Gucci Los Angeles!

Alessandro Michele and Hollywood consummated their long courtship Tuesday night with Love Parade, Gucci’s latest show. Michele is the designer of the moment, a binary-buster whose runway clothes take inspiration from a benighted gendered yore in order to blend, swap, and exaggerate the familiar into dizzyingly unrecognizable and liberatory forms. Hollywood was slow to recognize Michele’s project, but, as gender play began to become big business (again) and an essential part of contemporary narrative, the film industry recognized in Michele a familiar approach. 

It takes extended residence in Los Angeles to recognize among its residents an abiding respect for its history with film. Noteworthy filming locations and ex-houses of dead stars, far from ignored, are piously pointed out with the quiet respect characteristic of a company town. As an old factory of progressive values, there is perhaps a natural affinity between the city and a designer who prefers a dialogue with the past as a means for moving forward. 


The models performed a small circuit of Hollywood Boulevard, emerging from The Chinese Theatre and proceeding down a section of the the Walk of Fame, where the show’s celebrity audience sat in branded director’s chairs. Proceeding across the eerily empty street to reach the sidewalk opposite seemed like space wasted until the end of the show when, emerging again from the Chinese Theatre, the models swarmed the street together for their final bow. So many Hollywood images, emerging as if at the wings of a stage, on a break (remember though, the Chinese theatre was always a movie palace), a (better) reflection of the showbiz celebrities who made up the audience. Hollywood always finds this kind of thing flattering. 

So too are celeb models, but Michele took care that they weren’t obvious. Jared Leto is a longtime supporter and muse of Michele’s. He walked in a signature check jacket and white leather pants with cowboy boots, looking sunburnt, small and ordinary, a reminder of what freaks runway models are. Macaulay Culkin was a clever middle finger to the influencer generation, a recluse dressed here like the guy at a Palm Springs restaurant who bullies the waiter: “Take the menu away and order me exactly what you like.” His shimmering sports jacket was beautiful and fitted his short square body perfectly. A tailor’s inclusiveness. 

This LA show is appropriate for Michele in part because of the failures of his concept. A gorgeous retrospective of twentieth-century typecasting, the titularly women’s pieces include decadent variations on stock feminine roles: the seductive Oriental in a chainmail fitted cap; baselayers in sci-fi synthetics paired with horse blinder glasses; the musician St. Vincent in sexy leather, a feathered cape and finned glasses as the sinister suburban subversive; and a great deal of play with lingerie, an innovation no doubt given new life by Hollywood and a reminder that suggestions of the body used once upon a time to shock. These looks throughout the show are mashed-up and combined, the different eras and references together suggesting a lark in a studio costume department. 

But it is precisely because Michele’s clothes have always looked like costumes that we have always struggled to wear our Gucci pieces, the beloved suits in particular. The costume effect plays a large part in Michele’s success in this collective gender fluid moment. For all the talk of discarding binaries, there is, as always, a desire to push at the boundaries of gender categories without exceeding them. Young people seem to want to announce their desire to be/not be a girl or boy today, rather than dismissing the categories entirely. Retaining the references gives license to play and irony. What, after all, is a costume but a garment temporarily donned and just as quickly discarded, a personality or idea rented? Contrast this approach with Daniel Lee’s most recent show at Bottega Veneta, where an androgynous futurism prevails. The choice between glam Dickies denim and monochrome clinging fringe tennis dresses, however tempting, both point to a danger of a future without reference to our gendered past. There is less opportunity for the play and exchange that Michele understands. Here instead we have the monotony of an unloved uniform.  

The trouble is that these Gucci clothes are for sale, and not inexpensively. When we leave the house in a Gucci suit, headed for a civilian dinner outing, we do so in our thickest skincare products. It is always a challenge to be the only one in the room living the open-minded future. Celebrities have developed a workaround for this. They are photographed in safer logo “essentials”—shoes, knitwear, belts, the logo serving like the watermark on a banknote as a tacit, unspoken assent to the label’s values. All the benefits then, and none of the work. It is those of us who brave the streets in our runway pieces that are the real heroes. Onward!

Gucci + Lanvin: Not a Collaboration

They appeared some days before opening. The incomplete stage, situated beneath the grand dome and visible from balconies above, was at the ground floor covered in black shroud. Like the members of a traveling theater troupe, staff in performance dress stood outside it with arms crossed, speaking earnestly. Of what? Peculiarities of acoustics? The customs of patronage in this region? In gold tracksuits they resembled nothing so much as off-duty members of a 1970s Formula One team, the offhand glitter of their clothes producing in the rural circuit-town a longing for urban glamour. And it is precisely to honouring this decade, and this desire for a material memento from these otherworldly jinn—a sticker, a used sparkplug, a cap—that Alessandro Michele has committed his Gucci.

We have all, for the most part, been with him, too.

American media have thrilled to the gender-bending qualities of recent Gucci collections. Famous rich young men appeared on magazine covers wearing pieces from women’s collections. Less famous younger people on younger media platforms embraced and embellished this aspect of Michele’s Gucci, part of this country’s ancient insistence on manifesting some—any—kind of destiny. In the face of economic and environmental apocalypse, we shall meet it, we learned, amidst gender and sexual freedom.  

And what could be a more relevant reference to our dizzying present, more flattering to the intelligence of the masses who line up at Gucci stores (like no place else now save Louis Vuitton) than the American 1970s? Frills, bell bottoms, lacy collared shirts and pointy lapelled jackets, yes, but also messy imperial wars with disastrous withdrawals, stagflation and liberatory politics fractured by questions of inclusion.

Michele’s lookbooks, of sumptuous Victorian/1970s hybrid interiors in freshly faded colours, point to a simpler explanation of his preferred references: these chaotic years, as translated by Michele, involved a maximalist interpretation of colour, print, and cut. There was more, not to put too fine a point on it, pretty. Subsequent decades made more space for irony, for slick monochromes or a deliberate dowdiness, which we see renewed, for example, by Demna Gvasalia. But who would pay for that garbage? Michele, by the play involved in his—admittedly not very revolutionary—nostalgic return to an earlier decade’s preoccupations, can have his cake and eat it: make pretty clothes without taking a previous era, or our own, too seriously. After all, surely some bullies wore bell bottoms, too. 

Who better than Michele, a virtuoso of liberatory lateness, to celebrate 100 years of Gucci? The anniversary Gucci pop-up at South Coast Plaza contains marvels, though on entrance a soberly suited employee couldn’t confirm quite what. 

“I write on fashion. Could you tell me the inspiration for that green installation? A train station?” 

A blank, but nevertheless widening smile. “Yes it could be.” 

I wondered if this was affected mystery or the inoffensive (and thus offensive) enforced open-mindedness of our times. Inside, however, I was given by a second staffer a beautifully measured tour of the collection, including the archival details which represent the efforts of past collections and designers. The women’s patterned trench coat is stunning, the more archival and baroque shoes a joy, and the wool men’s jacket (light of colour yet double-breasted?!) in anniversary tapestry particularly covetable. The latter we learned integrates references to pop music lyrics which label-checked the house.


It is easier to have nostalgia for a period one does not deeply know. Anyway, it’s a familiar furrow. Celine, and its cover band Saint Laurent (we knew it was the idea all along but didn’t imagine it would come off so easily) are also firmly embedded in a ’70s aesthetic, though this is shifting as Hedi Slimane plays with a bolder language of logo streetwear. For consideration of an alternative epoch, Bruno Sialleli’s Lanvin has interested us since his first men’s collections swerved, unlike Slimane and Michele, not from the 1990s, but to it. Reflecting on this period of superficial socio-economic consensus, of the end of history, but also of irony (which Michele has had to inject back into his cherished references-Slimane doesn’t use it), Sialleli crafted a composite tailoring which examined the ’90s prehistory of athleisure: oversized and athletic but paired with slightly too cute prints. This frisson, that the forever loungy jeans and Footlocker look did flatter some boys, and can look really good on really pretty models, was a brave move in a market with a wariness of artistically addressing recent decades of pop culture.      

The men’s looks in the Spring 22 show baffle us. If Sialleli in his first shows at Lanvin hovered over an innovative combination of post-Loewe sailor boy and forbidden straight boy ‘90s nu-nostalgia, he appears in this show to have yanked hard on the stick, pulling out of the landing. The pieces here are monochrome, gone are the contrast collars, all of it in Kim Jones Dior purples and blues. Jackets, in the previous shows matching oversized trousers with thoughtfully piped sleeves, are wider now all over, thus eliminating their distinctive internal tension. Half-hearted shaggy dog and boucle numbers look a lot like Daniel Lee’s first shows at BV. There are a few graphic prints, which seem fine, but in a not unisex show with 11 men’s looks, we have no story for them. The meat of Lanvin’s men’s collections, that interesting tailoring and play on the unconscious athleisure boy, is buried on the website and on the racks in-store. For the men, then, why even bother with the show?         

Celine Men’s Summer 2022

Among the fashion designer “heavies,” Hedi Slimane—photographer, filmmaker, music obsessive—would seem the least likely, in this era of digital-only shows, to display a clinginess to the rubric of the runway. His men’s collections are some of the least fashion-referential going, his modern business miracle the translation of a connoisseur’s recursive, selfish passions into equally indefatigable sales. The early, pre-pandemic Celine shows involved the lowering onto conventional runways of spheres and boxes, containers of Slimane’s comprehensive worlds, the venue largely incidental. A suburban bedroom wall is, after all, the site of the most vivid and enduring dreams. And yet his pandemic shows have revealed a preference for circuits: at the Circuit Paul Ricard; the athletics track at the Parc des Princes; and in the newest film, of the men’s spring ‘22 collection, a motocross ramp circuit cum runway perched on the coast of southern France.        

The English language website offers a tripartite name for the film, “Cosmic Cruiser/Riding a New Age/Restless Dreams of a Cosmic Teen.” Ambitious claims. American viewers will indeed recognize further evidence of Slimane’s intuitive understanding of youth culture. Several major American cities in recent years have been regularly overrun, without warning, by hordes of young men and boys on motocross and quad bikes, a series of lawless but mostly (though not always) harmless (save for eardrums) expressions of youthful enthusiasm. For the urban doomsdayers, these youth represent an alarming new urban dystopian futurity. 

Check your parochialism! Given the film’s specific credit to fmx and motocross riders “FMX4EVER” and “Team Honda SR,” we would instead appear to have here classic Slimane. A chance encounter with a subculture, an image of youth, glimpsed in transit, a picture of that reluctant conjunction at the bloom of male youth: of awkward clothing and the unselfconscious preference to cast it off. So it is that we have shirtless motocross riders and a collection inspired by riding leathers. 

Slimane’s single-mindedness, at length, can pall. One yearns for a touch of irony, of selfconscious play. Slimane’s ideal subjects, even when self-styled, are unconscious of their viewership; a runway audience, after all, is not made up of their teen peers. And in a rare misfire, this show is ripe not for humour, but for send-up. What is a more familiar graveyard for unintentionally camp dystopias than motorbike futurism? See the Mad Max series, or Waterworld. Smoky two-stroke motocross bikes, unchanged for nearly a century, as a bellwether of our future? The up-to-datedness of the rider’s helmets and glasses (translated for the show into desirable sunglasses, not incidentally) seems to eliminate the small chink of selfconscious play in this storyline. A miss.

To the clothes. Slimane’s summer collections have always been weighted for an unseasonably cool Scandinavia. Wool tailoring, leather. Even so, this season, preoccupied as it is with the motorcycle motif, appears to depict a radically alternative future, in which temperatures are due not to rise, but cool, and drastically so. 

Quick buyer’s guide: if you are in need of leather—conventional jacket with a runway embellishment, an oversized sleeveless jacket, trousers—any of these pieces will do. They have Slimane’s nerdy accuracy on design, a variety difficult to find in leather clothing anywhere else and the (admittedly dubious) patina of rarity/collectibility that comes with Slimane’s runway pieces. A buyer will not find themselves with a dad’s leather jacket.

Here lies part of the secret of Slimane’s success. For a show which is ostensibly about an image of adolescence, with complete looks of teenage rebellion, each piece, considered alone, is crafted from costly, adult fabrics. Viewed on a rack in-store, they look, in leather, in grandpa wool, much more grown up. When tried on, (we, ahem, exclude fitted trousers here) they produce that aha! Lust effect that might appear unimaginable from viewing the shows which are, quite rightly, so many concept kitchens for mature buyers. 

Wool suiting, well represented in the summer ‘21 collection, has been largely replaced by the glut of leather but also by the most interesting series of pieces in the show, which, like French porcelain (think Hermes/Puiforcat) makes use of a circuit/line tracery print, put to beautiful effect in lighter, billowy pieces. Much more inclined to vintage-stylized text logos and palm trees, these are a welcome detour for Slimane. This tracery is also present in a stud application on a denim jacket. The one to buy. 

Trousers are baggy, the denim too “Jnco” for us but in the cotton/linen print (see above) and in an interesting selection of soft leisure pants, impressive. With correct (which is to say, lousy) application of logos, these sweatpants will sell in the United States.  

What suiting there is is cut in an approachable style, not nearly as baggy as the denim but neither is it at the Slimane extreme of rail-thighed rocker slim. We didn’t get on with SS21, which seemed, with the launch of ‘80s basketball sneakers and other informal looks, a decline toward logo streetwear and, we feared, a lack of interest by Slimane. This collection, by contrast, is exciting for Celine collectors. We own versions of everything on sale here (save the capes and the bucket hat visor thingy), but these clever variations on traditional Slimane don’t make us want the new stuff any less. When Slimane’s collections appear preposterously unsuited to the seasons they purport to outfit, we know he is in form. Just let him do his thing.  

Must Haves: All of the look at 10:19; stud denim jacket in tracery (and anything else in the print); leather and silk capes

Dislikes: We loathe hoodies and loathe logos. There are lots of logo hoodies here.

Natural Break

Astonishing to see the neighborhood cat in the backyard, where he surveills, hunts, and sleeps, all at once. Directly he enters the property, dropping silently from a bordering hedge, from our window after accepting (the pleasure, we aren’t allowed to forget, is ours) a piece of hospitality, and the resident family of birds establish their defence. First an invisible sentinel emits a constant, mechanically regulated shriek, a loud, unwavering Geiger counter. The cat half-raises an ear without looking at the alarm, like a bully, a corrupt cop, quietly exulting in the power to effect. He raises his paw to his mouth and begins a cleaning. Before long he snaps smartly to attention, suspending a Teddyboy coiffed forearm and raising his vibrant green eyes to a second bird, which conducts an aggressive low warning flight, its wings spread, showing the national colours on its fuselage. The pilot lands equidistant to his now visible compatriot, who persists with the original alarm. Together these soldiers form a triangle with the cat, who observes this arrangement, rises, and retires to an old chair with cushion for a more comfortable long bath. Ablutions done he folds his paws underneath his body and rests. The first bird cuts the tocsin. The cat is a persistent threat: to carelessly placed nests, a fallen chick; victims of aggressive boredom. And yet, the cat needs these birds, too, for these same defences, as the cat dozes, warn of threats from predators big enough to make a meal of him. Last week a hawk, its claws the size of my own, landed on one of the trees and calmly surveyed the yard as I worked in it, unfazed by my movement and noise.

Dries van Noten Men’s Spring 2022

Just as we sharpened our critical talons in consideration of the latest Dries van Noten spring collection, a funny thing happened. “Private sale starting this weekend” on the previous (and in actual human biological calendar, current) spring season’s collection. Would we stop by?

In our “of course,” we yielded not just to the vanity of being wanted. Cherishing a secret and unsayable passion for the label as teens, we could never have dreamed of a personal invitation to an American flagship store on Melrose, an hour from our door. This loyalty, to Dries as part of the structure and fabric of the story of our lives, exceeds by now, after the corporate sale of the label and its rather unfortunate popularity, our desire to have all the clothes.

This is in part because at the Los Angeles store, with most of the season collected, there is just so much of it, and especially in spring seasons, where a kind of pattern has emerged. It seemed to set in spring 2019, when, then resident in Japan, we also set our own buying habits for the collections. Using dozens of variations of the archival prints of a greater (Werner Panton) or lesser (Len Lye) known artist, we get bright and sheeny coloured summer looks, from summer trenchcoats to shorts, the latter often available in multiple fabrics and lengths, which can, somewhat implausibly, result in objects which, seemingly identical when folded, produce at try-on wildly divergent amounts of lust. Alongside these signature patterns of the season there are usually two further motifs, one of tailoring, like a brilliant camel and red pinstripe suiting from SS20, and second of monochrome textures, like the current (SS21) season’s combination with dark mesh. 

We tend to lust for that tailoring because, apart from its excellence, there’s simply less of it: it’s rarer, and other designers have a harder time copying it without straying beyond the scope of their label. And other labels do copy the Dries spring prints. It’s very nearly an industry, and a shame too, since, when the collections are based on an artist’s prints, these copies represent a double plagiarism.

And yet, here we go again. Passing through the small section devoted to sober tailoring at the Los Angeles store, we saw a lone pair of satin viscose Lyn Lye print trousers, separated from the long hall that houses most of the print pieces. Isolated in this way and with the satin drape that the denim and wool versions can’t match, we smuggled it ourselves to the changing room. There, as we slid its smooth chilled surfaces over our flanks, we had that laugh-aloud magic moment, the thrilling surprise of a piece which at once fits better than we could have dreamed and which we know will go home with us. What makes those obsessively sought but too rare moments so special? They reproduce that rarest and happiest type of compliment, of a disinterested observer, with nothing to gain, telling one how special they appear. 

‘Tis ever thus. After playing hard to get with the prints of a spring Dries season, we are seduced by the combination of exquisite fabric, cut, and a made-for-us fitting. Now begins the process of buying up as much of it as we can, on the strength of our experience with this single gorgeous piece.

This familiar epiphany upended our working thesis for the new collection. Spring ‘22 we expected to be predictable. But, we reflected, if there is a version of that satin print trouser, is a groove (a circuit, repetitive, but also a little bubble of bliss, the halo which sanctifies the unselfconscious solitary dancer) such a bad thing?

None of it! Far from predictable, the men’s Spring 2022 season is all over the place. As if to assuage our concerns over recent (SS19; 21) strictly structured spring collections, the new season is all variety. Only a list will do.

We have:

*Signature summer light cotton and silk shirt-sleeved collared shirts, in two types.
*Mesh and perforation
*Chunky, black synthetic suiting we might find from Rei Kawakubo
*A black oversized shirt and cropped trouser combination in an orange blurred shutter print suggesting Yohji Yamamoto
*Abstract prints in their typically measured and clever variations/combinations
*A series of soft, light monochrome casual suiting, including shell jacket.
*90s Anglo-American thrift store working-class rocker unisex casual pieces
*Army green hefty cotton workshirts with excellent matching skirts
*Super oversized trousers, reminiscent of streetwear from the second half of the 90s
*That one must-have spring matching suit

Borderline incoherent. But the season is also a kind of classic. The key is in the show location and concept: 24 hours in Antwerp. This collection is a modest, tender, almost private love letter to Antwerp, a homecoming, the variation of clothes a “bringing it all home.” While the iconic and unforgettable Dries seasons have—for us these tend to be Fall/Winter—immersed us in endlessly surprising reimaginings of a single historical moment or artistic concept, this show’s conceit represents a nearly Odyssean reckoning with Dries van Noten’s career. The collection is a subtle and, in the way that a museum reflects a mature artist’s various departures, a necessarily unfocused retrospective.

A drone shot approaches the quayside—low duvet of clouds blocking a powerful sun, the microwaved light of a place we are from and where we die, but not a place anyone goes—scanning parking lots and loading docks before settling on the boardwalk, where a short white platform serves as a mobile runway taken around the city, the models crossing like the James Bond intro gambit. There are few people about in this love message to a city: one father and daughter look modestly at a model’s turn before turning away. And yet the appreciation and hope for Antwerp’s lived experience is evident in the variety of location shots as well as the print references. As the accompanying music by Primal Scream echoes throughout, “We want to have a good time.” Heard in the mostly empty nightclub which concludes the show, this is a conscious, responsible, grown-up message of cautious hope that has been characteristic of the label’s philosophy and clothes during these pandemic years.

What, then, are our three or four loosely connected themes for the season? As the music selection suggests, there is first of all 1990s working class boy-artist earth-tone emphasis. Look 3 involves a mustard coloured brushstroke inspired striped sweater. Long, slouchy, perhaps borrowed. The model wears a 90s boy bob haircut with artfully bad highlights to match. Think Damon Albarn.

Look 7 adds the dark military cotton familiar from recent spring Dries seasons. Here an oversized workshirt with exaggerated sleeves and pockets combines beautifully with a fitted matching skirt. Recent seasons have contrasted these dark cottons with layered bright florals. There is less of that here and much more monochrome, including a series of fresh tailored soft cotton (we think) pieces in easter egg colours: slightly oversized coats with sleeves that cleverly balloon at the cuff, layered with slightly off-matching tourist jacket and shirt accompanied by tapered lounge-formal trousers. The recent saturation of technicolor Dries summer prints makes these a welcome departure, and recall the skill required to make monochrome effective.

The label’s by-now familiar summer graphic print shirts, summer cotton and silk button-downs in collared shirt-sleeves, come in two categories. First, and winningly, a series (this writer has no press guide) which make use of early modern Flemish art prints on orange/gilded/salmon backgrounds, framed at buttons and bottom seam with a contrasting colour. These prints are also included as panels in a tapestry effect applied to t-shirts—an excellent use of a classic Dries code. Second, and rather too familiar from recent seasons are a series of the summer shirts which make use of photographic images from Antwerp in a collage (front and back) or straight photoprint effect. This is similar to the Raf Simons teenage bulletin-board-above-the-bed concept from which that designer is desperately struggling to escape. The first type of shirt is better: they imply and suggest atmosphere, giving both wearer and observer options, rather than forcing a limited range of effect and interpretation.

A worthy mention too for the shoes: puffed siliconed and enhanced leathers, zoomed-in strappy sandals. We are happy to see also the split sole leather loafers with heel tab introduced in FW21 (which we await in store) as well as a new jacked-up boat shoe, a delicious send-up of the goofy male codes in the American South. What staff at the Los Angeles store call (off the record) the “bread loaf” sandals are back for their second summer, this time in matching, quieter tones than ‘21. Less effective is an exaggerated sole, heel-heavy sneaker that looks far too close to Daniel Lee’s early sneakers at BV.

There are, as the show reaches evening, some beautifully oversized yet fitted (it’s somehow true!) tops in the perforated mesh materials which the label has explored in recent seasons, as well as unisex oversized synthetic suits which resemble something by Rei Kawkubo or recent Prada. If the show sounds slightly incoherent, a more generous reviewer might claim there is something for everyone. The sell-out print party shirt; beautifully measured abstract print combinations; a new monochrome leisure suiting that can claim the Dries name (what’s with this weird James Perse dad stuff they reserve a room for in Los Angeles?); edgy/campy/sexy/unisex/lusty night on the town pieces. They are all here. For Dries fans the big tent is welcome: the popularity of the loud prints can go its way and we will explore these encouraging monochromes. Here’s hoping the variety in the season is an organic artistic impulse, and not only an effect of a corporate push to produce and sell ever greater quantities, that feeling of glut that comes on an old Dries hunter when entering the prodigiously stocked flagship store.

Reviewing Issues

Regular readers will know we have closely watched the early collections of Daniel Lee’s Bottega Veneta. Our concerns are easily stated: is there any room for younger fans of the old BV in the new? Has the label we once sought for lush pieces of rich anonymity, an acceptable compromise with that toad, maturity, been replaced by hype, by the unwelcome curled lip of recognition from the teenage drop-catcher?  

An examination of the first two numbers of BV’s new digital magazine, Issued by Bottega Veneta, ought to tell us whether we’ve lost a home. On the heels of their withdrawal from social media, a protest, we imagine, of toxic politics and the gonzo celebrities who dull us to it, here is a magazine, a kind of recent-retro late aughts slick PDF e-zine, a collectible modern lookbook for our personal archive, set lovingly aside our collection of the season’s clothes. Or so we thought. At our desk, setting up our working materials, we recovered the email announcing the first issue and clicked on the link. Dead. Gone. Deleted. Just another “snap.” So it is with the BV’s new marketing strategies: bold, near revolutionary ideas (which is to say, restorative: of human interaction and consumption) followed by confusing and often disappointing execution.

There are more worrying paradoxes in this social media retreat. Mere days before the label withdrew from social media in January, it held a widely publicized private viewing (filmed as a pandemic runway show) in London of their Salon 01 collection. The most celebrated attendee of the innovative and diverse new media outlook of BV? Kanye West, fresh off a presidential run which, had it been successful, in his own victory or in the splitting of votes from Joseph Biden and reelection of Donald Trump, would have rolled back even further the tenuous protections of black lives in America. Why would Daniel Lee, who has bravely celebrated black models in all of his collections, continue to associate, and so publicly, with a man whose self-loathing manifests in destructive anti-blackness?

The most recent issue of, ahem, Issued, is another grappling with this tension between innovative, intelligent art and our revanchist single-channel media moment. It contains lookbook photographs in Lee’s so-far signature dim, greasy flashbulb style. Clingy monochrome looks in a just-right formality-it’s in the fabric and cuts-washed out by an overexposed shot of the evening as it begins to turn sweaty. The models are mostly brilliant; diverse, and deceptively common: a few are B list film stars, the kind of whom mother would say aloud, in a machine-gunned satisfaction: “You know who that is, don’t you?”

Other photospreads are more puzzling. Jeremy Scott, father of an heir to the Kardashian/Jenner media monarchy, posing in a camp-masculine version of an album cover for The Cars. Naomi Campbell in an anaemic conceptual piece, heavily (apparently unironically) airbrushed. To be fair, the magazine may be going for a “group show” gallery effect, made up of highly individual interpretations of the BV collections/look. Nevertheless, we are in these shots a long way from those leering, big pored shots preferred by Lee, and in the choice of models, a much longer way from anything approaching a departure from our social media death spiral.

The magazine’s best photography showcases the label’s outstanding, and from a look at the online stores, quick-selling jewelry. These close zooms, of rings on disembodied fingers, on bodies painted to flatter their lustre, represent something of a controlling thread of Lee’s BV. Bodies in these images are a backdrop, a contrasting tone to mid-century colubrine shapes. The confusion of models, then, from anonymous and vaguely familiar to nauseatingly oversubscribed, all suggest a generosity from Lee, a generosity which, like most, is of a kind most easily given: Lee appears not to care very much about his models. 

Some designers work from a muse backwards. A collection, sometimes a career, as an extended grope for an elusive, embodied youth. Daniel Lee is not, it seems, one of those designers. Take, by contrast, Hedi Slimane. Here he describes the inspiration for his Eau de California perfume for Celine:


Given Slimane’s habit of removing unknown coastal upper-middle class rocker and skater boys to Paris for runway shows, there is an appealing plausibility and coherence to this story. Although to an outside viewer these boys constitued, over the years, a certain type, one verging on predictability-lean, petite, fair, white, androgynous punks-they all nevertheless represent for Slimane so many fresh, thrilling encounters; each model a revelation of that beautiful pyrotechnic period of youthful exploration via subcultures: identity-making. Slimane’s project is to match the most interesting boys with the most interesting times to have been a boy. Models are for Slimane at the core of his creative activity; in his casting he cannot afford like Lee to be generous, flexible, and wilfully incoherent. Slimane will compromise and sanction Celine logo sweaters, but not his jealously guarded concept of models.

This may be generational. There is in Slimane an older, more cautious and constrained gay male gaze, a kind Proust associated with a man called the “solitary,” who jealously guards, from risks of social censure but also from a collector’s personal inclination, their preferred sites of beauty, a man who

“…regard[s] homosexuality as the appurtenance of genius and the great periods of history, and, when they wish to share their taste with others, seek out not so much those who seem to them to be predisposed towards it, like drug-addicts with their morphine, as those who seem to them worthy of it, from apostolic zeal, just as others preach Zionism, conscientious objection, Saint-Simonianism, vegetarianism or anarchy.”

Lee doesn’t invest in models in this way. Lee’s form of inspiration is not the uneasy, possibly illegal application of pure theory to cute boys at the Orange County locals beach. If Slimane is the creepy guy that doesn’t conceal his stare quickly enough, Lee would seem to be upshore, laughing among friends. The new BV employs a slicker and more accessible range of references, hovering breezily over concepts and decades before skipping on to the next.

Consider one of the short snapchat style videos in Issued. The camera follows closely a black and purple feathered trouser bottom as its wearer proceeds down a mostly obscured urban street. The audio is ambient noise: a car passes with windows down, vernacular pop music blaring. Finish. Although the city and its pleasures enhance the garment, they remain strictly ambient, incidental, not, as they would be for Slimane, part of the rigorous structuring theme of a season. In a Slimane production, the model would have been the musician who created the audible pop music. Here, there is no such deep dive into the fabric of an era.

If the marketing people at BV were a contemporary filmmaker, they would be Ryan Murphy. Creator most recently of costume-nostalgia streaming series which have skillfully woven American pop and gay histories, Murphy’s interest in the iconic stories covered in The Death of Gianni Versace or Halston comes with an equally profound challenge: most viewers know how the stories end. Murphy’s shows as a result don’t attempt intricacies of plot. Nor is much time spent on development of character. The streaming series are both too long and too short for this: we tire before long of the repeated flaws of our anti-hero, while briefly important characters appear and fall away without much explanation as the protagonist swiftly reaches his fate.

What then, makes up the six episodes of a season? Murphy’s climaxes are not of plot, but of a coming out, or, more precisely, a going out, with a dedication to the ambience and materiality of a historical moment. Gianni Versace’s most powerful scenes depict Andrew Cunanan intoxicated by his power to appropriate glamour by association with and dominance over the wealthy and powerful. Recall Cunanan exultant while dressing in an older boyfriend’s mansion, seated on a Steve Chase lounge chair. In Halston, the lush and compelling sets hook the viewer before another frenzied going out moment, when our hero marches in full fig to his first night at Studio 54. These music video set pieces, heavily indebted to skillful prop work, suggest in both content and method a kind of glut, a satedness, an excess in both the characters and the limited commitment to plot in these films. The point is the surfaces, the art of the props; in Lee’s case: the clothes.

While Slimane grudgingly reveals the tension between his freighted gaze and its amplification through his models, Murphy gives us Halston snorting cocaine on a red Steve Chase dining table, the legs of which look like nothing so much as the smooth serpentine shapes of BV’s new jewelry. This is gay history for a much more confident audience, one attuned to irony and slow to blush, plenty familiar with that kind of boy, that kind of party.

The Murphy/Lee nostalgia of surfaces is encouraging for fans of Lee’s Bottega Veneta. A persistent and not inaccurate criticism of Slimane over the years has been his repeated harvesting of his own back catalogue. Lee’s inclination for surface inspiration, of ambience or mood over deep narrative is evident in the already impressive range of styles in his collections. So far this has been limited, because of his interest in shapes rather than prints and patterns, to tailoring and the outstanding footwear. But as Lee warms to a wider range of colors and prints in the clothes (we are encouraged, if not convinced, by this season’s Chanel-ish Boucle in wavy stripes), we might hope for further explorations of the epochal surfaces that seem to inspire him, of cultural histories prodded and handled in a utilitarian utopian craftsmanship which happily insists on the centrality of new and underrepresented faces. Here’s hoping BV will follow its own advice and drop the social/reality media dinosaurs as well as their platforms.

Crotchety in Westwood at Westwood

We strolled last week down Memory Lane. Not, to be sure, our own, but that of a visiting out-of-town friend, who worked in film in 1990s Los Angeles. Our template was Melrose Avenue, where we walked a reasonable length, (a contradiction: to ambulate in southern California beyond the mailbox is to be instantly declasse) from La Cienega east to Wasteland, a second-hand store we understand is largely unchanged from our friend’s prowling years ago. We noticed high prices, above end-of-season sale rates, for much-worn pieces. We noticed our age, too. The music was far too loud and the light too low. Girls wandered through the gloom in states of semi-dress, trying items on in mirrors fixed to architectural columns. Only as they departed, so meagerly clothed, did the intelligence of their efficient changing-room outfits become clear.    

The city’s retail transformations might, paradoxically, be more evident to recent and infrequent visitors to Los Angeles, like us here at Gyun Gyun. There are on Melrose and elsewhere long stretches of high-rent spaces empty, creating segregated and no-go spaces within the famously patchwork neighbourhoods of the city. The dialectic effect is of a hyper segregation of geography at the same time that, as we have remarked elsewhere in these pages, a much greater diversity of Americans are bravely patronising neighbourhoods historically closed—except as staff—to them.        

Our friend came of age and self with Vivienne Westwood, whose tall, light-stone store looms incommensurably on a corner lot arm’s-length from the self-consciously luxurious stores of Melrose Place. With its VIP space upstairs and rooftop garden, the store evokes a mistaken urbanity, of a Parisian atelier placed clumsily like a monument on the Washington Mall. 

We have had over the years similarly bewildering in-store experiences. Where other sellers of rebellious, liberating, and identity-transforming clothes have tended to be welcoming and encouraging (when not grooming), the Westwood staff have always been impressively cold and standoffish, with a remarkable, almost trained, consistency. Maybe it’s a “punk” thing?        

On one such occasion, we mistook such negligence for tasteful discretion, only to look up from a rack of clothes terminating behind the counter, where staff were idly scrolling the Huffington Post homepage. As we exited the store we loudly praised the Westwood/The Rug Company rug near the street entrance. Finally sure of an audience, we slowly dug our toe into its surface. “I have the bigger version.”   

This visit the staff were much more lively, showing consideration and efficiency to walk-in shoppers while they operated at much-reduced capacity, though not without that familiar suggestion of effortful patience. The clothes don’t quite work for us here at GG-like Punk music an artistic dead-end, at their best an Edwardian style and texture put to better, more progressive use by Burton at McQueen. Neither did the prices suit our guest. We each took home a neatly coloured pub/football towel at what we thought a fair 75 USD. One can never have too many towels near the beach. 

Before entering the store, we made a small queue with a young couple arrived shortly after us. The man, unusually tall and thin, wore a black, logoed, ironic-synthetic athletic warm-up suit. The sun was out and it was warm. He campily puffed a heavily flavoured cheroot, bringing to mind a clammy Jimmy Savile. His partner was heavily made-up, with a gyroscope eye which, though her head was invariably turned away, would at intervals fix on us a level stare.

“Who makes that bag? Lanvin?”

“You have a good…eye. Wow. Yes, it is.”

He nodded and half-turned his head to exhale. A mock-propriety amidst virus-shy regulations. 

“How much was that?”

We alternate between policies of inquiry and disclosure on cost. For a time we thought it a cutely anti-bourgeois line of conversation. On reflection it seems a dubious way to start a revolution. To his direct question we thought the only move a straightforward reply.

“21. Or 25?”

We cringed at our own abbreviation. Surely that is only on when there are at least two more zeroes in play.

He nodded. 

“Seen the new collaboration with Gallery Dept.?”

“In fact, I just read the email this morning…”

“Those are going to be rare. Expensive.”

“Oh?” Doubt concealed with quick agreement. “I’m sure. They looked interesting.”

“They’ll be hot.”

He nodded confidently.

Such genuity regarding fashion betrayed the man as an avid consumer rather than insider. And who, apart from fans of older Lanvin womenswear (we’re sure we’re the only ones who half-heartedly collected the old men’s) would spot their latest bags? Both a Paul Smith and a Loewe employee misidentified ours as Loewe since we started wearing it. We were impressed by this young man’s research.

The exchange raised questions for us on the future of legacy fashion houses. Here was embodied proof of the excitement of the drop/dump/collaboration. Hype for its own sake; utterly false rumour of limited quantities; truly dubious artistic merit. And yet, clearly this young man was a serious shopper: the future. What then, does that future look like for the big houses? Should they remove the fixed designer entirely, rotating as they do now between teams, like relief pitchers or football goalkeepers, and set up shop as so many art galleries, lending their logos to a changing cast of influencers, who will dump/drop/collab a remix on the hype-hungry?  

Bag Bumming

My new daily driver is Lanvin’s “Hook” Bag. It is large and structured, so that I can load it with all the necessaries of a full day out, yet also flexible enough for a tight space; between people or car seats. It is also thrillingly unisex, with a sturdy, comfortable strap that can produce purse, tote, and even backpack effects. Adjusting it is a pleasure, since it fastens with a tasteful loop stamped with the Lanvin text logo. The hardware has discreet house logos, too, and the eagle-eyed (a rep at the local Loewe store not among them; she thought it was one of their own) will note the “JL” stitching of the strap. 

The bag is elegant and luxurious, but not too “cutely” shaped. It serves very well on days we haven’t the strength to trade in “well, men’s bags aren’t pretty-deal with it!” defiance.

On receipt of it from Lanvin’s K11 Musea Hong Kong store, I didn’t think of reviewing or filming it. I just wanted to cram our things in it and use it. That process was a relief, too, as I transferred my cards to the attached wallet. For years now I’ve used a Valentino rockstud fold wallet. A pleasure to use and pretty, the studs nevertheless required careful attention to avoid scratching other leather accessories in a shared tote. The (permanent?) retirement of the Valentino and the personal revelation of the attached wallet-how many discarded bags have misshapen, abused, royal like the currency they nobly carried, these little flags separated from their bodies, waving in surrender?-gave me a delightfully carefree feeling. 

Perhaps too carefree. After a midweek lunch I stepped into a local Whole Foods grocery store for a single item: peanut butter for post-exercise smoothies. 

Whole Foods stores in this area resemble nothing so much as a singles bar. Shopping expensively, in their sexiest athleisure wear, the no-longer-quite youth here describe the very kernel of their souls by the food they (don’t) eat. There has always in this location been bouncers, too. They have since it opened nearly a decade ago had a preoccupation with imagined theft (of what?), and employ patrolling security at all hours.

So it was, dressed thus

that we entered for a precision grab of organic peanut butter. I picked from the shelf the nearest container and brought it to my chest before, superstitiously, remembering to replace it for an “untouched” container at the back of the shelf, no matter that I already handled the “dirtier” one. 

Quarry in hand I made for the checkout. But first, I made to extract the attached wallet from the Hook bag. Pulling on the leather strap it was rapidly reeled to the surface. My hands though, were still damp with hand sanitizer from entering the store. Concerned, unnecessarily, with the leather finish, I attempted to unzip the wallet while exposing it to the minimum surface area of hands and fingers.

Although I have long since lost any shame at the public display of “women’s bags,” I also feel no need to advertise this little gender rebellion in a “conservative” (that is to say, anti-cosmopolitan) locale. I half-turned for privacy, still by the peanut butter, to learn the best use of the wallet, struggling in a pinched chicken wing posture, sawing ineffectually at the string zipper.
Card in hand I waited in line behind a family of three, the father, trim and outdoorsy, negotiating with his daughter, whose head reached just below the terminal, about who should conduct their card transaction. 
“I can!”
“You will-one second.”
The father inserted the card, rather unsportingly I thought, while the girl stood with furrowed brow, her two hands poised around it. 
“Okay, take it.”

I gave a “wasn’t that nice” smile to the checker, a woman in her 30s. In my left hand the peanut butter; in right, shouldered bag and credit card. 

As I extended my arm to hand her the peanut butter she asked, “Is that all?”
“Yep,” I said, automatically, in the way a parent might affirm a newly speaking child’s identification of a passing object. 
“Is that all?” she said again, this time with a low tone to the final word.
“Yeah,” I said, with an apologetic chuckle, unsure whether she hadn’t heard us, or if she thought a single item unusual.
“Is that all?” she said, this time taking time over each word. 
“Oh. You think I’m shoplifting?!”
“I don’t know what you’re doing.”

I immediately understood why I was being accused-it was the fussing with the bag and the peanut butter swap. Nevertheless an unedifying scene followed.


Of the hand-wringing threats to the fashion industry-sustainability, diversity, retail/resale-the least threatening to us is the big resale websites. What is the benefit, when a live-feed of a purchase broadcasts our individual credibility, of buying a used bag at 80% of retail on the TheRealReal? Overproduction and year-round sales from all but a couple of the conglomerate labels mean it is possible to buy these items new for less than on consignment, where the buyer has to pay for two sellers. 

TheRealReal is useful as a well photographed archive, however. Searching for the proper name for our Lanvin Hook bag, a used version was advertised to us by Google. TheRealReal called it a “leather Hobo bag” (1125.00 USD). 

After our experience trying to buy peanut butter with it, we thought this an accurate description.

Or: was it to do with that double waisted Prada trouser? Does the sight of it anger people? You be the judge:

Gyungyun + Celebrity Collaboration!

During a recent fashion perambulation, inspecting the latest clothes as a pretext to showing off our collection of the old, we ran into an idol. Not, to clarify, an obsession. They were not the subject of white-hot adolescent infatuation. Neither were they the object of the more lasting, and therefore more complicated adult devotion: a figure responsible for professional or political conversion. These latter, the inspiration for our public and civic selves, almost require the cheery hand-pumping of a party conference. When life is stalled, a look of chilly resentment. We were at our encounter, by contrast, speechless. Starstruck. 

It’s mostly the fault of the internet. Public figures to whom we would in antediluvian times have cultivated a seasonal relationship, we now, thanks to the algorithm and push notifications, pass significant periods of each year. The artist we once confronted for intense but incidental review—a musician at the back of the CD case, returned to the light by a road trip; a painter in a coffee-table book at a holiday home—we now review with academic rigour, a websearch providing a detailed knowledge of the life and work. Thus we possess, by the standards of an earlier time, the knowledge of a superfan for artists of passing interest, and that of the near-homicidal hyperfan for those that truly interest us.

We were reminded of M.’s intoxicating and intoxicated dinners with Saint-Loup at Rivebelle during our narrator’s first visit to Balbec. Asked by the two young men to describe a fellow regular, a solitary diner at a neighboring table, the restaurant manager expresses his amazement: “you mean to say you don’t know the famous painter Elstir?” The boys don’t, though Elstir’s work has been recommended to M. by Swann.

So it is that “There are, in such restaurants, as there are in public gardens and railway trains, people enclosed in a quite ordinary appearance, whose names astonish us when, having happened to ask, we discover that they are not the mere inoffensive strangers whom we supposed but no less than the Minister or the Duke of whom we have so often heard.” 

We didn’t thrust ourselves upon our idol, whose work and ideas, always thought-provoking, we do know well. Not even a thank you, although we flatter ourselves that we exchanged with them a look of recognition. Why not? With adulthood comes risk and an appreciation of privacy. We are no longer like the boys at Rivebelle, impelled to scribble at note to Elstir from “admiration in the abstract, the nervous envelope, the sentimental framework of an admiration without content, that is to say a thing as indissolubly attached to boyhood as are certain organs which no longer exist in the adult man; we were still boys. Elstir meanwhile was approaching the door when suddenly he turned and came towards us. I was overcome by a delicious thrill of terror such as I could not have felt a few years later, because, as age diminishes the capacity, familiarity with the world meanwhile destroys in us any inclination to provoke such strange encounters, to feel that kind of emotion.”

And yet, we did share, at the sight of our idol, similar passions to M.’s at Balbec. During his first days at the sea, M.’s self-consciousness as a newcomer among the Grand Hotel’s circumspect regular guests is stirred to romantic fantasy at the sight of the daughter of a local nobleman, Mlle. de Stermaria. Tipped off by his friend Bloch to the hidden licentiousness of all women, M. imagines, with the help of a prestigious reference, assignations with the girl. 

His fantasies, however, are sustained by a trick. His dreams proceed not directly to sensual pleasures, but first of all to her home, her native region, the places and stuff of her memories. “Together we should have roamed that island impregnated with so intense a charm for me because it had enclosed the everyday life of Mlle de Stermaria and was reflected in the memory of her eyes. For it seemed to me that I should truly have possessed her only there, when I had traversed those regions which enveloped her in so many memories-a veil which my desire longed to tear aside…”     

The trick is to place the girl in the romantic historical context of her life in order to make the pursuer of sensual pleasures believe that there is more to the chase than the purely erotic: “by the illusion of possessing her thus more completely, they may be forced to occupy first the scenes among which she lives and which, of more service to their imagination than sensual pleasure can be, yet would not without that pleasure have sufficed to attract them.” 

This is of course, only a trick or an illusion the first time the man falls for it. After which, there is no excuse. He is a cad.  

Meeting an idol is similar. Our dreamland consists of all the experiences and places reflected in the memory of their eyes. The great shows, the creative output, fellow celebrities met and befriended, famous events which took place when we were small or ungestated. We are sure we celebrate them by our fandom and speechlessnes. But that too is a trick, and like M.’s, a very personal one.

We may not (though often we do, too) desire sensual pleasure with our idols, about which we are misled by a journey into their past, but we are almost always reckoning with a history of ourselves, of the life we have lived during our long attachment to them. In this autoerotic pleasure, a meeting which is an unexpected narcissistic thrill, the idol represents our own life and history as much as their own. The sensual pleasure—itself, as our narrator insists, a selfish preference transferred to the unnecessary canvas of another person—again is confused for more noble context.  

It is no wonder then that the most common pose struck by celebrities on meeting an insensate fan is of a half-turned, uncomfortably smiling silhouette, the look of a witness to a surprise and, to the bearer, unknown moment of nudity. This moment, they know, has very little to do with them. 

Commodity Fetish Hot Potato

Available now on our new (!) Youtube channel: a pilot episode for an innovative new unboxing series. We—well, health protocols mandate that a solitary associate intern shares—the thrill of making runway dreams a reality. 

Our intern reports strange sensations in the course of filming these productions. We expected to feel a diminished pleasure from the staging for public consumption of the private, neurotic pleasures of collecting. This has to a certain extent proved true: that furtive first unwrapping, in half-lit, not yet repossessed rooms, of objects half-forgotten in the journey home, has been held off, the amateur’s impulse deferred for a professional stoicism.

The pleasure is no longer our own. It must wait, for the calculated angles of daylight, camera, and sound equipment. Our private reification—the attribution to things of qualities and relationships usually reserved for human beings—has been displaced, transferred, to the viewer. 

To our surprise, the handling of clothes during filming, the consideration of how they are best placed before a camera, to demonstrate their features and different uses, all create in us a far more materialist relationship with the pieces, one that is closer to the ideal proclaimed by good designers: of repeated, creative, much-handled and thoughtful use.   

In our traditional processes of purchasing and not-at-all taxonomic addition to the wardrobe labyrinth, we rarely reached this level of practical relationship with new items, particularly when registering more of an already well-represented item (leather jackets). So that, what might appear, to the casual viewer passing the thumbnail frame, just one more example of our all TV must be an infomercial moment, is, in fact, someone unexpectedly working their way out of commodity fetishism.    

Our first episode looks at two pieces from Celine.