1. I do superb work on crowded trains here. It's like all the fucking ringtones and Francophone muttering abstracts all of my faculties of annoyance, leaving the productive part of my brain free.