Bitch style.

Joel had one of those 'New York City' vibes, where, while it looks like all the disparate elements of clothing were brought together by pure happenstance, or a rather un-pecuniary lifestyle situation, you've just gotta know that there are four very serious years of art school behind it.

That U.S.S Nimitz cap with the gold embroidery, that grey tee shirt that says "Osaka wee wees", with the Adidas tracksuit top over it, the brown corduroy pants and white hi top Reebok pump sneakers (worn without a trace of irony), the floppy hair peeking out from the cap in all the wrong places -all on purpose. Sort of like when a mad scientist comes up with a new bio weapon...it kinda leaves you wondering why, what was wrong with the selection of bio weapons we already had? But you're not meant to know why, and neither am I. If we knew, we'd have been to art school too, and all the corners and lofts of the East Village reserved for people who aren't you also. That's just how these things go. That's the kind of street level shit advertisng execs fantasize about penetrating....ad porn. The kind of deal that can't be bought, and one of the few Universal items (along with music, art, and writing) that keep frustrated people with money frustrated and outside the boundary. It's a code, and it says "Whatevz, basically".

Oh, they know how to spell. They just don't want to.

Ice cold.

But it's not without its "chinks in the armour" as they say. Because as much as you're not welcome, and they don't care what you think, they only feel that way as long as there are other people trying to get in. If that flow of interest stops, you'd be amazed at how quickly the code, the style, the impenetrable exclusivity goes out the window. You'd be amazed at how quickly they start to resemble human people again, only "plus arrogance" (said with a French accent), and the usual "Get fucked" (no exclamation mark), as if they came up with it first. Nothing lasts forever, especially pubescent (or post pubescent -pubescent) attempts at genre defying.

Stuntmen of fashion. Gladiators set loose in a media coliseum constructed entirely of 80's downtown art galleries, armed with dressmaking scissors, bolts of fabric for shields, and starring the general public as 'the hungry lions'. Albeit, gladiators wearing original 'Walkman' personal cassette players. But why not, right? There's no point turning a zeitgeist on its head in any subtle way. That's not going to impress anybody, and the social sheep would probably mill right by it. You have to charge in there, all guns blazing (naked, preferably), and do as much damage as possible, lest Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren send you a stern joint email. And no one wants that. Not even for the novelty of it.

If you want to start your own thing, you don't say "please".

The general idea is to get as many people simultaneously saying "What the fuck?!" as possible. Then you know you're onto something. When you've got the people talking about it on the train to work in the morning, and especially when the Italians hear about it after it has already happened, and can't co-opt it without looking like thieves and rapists, which of course they are.

That's what "couture" means. When you throw a "haute" before it, it just means you do it all a bit more ruthlessly than everybody else. It means you have AMBITION. "Tres dangereuse".

Do you see now?

the kids are smarter than they look. Even if they have no conscious idea of what they're doing, or why they're doing it, they know. Like a puppy knows its Mother, or a root knows to dig for moisture, the kids know acting mildly retarded will pay off in spades (for some of them anyway).

And the rest can look cool by association (or just plain retarded, depending on whose eyes you're viewing them through). They even write it "retraded" now, like it's theirs because they changed the spelling, and you can't have it, and if you call someone a retrad and you're over 25, you're a fuck.

You had no idea, did you? It's a lot of work, being awesome. Endless coffees and late night drinking sessions, planning, spending of parents money, and politics. Oh, the politics! Where gossip holds far more water than boring old facts. And the fall out hits you like a late night nosebleed, where your shot at being somebody has ended because someone above you didn't like the way you glanced at their sex du jour.

And the effect is so devastating, the damage so complete, you leave art school feeling like Dresden, and go and actually make a name for yourself doing something worthwhile, like actual art. Which perversely is the only strangle hold the rich and influential have over the kids -the real money flavoured art world, legitimacy, and all new levels of backstabbing and bullshit. The big time!

Anyway, that's the look Joel was rocking.

Bitch style.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.