much has been written about the likelihood of those on the spectrum having a specialist subject. mine was passed down to me by my (dyspraxic, borderline aspie in my opinion) father- fashion.there are some great stories my mum tells about my dad spending all their money on custom clothes from the king's road when they were first married. ah- malnutrition can be so romantic. he always had to look the part, she says. back when i worked in fashion, the tailor at one of the companies i worked for asked for a picture of their wedding photo, which he then blew up and it went on the inspiration board. so, next to bryan ferry circa 1980 and brad pitt in armani, were my parents outside an islington registry office in 1971- mum smoking (in both the literal and new fangled sense) in full length ice blue crushed velvet and a black crochet shawl, dad in platforms and the slimmest cut suit you've ever seen, each of them rocking a 25" waist a good 20 years before ephedrine was even invented. it remains one of my style keynote images. one of my hugest regrets is wearing dad's custom leather jacket into the ground over the course of ten years- even to a wedding, once- and abandoning it in a skip in east london in 2001. damn.
mum talks about my always knowing what i wanted to wear, but the obsession didn't really pick up pace until life suddenly got a lot harder for me at around the age of 13-14. i was the girl poring over french elle at the back of the class. i couldn't seem to do much else, but i could identify alaia at 100 paces, name dolce or gabbana by the backs of their hands, and i always had the right shoes, even if i had to have them for christmas and birthday combined. letters were sent home about the way i wore my uniform. i went to girls' school, rife with bitchery and competition, but looking okay just became what i did. i hid behind it, immersed myself.
i've blogged before about how dyspraxic the fashion world is, but when i got there, i was surprised (naively) by how brutal it is. so, in a way, i had to get out to preserve it as an escape. dad doesn't spend all the money on clothes anymore (he can't, they have horses), but he speaks with regret about this, and can match me in a forensic analysis of a collar or a back vent. i find observing the above shoe as spiritually nourishing as a two week holiday, even with its borderline stripper platform and convex heel echoing the calf curve nonsense. you always need something a little off for something to be truly, truly cheeky.
i mention this because it was my dad's birthday this week, and it passed by without contact between us. we have this strange relationship where we are essentially estranged but on the rare occasions that we are together, we pretend that we are not. its easiest for both of us that way. happy birthday, dad.
mum talks about my always knowing what i wanted to wear, but the obsession didn't really pick up pace until life suddenly got a lot harder for me at around the age of 13-14. i was the girl poring over french elle at the back of the class. i couldn't seem to do much else, but i could identify alaia at 100 paces, name dolce or gabbana by the backs of their hands, and i always had the right shoes, even if i had to have them for christmas and birthday combined. letters were sent home about the way i wore my uniform. i went to girls' school, rife with bitchery and competition, but looking okay just became what i did. i hid behind it, immersed myself.
i've blogged before about how dyspraxic the fashion world is, but when i got there, i was surprised (naively) by how brutal it is. so, in a way, i had to get out to preserve it as an escape. dad doesn't spend all the money on clothes anymore (he can't, they have horses), but he speaks with regret about this, and can match me in a forensic analysis of a collar or a back vent. i find observing the above shoe as spiritually nourishing as a two week holiday, even with its borderline stripper platform and convex heel echoing the calf curve nonsense. you always need something a little off for something to be truly, truly cheeky.
i mention this because it was my dad's birthday this week, and it passed by without contact between us. we have this strange relationship where we are essentially estranged but on the rare occasions that we are together, we pretend that we are not. its easiest for both of us that way. happy birthday, dad.
That's respectable. Beats the stereotypical guy areas of restricted interest, like cars. I can groove on stilettos, but motor engines, not so much. I will confess that I can't read Cosmo or Vogue or Elle. Just can't.
ReplyDeletefair enough. i've *never* been able to read cosmo, and now only entertain vogue on a strict images only basis. for things to really take hold one has to stumble across something meaty by colin mcdowell at an impressionable age. the point is to be engaged by a sociological discussion of trouser pegging rather than endless comparitive studies of fake tan.
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