A white T-shirt.
Four or five clean ones, swapped out pretty consistently, and two or three holy, shredded ones that stick around.
They’re sincere. It’s an understatement. It’s a warm blankness that we know and wear so we make it a screen to project an idea or identity upon. A white T-shirt looks good when clean, crisp and dry, but may be even better ripped, stained or wet. It reminds everyone of something and me of MARLON BRANDO in ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’.
Belgian tourists in summer, overgrown Boy Scouts, dirt-kneed preppies, gay greasers, casual skinheads, Mexican MORRISSEY fans, Greek sailors, Dickensian dudes in Chinatown, militant Ashkenazis and soft Sephardis.
It’s organised, but only because I’ve got a lot of Virgo rising.
I’m not an architect.
The idea that clothes are something sexy is such a dull pressure. “Sexy” is just marketing and magazine-speak. Clothes don’t spell sex, despite all those on-the-nose elements like leather and straps and tear-away buttons down the sides of track pants that try to imply otherwise. I guess the only thing to wear when you want to look sexy is less.
Clean underwear, always.
I think that we’re finally at the point where that set and staid notion of masculinity has gone out of fashion. Men aren’t wearing gender in the same self-serious way as before. And accordingly, my style suggests a sort of manifest identity. It’s post-personality; it’s failed actor, and it half-heartedly plays with performance and the remnants of male roles invented last century.