I have to go to hospital today, although looking at photographs such as these, I would much rather go to Helsinki. Pretty people in pretty clothing. And I have to admit that I have been rather keen on the shorts/leggings combination for quite a while now - although I would prefer some chunky knit or faded floral leggings, as opposed to the matt black. Indeed were I ever to indulge in wearing a pair of torn jeans, rather than showing bare leg beneath them, I would prefer to wear a pair of interesting leggings. It would be more akin to revealing a sliver of a colourful or patterned lining when wearing a suit. And may I just add, I am totally ready for Autumn...once I leave the house for something other than going to the hospital or seeing doctors.
The bulb flickers nervously, its small halo sparks into the swelling darkness, before casting its long and lazy light upon the room. It reaches out to softly caress the closest surfaces within the room, intimately following each and every undulating curve, turn and slow movement with its touch. The far corners of the room remain thickly covered by the dark, however the shadows reach out, gently suffusing the darkness into the warmth offered by the bulb, so that the transition from one to the other feels as natural as the progression from the night to the day itself. Stretched out between the light and dark like a dreamscape is the room in which the air lies still and heavy.
A man steps out of the darkness, his foot landing onto the polished wood of the floor in a muffled thud. His eyes, made slow by sleep, carefully strain to see what is before him, as the objects emerge like wisps plucked from the swirling fog and frozen solid. They are like ghosts given materiality, the hazy edges filling out just at the moment he chooses to concentrate upon them. His glance crosses the shape of the nightstand, bearing upon its worn wooden top a faded framed photograph, of a life he yearns with all his heart to return to, and the clock that has given him his bearings on so many nights, when half-conscious he glances across to its gently illuminated hands. Like a baby in the arms of its mother waking to the welcome reassurance of her breathing, the steady rhythm within which the baby knows instinctively that all is safe, that clock has reassured the man in confused awakening moments, that time is on his side.
And yet, as much as the clock provides the man with a sense of comfort in those foggy-minded moments, of the knowledge that he can be content that he has allowed himself to be where he is, he meets it now with a sense of anxiety. Looking to the guiding hands of the clock he sees not a reassurance of time yet to pass, but rather the creeping of time. He feels time as urgently and as sharply as he feels the rise and fall of his own breast. He feels age, not merely age which promises his own inevitable descent, but age which courses through the veins of life itself. In that moment he feels as if he is standing before the most inspiring book he has ever read, but its pages turn too swiftly for him to keep up. He feels but a bittersweet yearning for a half-forged passed-thought of beauty. As the word beauty tracks across the stage of his mind he thinks of luscious fields of lavender, the smell of musk and amber, the feel of warm skin and silk, and for a moment he loses himself in the luxurious freedom of those associations.
As he opens his eyes once again they rest upon a long mirror stood beneath the glowing bulb. He looks across its clean surface but does not see himself. He sees those tufts of hair, those dark eyes, those fleshy lips. He sees an envelope of self, but he does not see himself, rather he sees past himself. He is more familiar with the features in the mirror than that of any other's, expect perhaps those in the photograph he keeps on his nightstand, and yet when he looks at them his mind simply acknowledges that they constitute the him that ought to be reflected back, and just as swiftly dismisses the fact. They form an irrelevant piece of the puzzle which his mind takes for granted. Like a ripple within a wave it forms part of a whole, to which he concerns himself but could not possibly comprehend every minutia. But then just as he watches the clouds moving in the sky and wonders how it would feel to run through them, whether they will end above land or water, how many eyes will see them pass, he wonders about the details to everything. In discovering the small things he hopes to some day realize the bigger things.
The only time he would really look at the image of himself, to really inspect it, would be the moment he looked upon the mirror and the features reflected back were foreign to his memory. Were his eyes met with even the smallest change or alteration to the set of features which he takes be able to see for granted, he would inspect himself with the fervour of a man seeing himself for the first time. But as it stands, he takes comfort in being able to see, and yet not see. Seeing himself reflected back is a well acquired experience, something he has spent his entire life doing, seeing the changes in age as they happened, that is to say at their languishingly slow natural pace. When he does take the time to stop and look at those features, he notes with a wonder how swiftly he seems to have changed and become the man he never quite thought he would be.
The man knows the man he sees reflected back at him, it is the most intimate and fragile of images, but it is not the him that he imagines himself to be. The image of reality that meets him is that of a surface. Parts of the surface hide inklings of what lie beneath to those deft enough to be able to read them, but those parts can never display all of himself. He could spend a lifetime giving bloom to the seeds of thought that lie behind those eyes, that surface, and never truly display all of himself. But he does not need to display all of himself, and for the people he does wish to display all of himself to, he certainly does not need to express every waking thought. Rather, those people see like he sees, past a surface that they are so familiar with that they can ignore, to the person beneath. They see the brave and strong, the frail and flawed, and accept it, just as he accepts what he sees in them.
But as he stands looking past the image of some other him, he thinks of the him he wants to be. He feels time, he feels age, he feels some notion of his own identity, and he feels the need to put thought into the next action he must take. He slowly turns from the mirror, peeling away from the image of some reflected self, to consider how to clothe the self he wants to display.
Apologies for my recent absence and slow correspondence, I have been in a pill-popping, sore and sweaty mess the past few days (similar to the experience certain Fashion Week attendees may be having, although for entirely different reasons). Posting may be somewhat sporadic for a while, I have a few health complications to deal with. I would post some fashion photography, but I am in the mood for something far more frivolous...
Japanese fashion arguably truly came into its own within the 1980s, after which it was ostensibly eclipsed by a newer generation of international designers in the 1990s. However in the past few years a number of designers have emerged once again from Japan whose technical innovation and attention to craft really has made quite the influential impact. One such designer is Kazuyuki Kumagai, who begun his career at Issey Miyake, specializing in researching alternative materials and techniques for the process of creating clothing. He soon went on to become the assistant designer for Issey Miyake, before moving on to create his own label. He works with two lines, designing for both the Japanese domestic market under Attachment, and for the international market with the eponymously-labeled Kazuyuki Kumagai.
In an interview with Scoute, Kumagai explained that he felt "that the eighties movement exemplified by the Holy Triumvirate of Yohji, Issey and Comme was about to come to an end, and a new fashion movement combining both street and high fashion elements was needed". This new fashion movement took the form of Attachment, founded in 1999, however after moving to show in Paris Kumagai realized that he needed to create a more streamline and refined collection for the international press, and as such the Kazuyuki Kumagai line began. The focus was very much on textiles and researching new materials and developmental processes to design around.
In such a way Kumagai's approach reminds me very much of Yamamoto (or indeed Miyake whilst he was still designing), whose process begins with the fabric - feeling it and seeing how it drapes, than designing a garment around the nature of the fabric itself. I have always thought that such an approach is fascinating, for a sketch is only ever a sketch, it is restricted and defined by what can be done with the fabric and materials chosen. Designs need to be made with the fabric in mind, and using the fabric to inspire allows the designer to create clothing which not only explores the limitations of that fabric, but also allows the designer to constantly consider the relationship of that fabric against the body, and as such the experience of the wearer.
Indeed in terms of attention to craft and fabric, the Fall 2009 collection by Kumagai is one which really interests me. It was an exploration of the design process and use of materials that so exemplifies his work, although not without its consequences. Whilst sharing similar threads of aesthetics with his earlier work, the collection was slightly haphazard in its arrangement, for there was a slight incoherence, which although not majorly distracting, was still noticeable. Given the relative youth of the Kazuyuki Kumagai line, this was however perhaps not all that surprising. And indeed whilst there was a certain lack of a strong "voice", for want of a better phrase, the wearability and design of the individual pieces was however very strong. From the padded jackets, to the fitted leathers, to the draped tops, to the bow tied shirts, to the blazer closed with a safety pin, the collection was varied yet delightfully exciting.
I really enjoyed this look, especially the juxtaposition of the tailored, yet relaxed, upper with the ease of the sarouel trousers. Indeed the design of the trousers throughout the collection really stood out for me, from the relaxed sarouel trousers of this look, to the j-shaped jeans of the look below - they certainly added an element of flair to the relevant looks. In a way I suppose the trousers in this look reminded me of traditional pleated Oxford bags, albeit tapered and cropped. That was something I found myself liking, especially with the historical referencing to the Victorian gentleman with the formal looks later on in the collection. The tailoring of the outerwear pieces was also really interesting to see, for they were clean and traditional, however with details such as the tripled-peaked lapel they stood out nicely. The styling choice with the chain and bow tie was also a welcome touch, and indeed I found myself rather taken by the chains in the later gothic dandy looks.
Harry Clarke, born in 1889, was an Irish stained glass artist and illustrator whose seductively intricate and atmospheric works really do capture the imagination. His work as an illustrator was actually mainly produced in the form of book illustration, and I thought I would share some of the monotone pieces from his work for an edition of Edgar Allan Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination. The book is a spine-chilling journey through the dark and macabre recesses of the author's mind, compiling 29 stories, both well-known and rare, which are deftly illustrated with an attention to detail that truly awes the reader.
Whilst Clarke is perhaps better known for his colourful and highly detailed stained glass work, it is the dark and grotesque visions he conjured for Poe's work that really fascinates me. Looking at illustrations such as these I do often wonder what Clarke would have been like as a fashion designer, or indeed as a fashion illustrator. The immense detail of the prints and careful drapery of the fabrics he adorns his figures with are delightfully magical and opulent. I can only wish that he had created a couture collection in his time using such amazing work as this. There is something so beautifully romantic about his illustrations, as morbid as they are, and I find them truly inspiring.
