(A Book On) Fashion Blogs by Kirstin Hanssen and Felicia Nitzsche, with Elina Tozzi

   Everyone observes everyone else

   This is what the book is for:

Fashion blogs are crucial news and inspirational sources for everyone who wants to stay up-to-date about fashion. These blogs are therefore both visually and with regard to content in competition with traditional media. Fashion blogs raise many questions. Is the fashion blogger the new trend-watcher? Can they be referred to as professional amateurs? How does blogging affect privacy? Is fashion blogging the ultimate way of self expression? Kirstin Hanssen and Felicia Nitzsche carried out a research.The main content of the book is divided into five categories: fashion journalism, street style photography, party photography, personal style and men's style. Bloggers around the world have been interviewed and the interviews are supported by visual blog material.

   And this is how I came to be a part of it:

   Last autumn, before the instituting of the Mode Parade e-mail no less, Kirstin sweetly requested my involvement in a project that has taken her, Felicia and Elina countless months collating URLs, arranging the publication of this milieu-exposing tome and selecting the 40-odd bloggers they felt to be the faces of this little world who were not Scott Schuman, Yvan Rodic or that plucky yet grandmother-esque 13 year old Rei Kawakubo-fetishist. And me. Apparently, they appreciated my flair for opalescent flamboyance and murky self-portraiture, as well as my ability to perpetrate offences against the English language five times a month

   Also, I suppose that they needed some guys in there

   Resource allowances for my contribution to the book were no less frantic behind my scenes. Kirstin had tailored a series of 17 interview questions, along with photograph requests. Which arrived in January. When I had just moved to Accra, where I remain to this moment. With my photographic library in London undergoing a back-up process due to a vandalised MacBook. And my dislike for the column's original "Style Time" moniker already thrown into sharp relief

   Authoring the column itself does not approach true posterity. Blogger's servers can crash and it will all burn. Or I could delete it. My own caprice is probably equal to that of Fate's, so who knows who will get there first

   Being published in a collection that will eventually achieve a wider release outside of Europe this year and thus blind the colour-sensitive that will view my ensembles: when I put it this way, that reads much like posterity. Or a posterity error, by any other measure

   Elina evidently intuited that Mode Parade is something of an atypical "fashion blog;" this I noted when she described the language of other bloggers as "somewhat tiresome" in comparison to my own. I'm guessing that it had not been a fruitful day on Google when she wrote that down. I jest, Elina; I always welcome a compliment 

   Of course, The Mode Parade isn't for much other than my disorderly ruminations and my Narcissistic Ensemble Recordings. And my caprice, as noted above. I've no interest in being on-trend and I'm never knowingly on the pulse; those are the fringe benefits of the research I undertake. I like being able to reflect on the few collections I appreciate, months to years after their deployment into the world. I also prefer tradition, and permutations thereof, to the trendy anxieties of the hermaphroditic, ankle bearing, voluminous trousered, overly cropped jacket-sporting set that champions "eccentricity" over consideration. Actually, I disdain any set that rides such a train of thought - the brain food tends to be ruinous

   And now, back to the process report:

   It came together in the end once I'd finally hit on the best name to rebrand this space with. I overthought the 17 questions posed to me and typed accordingly. I found the various portraits taken by YF, Jamie Archer, James Lewis, Stephanie Rushton and Daniel Barnett, acquired their permission  for their usage and forwarded them on, along with a few other ensembles I excavated from my inbox. Regrettably, I've improved on most of those presentations since realising my proclivities for oversized eyeframes, Western-influenced African sartorial largesse and copious facial topiary, but the passport photograph that I was asked to take for my feature was developed in an aged colouration that tidily evokes the current Me. I was even wearing a silk brocade tie from the 1970s and a vintage shirt with a long collar as if to underscore the confluence at play. The editors aside, who knows how much of this photography made it in

   Loved ones in London have a copy. Apparently, Elina mistook the "Barimavox" in the column's URL for a genuine alias, despite the mononym in my About Me/Your Author page that also appends each post. Or maybe she thinks "Barima Vox" is a cute appellation. Nevertheless, the book's feedback was aglow with approbation, and this from non-readers of this column, no less (hello, Mum)

   I wanted to review the book, but they won't let me have it yet. This means that its authors can potentially succeed beyond our little milieu. Which they deserve to. They possess two capabilities that seem to be embargoed in some parts of the world: they are talented and they care

   

   My semi-regular readers should not investigate this book because I am a part of it. They should investigate it because it really merits those apt old phrases, "painstaking" and "a labour of love," whilst seeking to analyse just what drives people like me to our amateur editorialising, public showcasing and fiscally unrewarding endeavours

   History is sometimes made by the passionate and the self-regarding, or so I've been told. On that premise, the book writes itself. Nevertheless, there is a tangible value to blogging for those same reasons; the existence of the book - to gather, to assess, to comment, to edit and to highlight - intrinsically asserts this. This shooting into the dark has attracted the attention of Big Others, as exemplified by the likes of Susanna "Susie Bubble" Lau and Garance Doré, who also took part. I'd go as far to suggest that one day every single brand of perceived or real merit will gleefully utilise this modest communication tool until it breaks

   But I'd rather not give away my interview responses. The book is published by, and available from, d'jonge Hond and a visit to the book's blog will yield its collection of coverage and other stockists. Its international release indeed awaits; I hope it will be confirmed soon

   To conclude, if the Fellows behind my favourite style/cultural blogs (as requested during the interview) happen to read this, your bows are in order: Winston, Ryan, ADG and Christian, MM, Robert, Nick et al

   Everyone observes everyone else. And then they take notes

Opera Pumped

   There are two spheres of thought regarding opera pumps: the punctilious one that holds it up as a whimsical and cherished avatar of formal tradition that proudly dates back to its 18th century antecedent, the court (dancing) shoe, and the anxious other that dismisses it as an feminising exemplar of menswear’s foppish Regency-era foibles that should have been laid to rest with Liberace and his wardrobe

   I’m a traditionalist with an appreciation for the ambiguous effect on the heterosexual psyche perpetrated by the likes of Prince, Michael Jackson, the cult of the bishounen and Jaye Davidson; one could discern my allegiance simply by learning that I possess a purple jacket, a set of bow ties, a number of pink garments and a mumu. Also, in some lost civilisations, the shorthand for “Dorky yet somewhat dashing” is “Barima”

   It’s also worth noting that duels, and therefore death through stab wounds, were something of a habit where fops were concerned. And as that era also happens to precede ours through the power of procreation, I, for one, am not going to be casting any generalised aspersions of a sexual sort

   If asked why my footwear has bows, I usually point to my neck and say, “One can never be too prepared”

   The defensive would feel the need to point out that bareknuckle boxers in the 19th century would don them to spend a few injurious rounds with one another, but this is hardly necessary. Opera pumps only truly stand out  within black and white tie ensembles when attention is drawn to them, and as it is most often women on pediwear-scrutiny duties, viewers tend to be appreciative on some level. Achieving such understatement with such fanciful detailing is a lesson worth heeding, I’d say

   You see, opera pumps also require a fine eye to go with that quiet-but-flashy sensibility. These days, tradition necessitates attitude (pride, not defiance) and that old classic masculinity, where in the past, they were merely mutual complements. The American sartorialists that I know or know of, living on a continent that regards dressing down as a catholicon of masculinity and relaxation, seem to bear a particular brunt for their tastes. All those menswear things that are relatively commonplace in Europe yet almost taboo in their areas tend to result in scrambles for acceptability: no wonder some of them come to regard the affected, peacocking neo-fops of Pitti Uomo as “cool”

   Modern sartorialists should not need affectation or trend hopping to be memorable. Refinement lifts us all up; common language flourishes when the foundations and details receive their due with pride. Without due consideration to why these things even exist, they will get away from us and – quelle surprise! – the terrorists win

   Yes, I’m for the pumps. I appreciate the sleekness; their appealingly aristocratic nature; the idiosyncrasies they impute to a man’s formal silhouette, the added kinetics they lend to my dancing. And they are now as good as deviant; that’s practically the only excuse I need

   If one is interested in stockists and cordwainers, this pictorial is for you. I love the iridescent shine of my Brooks Brothers/Peal & Co. patent model, as seen at top, but I’d be more than partial to the less conspicuous calfskin, particularly the Russian calf that Cleverley is known to offer

   For what it’s worth, I prefer the bows to be no more than lightly pinched:

Edward Green opera pumps rebranded as the Ralph Lauren Purple Label Orsett

  Bowhill and Elliott

 Brooks Brothers

 John Lobb St. James

 Moreschi Grant

 Shipton and Heneage

W.S. Foster & Son

 An unknown midcentury man in London; the woman's reaction behind him makes this ripe for comedy captioning

 Paolo of the Suitorial blog wears Allen Edmonds Ritz slip-ons. I also own them and neither of us are too fond of them, given their loafer-like last; they are nevertheless recommended as a less "challenging" variant

I think I also used to own that carpet

Outfit - More of The Same

   Another vintage-based ensemble, another Ghanaian wedding, and so it goes:

   With a bonus tribute to The O'Jays (because we would need two more to comprise a Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes homage):

The Covetous Post

   I'm feeling yearnful:

Lily

Holga D Digital Camera

Gaziano & Girling bespoke stingray wholecuts, made for a Forvm member

via The Doctor Who Site

Junya Watanabe S/S10 Blouson (for my Dressed Down Days)

Taschen's Favourite Hotels

Ettinger Bridle Hide Billfold, via Unabashedly Prep

 A Murano Sommerso glass vase by Luigi Onesto

A boat cloak, opera cloak or Inverness cape

 The most aureate car I've ever ridden in: the Mercedes Benz 600 Grosser

B

The New Statesman - Sex Is Wrong

Come spend twenty five in the Machiavellian company of Ultra Tory, Alan Beresford B'stard

Series One, Episode Three:

I Frame The Outfit Eclectic

   The more outré the eyeframes, the more basal and sober the composition of the outfit. At least that's the working theory

The Large Cut

   Larger fellows can still be swathed in top flight tailoring, for if it does not do its job of flattering the shape and adorning the form with style, then why else indulge in it?

   These men look particularly swank:

American actor Jackie Gleason presents in an impeccably imposing fashion

Burl Ives as Big Daddy in the 1958 film adaptation of Tennessee Williams' Tony-nominated stage play, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

James Earl Jones as Big Daddy in the recent London run of the mainly-African American Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, on the precipe of being upstaged by co-star Sanaa Lathan and her tracts of land

A "corpulent cut" from Jusa, Regensburg, June 1963; care of Sator at The Cutter and Tailor

Supplied by Todd Hudson at The Cutter and Tailor; tenor Beniamino Gigli was once a tailor's apprentice at the age of 10

The winner of the coveted Dandy prize at a Tailor & Cutter exhibition, created by C.L. Ostling of Albemarle Street, London. The cloth is a navy blue white chalk stripe. Again supplied by Sator

Doctorin' The Penzance - Colin Baker Sings Gilbert and Sullivan

As special as this ditty is, I still wonder if there exists a disclaimer apologising to Messrs G & S somewhere. I may come to like this as much as the Animaniacs parody

No other words are necessary. Except for these:

I-iiiiiiiii--am the very model of a Gallifreyan Buccaneer.
I've information on all things a Gallifreyan holds most dear.
I've linked into the Matrix through its exitonic circuitry,
I understand dimensional and relative chronometry.
I'm very well acquainted too with matters of the Capitol,
I'll give you verse and chapter on Panopticonian protocol,
I've been into the Death Zone and I've played the Game of Rassilon--
(Rassilon? Assilon, Bassilon-- ah ha!)
With pestilential monsters that I got a lot of hassle from!

[With pestilential monsters that he got a lot of hassle from!
With pestilential monsters that he got a lot of hassle from!!
With pestilential monsters that he got a lot of hassle-assle from!!!]

I understand each language and I speak every vernacular.
I'll conjugate each verb obscure, decline each line irregular.
In short in every matter that a Gallifreyan holds most dear,
I am the very model of a Gallifreyan Buccaneer.

[In short in every matter that a Gallifreyan holds most dear,
he is the very model of a Gallifreyan Buccaneer!]

I've tackled shady Castellans with devious behavior.
I've sparred with Time Lord chancellors like Thalia, Goth or Flavia.
In fact on some occasions I've held office Presidentally,
'though maybe I won't mention I was ousted out eventually.

I know just how it feels to be a wanted man and on the run,
but wouldn't leave the carefree buccaneering life for anyone.
Though sometimes my adventures seem absurdly operatical--
(Operatical? Hatical... patical-- ah ha!)
With ups and down and twists and turns and incidents fanatical.

[With ups and down and twists and turns and incidents fanatical!
With ups and down and twists and turns and incidents fanatical!!
With ups and down and twists and turns and incidents fanatical!!!]

I've sailed the seven seas of Earth and all the oceans of the Moon,
my trusty true Type-40 is my Gallifreyan picaroon.
But is this really what the average Gallifreyan holds most dear?
I wonder what they think about this Gallifreyan Buccaneer.

[But is this really what the average Gallifreyan holds most dear!
We wonder what they think about this Gallifreyan Buccaneer!]

But....
I've defeated evil robots such as Daleks, Quarks, and Cybermen.
I've overthrown dictators from Tobias Vaughn to Mavic Chen.
I've rescued helpless maidens from the devestating Viking hordes.
Vanquished Autons.... Axons... Daemons... Krotons.... Monoids, Vampires, Voords.
I've liberated planets and delivered them from total war.
Saved Earth, Manussa, Dulkis, Skonnos, Earth, Tigella, Earth once more.
In short I know I am the truest Rassilonian legate
(Legate? Decate...Hecate...Hecate?? Mm. Not sure if that's canonical. Ah ha, I have it!)
And so to Time Lords all I say remember me to Gallifrey!

[A sentiment we all agree, remember him to Gallifrey!
A sentiment we all agree, remember him to Gallifrey!!
A sentiment we all agree, remember him to Galli-gallifrey!!]

I'm not content to just observe, I am a bold adventurer.
Though other Time Lords mock this Gallifreyan interventioner.
I know in every matter that a Time Lord really should hold dear
I am the very model of a Gallifreyan Buccaneer.

[We know in every matter that a Time Lord really should hold dear,
He is the very model of a Gallifreyan Buccaneer!]

Meet The Swenkas

In South Africa, when the country was still in the grip of apartheid, men from the nation's rural areas often journeyed to the cities in search of work. Hoping to impress the families they left behind, the men would often buy stylish new suits for their visits back home, and practice looking slick for their friends and neighbors. Over time, this behavior evolved into a practice called "swenking," in which working-class South Africans would meet on a regular basis for competitions in which they would see who could put together the best-looking outfit, and who knew how to move best in it. Swenking is a hobby that still exists today in South Africa, and The Swenkas is a documentary which looks at both the past and present of this curious blend of fashion and sport, as filmmaker Jeppe Ronde explores the history of swenking as well as profiling the son of the leader of a group of swenkas who is contemplating joining in the place of his late father.

~ Mark Deming, All Movie Guide

At the shows, they’re judged for their outfits, their attention to detail, and the little moves they do to call notice to both. It’s real flourishy. The winner takes a cut of the door fee, which is generally a fraction of the cost of one suit. At Christmas in Durban, all the local swenking organizations get together for the finals and name the swenkiest guy in all South Africa.

Because most swenkas earn about $400 a month and a top-end tailored suit costs about $1,200, they buy clothes on layaway, spending like a year visiting a suit in the shop and making little homeopathic payments on it, dreaming about it at night. Basically, all that My Beautiful Laundrette, Horatio Alger stuff is in full effect, minus the gayness and the wealthy relatives on the one hand and America and rising up on the other.

It is about dreams, friends.

~ David Fleminger, Vice Magazine

   On special occasions such as Christmas, the best swenking is rewarded with a live goat or a cow on a leash

   There's even a Sapeurs vs. Swenkas group on Facebook for those who cannot reconcile the idea of two separate groups of distinctly attired, sartorially-minded men of African descent

   The Swenkas strike me as a more charismatic movement: their silhouettes and colours are more considered; their love of hats more harmonious; their fondness for the 1980s more personally resonant; their personae more enticingly ludic

   And they dance. That's rather an important characteristic for those who dress with refined abandon

I'll Be Dressing Down

   Like Beard before it, this is a hirsute example of my daily ensemble style in Accra:

   Existing in an environment such as this, with only around 4 months of climate variation over a year, places quite the personal scrutiny on my summerwear

   This is the assessment and I'll be unprolix for once:

   I'm lacking for a dependable cycle of dress and casual trousers for the duration. Were there any reliable and gifted trouser cutters in the city, this would be rather minor an issue. I can, at least, count on finding alterations tailors for my shirts, since I've dropped some weight and don't believe in the aesthetic benefits of draping a tent around my upper body

   The subdued approach as seen above, however, I'm more than comfortable with

   Soon, Paraders, I aim to show off more of my print shirts; the most stylish garment category for the sweaty days of hot living

   In the meantime, all are free to suggest wardrobe remedies. I'm sure the PR agents that alert me via e-mail to their clients' collections must have a few ideas on summer elegance

Sebastian Horsley and The Genuine Death of a Real Fake

   Sebastian Horsley lived and died as a Real Fake, but one should never underestimate the sincerity of a man who so gleefully flaunted his artifice in the faces of others. Indeed, when the news broke last Friday, I thought it an obvious joke on his part – “Live fast, die youngish, leave the corpse of a popinjay behind" – believing that he was far more likely to die of the STDs he’d doubtlessly been amassing over the years, perhaps cataloguing them under the names of the whores that gave them to him

   Of course, he did claim that the whores were cleaner than women of the non-streetwalking demographic

   We had two run-ins

   The second was more interesting in that I was out carousing that evening, surrounded by exquisitely crafted artwork and speaking with a few interesting people. He came to view his portrait, painted by our mutual friend Ian Bruce. Evidently feeling less than garrulous, he mentioned his pleasure with his visage and left within the opening hour, presumably to retake his place as a pink suited London boho in a Soho watering hole. I was looking for trouble that night; I should have taken his number

   The first was never catalogued because neither Style Time nor Mode Parade existed in those days, and because frankly, it’s a non-story. In early 2008, I visited Dover Street Market and found him, not totally unexpectedly, by the mirrored lift exterior on the ground floor

   Something in his eyes suggested recognition; of my face or my own penchant for reconfigured gentleman’s dress, I couldn’t say. I was wearing a black Cossack-styled coat over a plaid shirt with a club collar, a French blue silk tie, a black waistcoat with a knit back and sides, and black trousers whilst also wielding an umbrella; perhaps I resembled a personification of Death in Harlem of the 1970s or one of his junk trips

   I recognised him; that was enough to exchange “Hellos” and nods. And then he walked before I could ask if he was claiming freebies from the store; the Comme des Garçons Homme Plus collection he’d partially inspired and modelled in Paris a year prior was winding down its sale that week. But maybe he’d have not appreciated it. And yet on that day, he was wearing that same signature outfit, despite lacking the lookalikes:

   Following his performance on the catwalk, Sebastian afterwards wrote that he was fresh from a diagnosis of syphilis. Given the sexual cachet of male models, he was probably in large company. Such a man would certainly have been pleased with such likeminds

   Although I’m presently over 2000 miles away and will definitely miss it, the one man play of Horsley’s autobiography, Dandy in the Underworld, has taken the stage in London and should be seen for the curiosity, if nothing else. I understand it’s fairly naughty. But it will certainly be performed by Milo Twomey with more sincerity now than there was before

   And hopefully, my favourite door on Meard Street will remain as a mark of fond remembrance:

Sebastian Horsley, 1962 – 2010

Runway photographs: GQ