Some of my readers know that among other design related jobs I’ve tried my luck as fashion designer, so far with quite gratifying results. I have a keen eye for how and what people choose to wear because beyond textiles, patterns, textures and colours, this is the most valuable material I work with. I design stuff people would love to put on and gladly put out when well accompanied.
Clothing is the expression of the intimate self; it’s a language that tells a whole story and this narrative changes with every choice we make. But not all garments are fashion, for them to be considered as such the individual that design and/or wear them must have style, and such a trait is of utter peculiar nature and certainly not a given thing. Either you’re born with it or you work really hard during many years to educate your taste, developing and polishing it.
Regardless of where the style sense may come from, one thing is sure: when our reason for dressing becomes less about that curating process of carefully editing and selecting the best possible look for the day and more about feeling validated, then true style is null and void.
A few days ago I couldn’t help but feel sorry, second-hand embarrassed for Mr Trump’s current wife. So much money, so many resources available and there was not one person who had faced the tiger and dared to say that the impact of an attire depends on the canvas, on how one’s unique personality highlights from a given background in an effortless, unforgettable and appropriate manner. Environment over formulae people.
Nothing against the flawless Ralph Laurent’s two-pieces cashmere ensemble Melania wore for the US presidential inauguration ceremony, but it was totally out of place. This was Washington DC for heaven’s sake not a noble wedding in Newbury. Her outfit made evident how narcissistic and blindsided this new regime can be. It so reminded me Hans Christian Andersen’s tale “The Emperor’s New Clothes”.
Mrs Trump’s stylists should’ve known better, they should’ve counted on Michelle’s beautiful open arms. It was a no brainer guys, that guess wouldn’t have been so far fetched, would it? But the new US administration wanted to convey a precise message in powder blue leather gloves. Jackie Kennedy? C’mon, really? JK was not a lingerie model, she was a natural, an icon with brains that not only oozed style but redefined the concept.
The whole mise en place can only be described as an unfortunate mixture of faux pas, as genuine and legitimate as the jewels in the crown of the new emperor.
She dressed up 60s; Mad Man behaving 50s.
Rajasthan is known for its mix of cultures, temples, forts, palaces, food and folk traditions, but personally, it has always fascinated me because of the quality of sun and the colours. There are always new and exciting nuances waiting to be discovered at every corner; a journey through this northern region of India is a vivid psychedelic treat for the senses. Rajasthan is a microcosm of all things that define my beloved India.
Camels in India are actually single-humped dromedaries. It’s not easy to ride them, let alone get along with them. I wonder how on earth Bikaners manage to control such phlegmatic and obstinate animals and put them to dance, because that’s exactly what happens every January in the small village of Ladera, which becomes the venue of the two-day and night Bikaner Camel Festival. The smelly dromedaries dance swaying their necks and tapping their feet to the beat of traditional Rajasthani music, which I tell you, as mesmerizing and simple as it may sound, it is extremely complicated.
Camels and owners alike dressed in their finest designer jewellery and accessories, kick-off the celebrations with a regal march. This is a spectacular sight as the camels parade past spectators to the open sands with the Royal Junagarh Fort in the background. Colourful bridles, bejewelled necks, jingling anklets and long, lanky camel shadows on the dusky sand casts a magical atmosphere over the city. The festival also holds numerous sports and cultural activities, but the camel race is maybe the essence of it. Hundreds of camels are corralled to the starting line, and with an explosive gunshot launches a growing swell of dust that follows the camels to the finish line. The camel milking competition is another very popular game among the locals. For foreigners like me, who abhor milk of all sorts, this is pure nightmare. In the evening though, the jubilant skirt swirling and awe-inspiring fire gypsy dances and folk songs fully compensate for the daylight milky horror.
On March 20, 2014, The New York Review of Books published this poem with the article “India: You’re Criminal if Gay,”. The article was written by the poet’s mother, retired High Court Chief Justice Leila Seth. The trigger was the Indian Supreme Court’s killjoy re-instatement of a colonial anti-sodomy law that had been revoked in 2009. Vikram calls this “to undo justice.” His mother affirmed her love for her bisexual son and wrote: “The Supreme Court judgment means that he would have to be celibate for the rest of his life or else leave the country where he was born, to which he belongs, and which he loves more than any other.” Thus Seth divides his time between Delhi and a home in England that belonged to Metaphysical poet George Herbert, whose 17th century language echoes in this poem.
The moment I saw her standing there surrounded by the usual coryphées I knew this wouldn’t be fun. My haughty biological mother in all her splendour wearing gloves in black; of course, this was after all the terminal patient’s wing. She paid a social visit and left hastily not without first having footed the bill. I spent the night at the hospital taking care of her eldest sister, the lonely, gay, unmarried woman who brought me up.
Anyway, what I wanted to say is that memories as painful as they could get, are life. And by that I mean, they do not represent it, they ARE life. Our memory is our coherence, our reason, our feeling, even our action. Without it, we are nothing. I know that for sure since I joined for a while my former mother-in-law’s trip into a deep hole of darkness called Alzheimer. You really don’t know what emptiness means until you look into the eyes of such a patient. This shit is scarier than staring at the Devil himself; and I certainly know what I’m talking about because as previously mentioned folks, I well know that one face too.
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