A skirt could become an object for the home / It is art and avarice; hyperactivate and regal / Not really, I just love plastic! / The idea of it, the look of it, even what we think it smells like /
Wrapped parcels and other mundane objects including eggs and aluminium cans / Is so vital, carnal, tribal, powerful. Is that why you were considered toxic? / Maybe it is the make-up and hair and nails? Is it defined by the texture of a pavement or the colour of a wall / In the darkness and grit of Goa at night, we sense danger, but also magic / The pigment of his scarlet ensemble has faded to a more millennial hue / The omnipresence of pictures has disrupted the human instinct to preserve and store / In their acid-free paper parcels and temperature controlled chambers, garments are under incubation / If a chubby lime green Bottega Veneta Puddle boot taps across empty streets does it exist? / ♡♡♡♡♡♡quite fluffy and ruffly / Silk, wool, leather, nylon and languid plumes of cigarette smoke. / Frolicking, often with each other, there is sometimes the suggestion of a friend’s well-manicured hand tugging at a vest, or a soft hose-pipe snaking around the body. / A myriad of pale browns in colour, its sleeves are knife-pleated and very narrow. / She emulates an energy that he associates with ancient Ireland. / A sleeveless tiered dress in crisp cotton poplin, ankle-length drawstring pants, a loose 3/4 sleeve button-down shirt with fishtail hem. / A tailor’s dummy over her right shoulder sports a cropped black crepe jacket with a white, wide-collared shirt underneath. / I have been thinking about how we wear things if the days drag on with no one to see. / Search for it on Google Shopping and you’re confronted with the welcoming sparkle of wooden Christmas decorations, a neat cord jacket and several jolly books. / Notice the smudge of your hand stain the glass. It is a mark upon a sanctified mausoleum to modernism, magic and meandering. It is a print that says ‘I am here’ but one that soon disappears. / Occupying that space between clothes and not clothes. / Lava and volcanic ash, animal bladders. Charcoal. Wood. / That’s cute. Did she like it? / Does it resemble the architectural clarity of Claire McCardell’s clothes from the 1930s? / In a bright white room located on the 11th floor of Samal Towers […] the designers sat silently in front of rails of varying heights. / A lacquered nail tapping the side of a plump bronzed cheek; a manicured eyebrow, raised. / On this screen, pixels – tiny squares upon squares – align themselves to present an image of Agnes Martin’s art that is clear and crisp. / Content ad infinitum. A swipe and a tap promise a surge of pointless, beautiful data. Each of us is engaged in the mucky minutiae of breathing, spitting, crying and bleeding. / Cashmere, silk, linen, wool, cotton, stainless steel, copper, hemp, bamboo, pineapple and even paper. / There are all manner of morals lurking behind the surface of art. / Something in-between The Sims and a contemporary art installation? / Large conglomerates with hundreds of stiletto-shod employees. / Including a new patented system that allows for a figure to be fixed in five different positions at the push of a button. / Sexual potency, gender play, fashion mannequin, Afrofuturism, extra-terrestrial, punk performer, flirty chanteuse, Black androgyne. / Do you remember the first time you ever noticed clothing? / In their loveliness is tenderness, in their tenderness brutality. / It’s too easy to dismiss what is photographed here as “quirky” in a world so obsessed with identikit style. / It has pixelated human emotion, delivered instant news and promoted tidy eyebrows and sleepy kittens ever since. / But how different do any of us really look? / Fashions may change but nothing changes in fashion. / We see them standing in a queue, raucously raking though glossy magazines, waiting to enter peepshow booths that become confessionals where models contorted into small-boxed sets share their deepest insecurities. / A specially installed swing – carved from English oak with a padded, laser-cut ponyskin wall rest / But how do you avoid falling into that trap? / A hooded cotton jersey zip-up top is as ubiquitous as it is unnerving, the star of modern day parables of social inequality, youth culture, racism, privacy, fear and style. / Ancestors, two parents, bride and bridegroom, a youth, a young girl and something which she resolves as the “ultimate form.” / So chairs have some kind of universal credibility, both functional and aesthetic? / (1) Single lines produce an impression of planar surfaces; (2) single lines render the composition static; and (3), double, or multiple, lines have a dynamic effect by ensuring “a continuity of related and interrelated rhythm in space.” / The blink of an eye, the tap of a finger, the quiver of a toe have begun to hold a new kind of power. / Part protest, part trance
the lyrics have taken on a new pathos. / In it, she is Orlando; at once masculine and feminine, buttoned-up and unzipped. Bathed in light, her hair is glossy, her neck unadorned. There is a slight knowing curve of the mouth. / Any sentimental British compassion replaced with a harder, no-nonsense approach to material possessions. / A silver leg-shaped pendant dangles from a thin gold chain strung around a naked neck. / Two fluorescent bin-men sit on smooth stone benches, staring into tiny phones. Givenchy has plastered matte black vinyl to its shopfront. Two ornate metal garden chairs sit empty in the window of Michael Kors beside a weary lemon tree. / Is it important to create work that is very new or work that is very now? / Although fluent in the romanticism of simplicity, the softly spoken designer is sentient to the risk that it could be seen as dull. / The lurid – salacious paparazzi and magazine spreads fizzing with scoop and gossip.