GUCCI TIME

For those who work in it, fashion is very, very important — all eating disorders, catty emails, crying interns and 60 pages of ads before the content page. I would normally sneer at that kind of thing, but it maintains a certain seriousness in the face of triviality on a grand scale that I respect. As far as I’m concerned, it’s no less ludicrous than the way approach religion, but these houses of the holy contain more mystery. I’m also fascinated by it because I’m often in the no-man’s land of the non-fashion sporty or easy-to-wear side of things, which makes me an outsider. That means I have to imagine what goes on in the inner sanctums of the big houses. Being in the ASOS building frequently and dabbling in some Dazed & Confused writing I can’t help but become increasingly curious.

Until recently I never knew that there were degrees in fashion journalism. I assumed you did your work experience and withstood the withering glances and snide remarks until somebody paid you a tenner for 2,000 words one day. Incorrect. I’m just glad there’s a media-based degree that makes job hunting even more fiendish than my communications one did. But while the press release pasters get no respect, you’ve got to hand it to anybody who can bring something so visual and tactile to life in their prose — personally, I’d rather watch a documentary on the topic, but for those that do it well, there’s the Fashion Monitor Journalism Awards, with the main long and short lead journalism awards sponsored by Wave Gang favourite, True Religion. Isn’t that like Bernard Matthews sponsoring the Slimmer of the Year award?

While nothing touches the Men Without Hats meets Kanye power of Rusty’s outfit from the boutique scene in National Lampoon’s European Vacation, as far as real-world fashion documentaries go, YouTube is awash with uploads of them. Of course, those that stumble across this post in a few month’s time because I used a misleading keyword will find a load of pointless links to removed videos, but that’s just the way fashion goes, isn’t it? It’s fleeting like that. L’amour fou about Yves Saint-Laurent and Pierre Berge is there and well worth watching to see their homes and possessions, Valentino: the Last Emperor has the greatest pugs on a private jet scene ever and Wim Wenders’ Notebook On Cities and Clothes about Yohji Yamamoto is an excellent way to spend 77 minutes (click captions for subtitles) if you want to understand Yohji’s philosophies and how far ahead of everything he was in 1989 (remember when having a tiny television was the most aspirational thing ever?).

James Franco’s The Director — a documentary about House of Gucci creative director Frida Giannini — is an interesting prospect. Indiewire just upped the trailer. There’s a lot of interesting stories in Gucci’s history (Maurizio Gucci being killed by a hitman hired by his wife Patrizia “I would rather weep in a Rolls-Royce than be happy on a bicycle” Reggiani would be a great documentary topic too), but Franco shifting from starring in a film with a Gucci Mane cameo to creating an exploration of what makes a Gucci lynchpin tick is an intriguing move too. Hopefully this one will join the ranks of the best studies of the big houses which, thankfully, don’t do the whole transparency too-much-information thing that’s expected of all businesses right now. Without mystique, my interest in this whole realm would be slaughtered on the spot.

THE FUCKING GLOWING SCREEN OF NONSENSE

KENNETH CAPPELLO: What do you think of blog culture?

JASON DILL: That ain’t for me. To each his own. I still don’t like the fucking glowing screen of nonsense.
(From ‘SNEEZE’ #11)

Very little’s been impressive this week. From a personal point-of-view, videos of dogs doing the conga (led by a hound on a bike), Perec’s ‘Species of Spaces,’ whoever left the comment, “The Passion of the Davro” on YouTube in relation to the Bobby Davro faceplant, English Frank on SBTV, livestock auction chants, the prospect of a Caligula comic book, Grace and WAH! raising some substantial charity cash, the relative ease which which one could obtain an iPad2 online, the impending London Supreme store, Chris Law and Lisa having a a son, Andy Milonakis’s “Swag”: tattoo, Randy Shilts’s ‘And the Band Played On’ and Juicy J’s works have been the only things to liven up the last 168 hours. Oh, and that Jason Dill quote, because Jason is still the man.

Missing the Herzog talk in London was a personal failure though.

I’m sure I saw a picture of some dude with shorts, a side-parting and a toggled jacket staring wistfully at a lake as part of a new lookbook from somebody. It epitomized the mediocrity I’ve exposed myself to this week — everything seemed to lack crystal clarity and retread the same old shit. I hope the next generation doesn’t look to older generations for answers — I speak to younger, creative characters and feel significantly more motivated than I do ambling back from a grim, meandering “everything’s shit” session over a flat white. Age is no automatic conferrer of greater knowledge. You can be old as fuck and still be a toy. I hope young ‘uns ignore us burn-outs who get possessive because new generations haven’t studied some imaginary curriculum of sacred cows that suffered a bovine dementia outbreak years ago and ceased to be relevant.

But then there’s the Werner Herzogs (at 68 years old) and Yohji Yamamotos (at 67 years old) who are Teflon Dons in their respective fields through sheer creativity that defies solitary sentence definition.

As well as the Yohji exhibition at the V & A, the designer’s precision and thought process look like they’re being explored in the forthcoming documentary, ‘This Is My Dream.’ I like Yamamoto’s lack of pretense in Wim Wenders’s ‘Notebook on Cities and Clothes’ where there’s much discussion surrounding notions of individuality in a world laden with postmodernism – he simply creates. I liked the hookups with Wenders, Michael Nyman and Takeshi Kitano — while I never took note of his work in the underrated ‘Brother’ or ‘Zatoichi,’ he helps make ‘Dolls’ even more visually appealing. I didn’t care too much for the slimline adidas stuff or the Jean-Michel Jarre 1989 suits. Clothing to accompany bendy keyboards and laser harps was too much like Poindexter on the electric violin in the leopard waistcoat, but everyone could learn a lot from those the 1980s Yamamoto catalogues with the Nick Knight and Peter Lindbergh photoshoots. They’re still works of art and fortunately, they weren’t laden with images of wankers by water.

The Nick Knight/Peter Saville/Marc Ascoli chat that went online last week is worth your energy, but the stern, stark feel of it made me feel a little fidgity. Still, some excellent points are made regarding photography and art direction. I really liked the anecdote than ends with, “We source black staples.” I guess that’s the attitude that pushes you into bankruptcy — but what a beautiful attitude it is.