The Tate Modern set the stage for several London Fashion Week events last week. It was because of this that directly after one such event ended last Sunday, Emily and I disappeared into the museum, falling upon a fantastic exhibit titled Bigger Splash, unlocking performance art in conjunction with painting. The artists featured in the exhibit ran a fairly influential and extensive gamut, (see: David Hockney, Cindy Sherman).
I was drawn to one particular Yves Klein print, exhibiting a generously sized canvas comprised only of royal blue paint. Monochrome painting, he said, frees his work of representation. I really liked that.
On the fashion front, I have found that different European cities have this uncanny way of subconsciously accosting the way in which I dress and subsequently suggesting I change it, even if ever so slightly. (The last time I was in Paris I vowed never to stop wearing ripped denim and, well, look at me now.) In the last two years, these vaguely foreign, lucid subliminal messages have only ever helped me sway more definitively toward male-centric dressing. Then again, though, I don’t like committing to anything so wholly (which is perhaps why I have taken to flouncy white dresses–it should be noted, though, only those of the communion ceremony variety–too. I blame my shorter, more boyish hair for this and the fact that I own these chunky suede boots from Topshop.)
The London deduction is that I should be wearing more monochromatic looks, if not because Yves Klein makes a fantastic point about escaping representation than certainly because I will almost always do what Mulberry tells me to. As a result, here’s what I be craving and a little bit of why.
From left: A T by Alexander Wang white blouse to be worn buttoned to its collar under that navy blue Acne sweater (though, full disclosure, the American Apparel version is just as good. I’m wearing it now, in fact.) Those navy blue peg-leg MiH jeans will work fantastically with white socks (doily or not but you know by now, considering my fondness for disconnects where my predilection rests) revealing their ever so slight nod to the Michael Jackson era–which is only by way of them black Lanvin loafers at right. Doesn’t this melt together beautifully?
As for the accoutrements, some unisex Illesteva sunglasses because it ain’t a story without them. Per the four rings by Maison Martin Margiela, it’s hard to deny the sleek and streamlined uniformity of festooning four fingers the same exact way. Kind of feels like having quadruplets, doesn’t it? The burgundy bag is Reece Hudson and by wearing this I accomplish everything I’d like my current mood to epitomize, which is odd considering I haven’t a clue how I’d say that in words.