Growing up wild — by Danielle Taheny

The most important day of my life! Well, that really depends on how the rest of my life goes. If this day does turn out to be the most important day of my life, I might as well give up now! But needless to say, it is a day that a girl remembers. It will be a day that my father will take numerous embarrassing photographs that I will desperately try to hide from any potential Mr. Rights in the future. So with the certainty that this day will be documented and will forever live in photographic history, it all comes down to the question ‘what the HELL am I going to wear?’

Of course I wanted to wear something classy, sophisticated and that screamed ‘watch out world here I come’. I wanted to feel confident and fabulous. There was only one answer. Leopard Print.

So it’s not exactly Jackie’O or Michelle Obama and perhaps a graduation from University calls for something a little more conservative, but I just couldn’t see myself in an all black, knee length dress just blending into the crowd. Oh God, I just shudder at the thought of BLENDING!

You see, me and leopard print have a history, a long and complicated past. Call it a love affair if you will, but love is what it is. It was in fact love at first sight.

I first got my little paws on a faux fur, leopard print coat at the tender age of four. It was a gift from my mother’s eccentric best friend, ‘aunty’ Mary we called her. We saw her once a year and she always came baring gifts from a magical land called America, which seemed to be filled with ridiculous clothes for four year olds. Such was this deliciously soft leopard coat with a silky red lining. But in her words, ‘I think every four year old should have a little bit of glamour in their lives.’ I have never heard a truer statement uttered since.

At preschool, the other girls ooh and ahhed over my luxurious new coat while we sipped on orange juice and nibbled on homemade sandwiches. I was a social and fashion success. From then on I was known as the fashionable one. It was a title I wore with honour and pride.

As I progressed from preschool to primary school my leopard fetish continued to grow thanks to the 1990s pop explosion of five girls from England. ‘I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want.’ That’s right; the Spice girls.

I had leopard print trimmed jackets, skirts, shoes, underwear and even a leopard print bathing suit. Although I had more of a thing for Posh Spice I will admit that my obsession for leopard print lead me to looking a little more of the Scary persuasion.

Fast-forward to the present day and a recent encounter with an old college classmate further cemented leopard print as part of my fashion identity. ‘My God I’ll never forget that leopard print dress!’ Ok, so these may have been the words of a leering and very drunk man but it confirms the power of leopard print and is perhaps the reason why I love it so much. After three years together, everyday in a classroom, the only thing he remembered was me in a slightly (only slightly mind) provocative Dolce & Gabbana number. In retrospect a straight jacket would have probably been more comfortable, but then again who needs to be able to eat, sit down or even breathe when one can look ‘sexy’. Not to mention the fact that, at least in Ireland, to be ‘sexy’ is a sin (along with missing Mass on a Sunday, burning the potatoes and being sober).

It’s not rocket science and I never was very good at maths but man plus woman in tight fitting animal print dress equals… well lets say… a very strong reaction. I guess this where it all gets a little bit National Geographic. I am talking about the whole Caveman Cavewoman theory. The running around in animal skins not unlike the animals they hunted and killed. It’s all very Tarzan and Jane. It seems it only takes a flash of leopard print to ignite some kind of primitive instinct and to reduce our modern day, moisturized man to his primitive hunter-gatherer beginnings.

And so it seemed like the appropriate choice for my graduation from University. Of course I did intend to classy it up a bit. The dress fell to just above my knee, had long sleeves and a high neckline. The leopard did all the work. Even being completely covered up I felt conservative but not boring, exactly what I wanted. At least when I look back at the photos thirty years from now I won’t be completely mortified because somehow I have the feeling I will still be strutting around in some piece of leopard. Not that I plan on being that mutton dressed as lamb older lady squeezed into a leopard number, but hey then again it could be fun!

However there are those certain important days when I must control this fetish and force myself to abstain, because the thought of a leopard print wedding dress does not bode well. Though I am sure our dear friend Roberto Cavalli could whip up something fabulous!

Perhaps on a more morbid note I would like to be buried in something leopard. For me it expresses my person style, classy yet with an edge. Something that cries screw you world I am going to have fun no matter how serious life gets. For me everyone should have that one piece of clothing that makes them feel a little more wild, a little more free, a little more MEOOOWWWWWW……



Proposed by Daniel Wakahisa on Wednesday 23 February 2011 at 12:19 PM · Permalink · Comments (2)

REAL DAYS : THE ZENON INTERVIEW — by Christos Grigoriou

A: Are we ready to start?

Z: You should be asking this question to yourself.

A: Yes, I’m ready so let’s start. First of all thank you for your time and for this interview, Mr. Zenon.

Z: No Mr. please, just Zenon. Titles just don’t belong to my esthetics.

A: Where does the name Zenon come from? Is it your real name or a nickname?

Z: My real name of course. I find it to be a very common name, don’t you? 

A: No, not really. Are you baptized?

Z: Probably in blood but I don’t really remember. Long time ago and I tend to forget the past.

A: Forget or erase?

Z: Ask my mind. I’m not responsible.

A: Baptized in blood… that sounds very cheekily satanic…

Z: Maybe it was red wine… Barolo… I don’t imply anything about satan. Who really cares about him, except for the virgins, I am more important than him.

A: Your feeling that you are more important than satan gives me the feeling that you believe there is one.

Z: Well, he’s just an ugly guy that church made up to represent bad. Let him be! It suits a lot of people. 

A: I guess that you are not religious.

Z: Religion is the real satan or devil, however you wanna call him.  But enough with this nonsense. I thought you were interviewing me. 

A: Of course… I can’t help but notice the way you are dressed. 

Z: Dressed? I thought I was naked. Interesting, tell me exactly what you see.

A: Well you have a black tight skirt on, black boots with gold sole, black shirt and a blue made to measure tailored jacket.

Z: Hmmmm… the so called avant garde look of these days. I promise that I came here naked.

A: But I can’t see any skin….

Z: Don’t worry, it’s just a projection of your expectations. I’m really naked here and feeling very comfortable… if only the heating was a little bit higher, but no complaints. 

A: Are you suggesting that I have illusions?

Z: No. It’s just the fact that your mind is flood with reality. A reality that is somehow injected in your DNA. Spending too much time in front of your computer or TV?

A: Don’t you have to these days?

Z: Have to? Are you leading your mindset or you leave it to the ones that know best?

A: Technology is making things easier or not?

Z: Only if you understand that the real technology behind everything is your mind… I’m sorry but the moment calls for a glass of red wine… maybe the one I was baptized in. Would you like to taste it? Maybe it will open your mind a little bit.

A: ……



Proposed by Dandyakuza on Thursday 10 February 2011 at 12:12 PM · Permalink · Comments (1)

First Sightings — by Joan Erakit

        It was the swagger in his walk that I noticed first.

        The waiting area in terminal C was a mixture of badly dressed men, leaning against columns and window sills as if they had more to offer than the general "hello". Not him. The way he walked across the room, balancing his energy like a runway model was enough to cause anyone to stare. I couldn't resist shifting in my own chair, wondering if what I was wearing was sensible. A black pair of pants and a see through men’s tank wasn't necessarily sexy, but it was comfortable for a 6 hours of travel time. He didn't walk too fast or too slow, he didn't exchange glances with onset traffic or even look around him. He was focused, deep in stride and confident.

        I settled back into in my chair, unwrapped the aluminum foil around my sandwich and took a slow bite. The flight assistants weren't even at the console making calls or printing out boarding lists, and it was still pretty early in the afternoon. He wore a pair of perfectly fit dark blue jeans, the ones that barely touched his sneakers, and a blue T-Shirt. I watched the straps of his black messenger bag as he readjusted them in an unassuming way, taking out his cellphone from his pocket and turning his back to me.

        I remember that I was perplexed by his simplicity as a man; not too tall, not too short either, skinny but not thin, he looked harmless but aggressive… and I enjoyed this juxtaposition. From first sightings, one could say that I liked him, but then again, I was known to like anything that resembled perplexity.

        The flight crew arrived just as I started to concentrate on his sneakers. What were they? Vintage chucks? High tops? I could sense my legs naturally part as I sat up in my chair, leaned forward and touched my left wrist. There was something animalistic about the way my heart beat when I looked at his sneakers. It reminded me of a scene from 'Sex & Lucia', where Lucia had just finished telling Lorenzo that she had been following him, and you could instantly see her heart beating wildly in her eyes.

        He crossed the room and sat down as the flight assistant began to announce the pre-boarding. I pulled out my wallet and took out my boarding pass, scanning it quickly to see what seat I was in before looking in his direction. I stood up, grabbed my bag and headed towards the line of eager travelers waiting to board the plane. The room felt musty and the slowness of the boarding process only added to the anxiety that was welling up inside of me.

        I looked over my shoulder and saw that he was getting up to follow the line. Still on his phone, he shuffled his sneakers across the ground and re-adjusted the strap of this bag.

        I boarded the plane, took my seat by the window and fastened my seat-belt. I watched the trail of people file down the isle, wondering about him, before I bent down to put my bag under my seat. I don't know if it was the blood rushing to my head or the sight of his vintage sneakers that caused the pressure around me to drop. He stopped at the aisle seat of my row, pulled off his bag and sat down. It's that moment where one becomes the prey and for an instant dares to think of what it might actually feel like to get caught. He looked over at me and smiled.

        It was knowing that everything and anything was going to happen that made me pulsate ridiculously. I tugged at the side of my tank top, adjusted the straps of my bra and smiled back.



Proposed by Dandyakuza on Thursday 30 December 2010 at 04:12 PM · Permalink · Comments (1)

Diary Of A Mannequin — by Crista Cober

15:50     24.11.09
I have spent years avoiding writing down my thoughts for fear of what will be written. For years, I have cheated myself out of the existence I want. It’s like sand; days turn to months, and it’s now one year since Paris.

He walks through the door; I overflow. My pulse races, I am all smiles. I feel completely crazy; just hours ago I was awaiting THE ‘Hour Of My Death.’

The dreaded departure to Milan; Today. The nerves jump from Italy, is there no grey? Why is it always black and white in my life? (Do) I do it myself?

Never really realized how my printing changes every time I stop/start writing.... I think too much (or not at all). I feel EVERYTHING between these pages should be Epic, Legendary.

Crazy girl.
[had to set pen down feeling too agitated]

we’ll title this: Random Thoughts On The Metro

I stare at people and they stare back. A pair of eyes, most a dead look somewhere near a middle. I have been stranded on these moving cars for the past 9 months, countless hours. Seen thousands of different faces (yet I know no one). The young guy beside me smells awful, he’s fanning his stench with a tourist’s guide to Paris.


Waiting for next car—too many people. No place to sit and write...
[AND she scores a seat. babble babble babble]
I hear the sounds but am unable to understand what it is they are saying. Oh how one can miss eavesdropping...
One of the many things I took for granted before moving to Paris (9 months).

17:20      27.11.09
Sitting alone in a beautiful cafe.

22:59      28.11.09
My mind wanders to the bedroom. Take a good book in case the xmas anxiety wins the battle. BUT FIGHT HARD!

Resorting to dissolving french aspirin. Yes my head actually hurts that much. Was distracted from the headache and writing by the glass of pop I just accidentally smashed on the hard wood floor! [NEVER FAIL backwards]
Almost midnight, hoping I won’t sleep all day tomorrow. Rainy Sunday in Paris.

One day, one night trip to Barcelona, shooting for _______ and off on an adventure.

Sitting at the boarding gate at Dubai International airport. Feeling as low as can be, wanting to scribble pages of blue ink but force myself to produce letters instead. It was an eye opening, unique, fun filled first trip to the middle east but today I am empty and ready to return to Paris.

My run in with the police last night was the end of the rope. So scared... being searched and interrogated in Arabic. Being mistaken for a (high class, I hope) prostitute with a married man in a muslim country. I could have easily been taken straight to prison. An eye opening experience to say the least.

The moon is bright.
My Ears are ringing.
So beautiful. Face, lips, nose,
eyes and especially your teeth.
Should sing—the voice
interesting, deep, smart.
3 kisses—back and forth and
back again. Why not 10...
no, just one. One real one.
Story after story.
2 days filled with interesting people. On and off set.
Endearing, loving, open, honest, connected, and vulnerable.

lunch, drinks, driving, 360, +44, work, talk, work, talk

Business and priority are now boarding 075 to Paris. Time to get ready for the 8 hours back to the special boy waiting for me—goodbye Dubai.

The best thing about getting lost is what you find along the way.

First entry of 2010. Standing in the metro at Republique, waiting for the metro (5 mins and counting).

Drinks with K apres?

Total drunk now (!!!), 4 beers later I’m on my way home. The train has arrived, just 6 stops and a 5 minute walk and I’m in the warmth, I’m Home. 

9 days til Milan...
I will NOT fuck this up I will NOT fuck this up I WILL NOT FUCK THIS UP
I repeat this to myself in the darkness, in fear, before falling asleep. Almost every night now. SO afraid of the city (Milan) I’m about to leave for, and how it once upon a time ago royally fucked up my life. But everything happens for a reason, right?

Anyway, Here and Now is where I am, and there’s nothing I would change.
(I looked up as the train approaches the station and really how freaking drunk I am!)
So CHEERS to 2010 and to the most random threesome I have ever had, my baby’s lips on the body of another... so amazing to watch, dissolves everything away to pure NOW ness.

Gare D’Australitz, I am home!
Into arms, I fall, home.



Proposed by Dandyakuza on Thursday 25 November 2010 at 07:48 PM · Permalink · Comments (1)

Number (N)ine — by Daniel Area Wakahisa (Courtesy of GREY Magazine)

        Then there's this label who won't be showing this season nor the next, it's beat

it's dust scattered across an old record, a coat hanging on the cross—breathless,

        an empty skin unzipped, a shadow on the wall reminiscing the silent poet,

        a divine number

Then there's this feeling, a closed feeling, no longer weeping the mystical back alleys in Harajuku

        where broad stripes and bright stars conquered the tempered heart,

forged in jewel steel engraved with the words: 村正

the demon blade

Then there's this hotel room in Alaska, no witnesses, no nothing,

        where isolation desolation exclamation

invoked the spirits of those folks whose strings resonate deep within

        the land of the free and the home of the brave,

the eternal scream, the nuclear weapon, rhythm and rhymes:

        rock and roll

Then there's this collection whose price was never tagged for it was higher than our digits,

        our exchange rates—our cool, a precious moment, so loud it shattered bones and skulls,

speechless masks walking on their burying ground—the last moment,

        January twenty second two thousand and (n)ine, the vanishing light

        reverence and fear

Then there's this feeling, a sad feeling, that keeps asking was it suicide or was it murder?

        (Ask my brain. I don't know)

the record stopped playing, FATHER the hipsters ran out of coins OR was it the jukebox

        who ran out of tunes, who couldn't count past (n)ine,

        who devoured Americana

until it's needle wore out, scratching the snow white facade of the nation

        floating on overtime, overclocked, overpriced

Then there's this vehemence to conserve, to dry clean only and vacuum pack all the remnants,

        dry freeze every stitch with cryogenic devotion, a cellar a wardrobe

where all numbers combine yet none equates to the absolute value of Takahiro Miyashita, 宮下貴裕

        Taka the oyster, the silent poet,

         ask my brain

Then there's this thirst, a wind blowing from the desert, dry and dusty eyes shut glooming

        wide-open uneasy progressive philosophy resonating in the minds and memories of all,

        what the future will hold,

The Redisun, Time Migration, Standards, The Modern Age, Nowhere Man, Touch Me I'm Sick—A New Morning, Dream Baby Dream, Give Peace a Chance, Night Crawler, The High Streets, Axel Rose, Noir, About A Boy, Love God Murder, Birds, My Own Private Portland, The Lonesome Heroes,

A Closed Feeling

        The ninth sense disbanded

Then there's this letter, a sad letter, Dear friends and supporters,

where dear friends and supporters are given the announcement—the adjournment

        or is it punishment (You shall not make for yourself an idol)

the eighteenth show a closed interval thank you to all but keep looking, keep shopping,

        keep up with appearances

It's past (n)ine and I don't know what to wear

It's past (n)ine and the beat is dead, circumscribed to collectors—we are all collectors now, collecting

        an infinite number of fragments in time, of time, running out of time,

playing the old Beatles song that keeps spinning past the last groove,


Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine

Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine

Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine

Number nine, number nine, number...


Proposed by Dandyakuza on Thursday 07 October 2010 at 11:26 AM · Permalink · Comments (0)

The Emperor's New Clothes — by Grace Christopolou

A vain emperor hired two weavers for a new suit. They said they could make a special fabric just in his honour. It would have been an amazing fabric: extremely light to touch, beautifully crafted and with the peculiarity of being totally invisible to everyone who was incompetent. The two waivers started working on it, and when the fabric was finally ready, they proudly showed it to the emperor. His heart skipped a beat when he realized he couldn't see anything in the wavers hands. Ashamed about his own thoughts and worried about his incompetence, he did what every coward would do. He faked enthusiasm. The two impostors couldn't be more happy about that. They said they would immediately start sewing the suit. The word spread among the emperor subjects about this magic fabric, and all the people couldn't wait to see the emperor in his new suit. The day of the parade before his subjects, wearing his new suit, the emperor was nervous. Would his subjects be more competent than him? When the crowd finally saw him, everyone started screaming and clapping hands. Within their own hearts, they were feeling the terrible consciousness of incompetence. Within their own hearts, they knew they had to fake enthusiasm. A child cried out: "He's naked!"

Hans Christian Andersen, who wrote this tale, wasn't sitting on the front rows during fashion weeks.

When the lights turn off, and the celebrities walk away, would you be able to scream out loud what you really think? Would you be able to accept your own thoughts? Fashion editors decide who's a genius. Buyers follow editors. Customers follow buyers. We all follow. Fashion is not about dresses. It's politics. Take a stand.


Proposed by Dandyakuza on Monday 04 October 2010 at 02:03 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)

Eyes — by Federico Cabrera (Gilles Et Dada)





















Proposed by Dandyakuza on Saturday 25 September 2010 at 06:37 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)

12 x 12 — by Federico Cabrera (Gilles Et Dada)



























Proposed by Dandyakuza on Saturday 25 September 2010 at 06:36 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)

The Golden Concorde — by Filep Motwary

As I recall it my t-shirt soaked in sweat felt like I dove into a lake with my clothes on. I shut my lashes again and I see it all, as if my eyes were wide open. I dream of Paris and life somehow transfers to the "city of light."

Via Concorde? I am not sure.

It's one of those days when us people move like birds in search of one's nesting: towards the ideal place to lay the eggs and presume an existence which will albeit only last a season. The same allowed lifeline fashion has before designers present their new incarnation. Dutifully I'm there too, as if I exist through this semi-annual repetition. 

Friends and faces pass before me. They look stranger in reality than in magazines. From afar, grungy Miss Day takes my picture. She waves a gloved hand as I draw one final salute. I wonder where she is heading. Seeing Her Majesty is a rare privilege indeed.

A bunch of Boys-in-Margiela force the crowd in attendance. Everyone, myself included, fixes an admiring eye at them. What do I feel? A hint of envy for their youthful skin, their forceful vitality, their coveted invitation for being at the right place the right time.

Or is it pure admiration?

Time disappears fast and in less than a moment this wonderful frivolity will take place of pride in memory. I might or might not be able to testify to that. Oh well…

I walk through the hallway. A woman greets me, asks for my pass (how the hell does she know my name?) and tells me to follow her. She points to my seat and surprise; I am front row. “How weird!” I hear a voice behind me. I sit keeping my sweaty hands carefully placed on my knees. My camera is hanging from my neck and my bag rests against my tapping feet. 

On my right, Carine nods “Hello.” On my left Anna's voice enquires after my mother. “She is fine,” I say and turn my head up to the ceiling counting to ten. Opposite, the seats are packed with mermaids and sirens that carry strange names: Daria, Coco, Raquel, Kinga, Lara, Natalia, Sasha, Hannelore….For a moment it feels like I only exist in a spell. How fortunate these women are, how beautiful and spotless, sitting there slapping bewitching smiles left, right and center. 

The lights go dim and Hussein's voice announces: “The show is about to start.” In this dream I'm wearing red, my hair is long and I have the most perfect teeth.

Hussein’s voice is up again informing us that the show is cancelled because “summer ain't coming” God just told them via Skype “the world shall be stuck in winter for a while.”

“So what are we gonna do now?” asks Carine.

“Let's be patient,” says Anna.

Soon the room resembles a scene of a bloodless massacre. Something out of a picture by Delacroix. People cry invisible tears, a horde of women powder maniacally their noses or plug their eyebrows to oblivion. Anna’s hairdresser and his team retouch the hair as she is placing a phone-call to God demanding that he should at least change his mind for a season. He ought to have told her, for Couture's sake.

Carine is already out smoking "a la Française."

What a mess! So, no summer for a while…

I make my way out with Jo Calderone’s arm wrapped around mine.


Proposed by Dandyakuza on Monday 06 September 2010 at 01:39 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)

Fashion Witch Paris — by Philippe Pourhashemi

I remember the day I went to your office and you offered me an unpaid internship in your department, which I politely refused. You were the sales manager of a French fashion brand whose profile had risen immensely in about two years and you were probably wondering how you could use me. I started working in the showroom a few weeks later.

You only wore black, sometimes white. You body was boyish and because you hated your legs you hid your hips under masculine trousers. You had no breasts, but then again, fashion witches don’t have any. These creatures are sad remnants from the greed decade and still think that being like a man always guarantees success.

You walked around the showroom in Manolo Blahnik sandals and said they fit like slippers. The only smell you could tolerate was one Diptyque candle at a time and you flashed your Hermès watch for your fortieth birthday. Nothing truly original there, but you certainly thought you were the pinnacle of taste.

Fear reigned in your office. People were wondering what mood you’d be in every time you walked past them. I was young and naive then. I talked to you and looked after you, making sure everything was the way you wanted. I even gave you neck massage. It was nice at first, but then you demanded it every morning and it became a bore.

You were like a walking billboard for cynicism. You made fun of the clients who ordered the collection and laughed at the journalists who came in. Sometimes you made me laugh so hard I had to run down to the basement and hide. You had no respect for anyone, including yourself.

You were like the naughty girl who never did her homework. Part of your talent was to surround yourself with people who worked their asses off—for your approval. You really relied on them but you were also a control freak.

We had our honeymoon, and it didn’t last. One thing about cynical people is that they are often smart and witty, but their sinister face eventually creeps up. I remember how you shouted at me one season, because the security guards blocked entry to the show venue and you couldn’t get in. I was just talking about how good a sequined jacket looked on the runway and you completely lost it, insulting me for about ten minutes. I had no idea what was going on, but soon understood you were just a sad bitch.

Power was the only thing that kept you going. It fed you like blood feeds vampires. You smoked like a chimney and I would probably have had cancer if I had worked for you another year. The smell after one day of work was suffocating. You also hardly ate anything, probably because you were so focused on your thighs. I was famous for being the first employee to approach the delicious buffet, which was laid out every morning. People probably made fun of me because I loved the food, and I didn’t give a shit. At least I looked healthy. You put your face on every morning before your first appointment and looked like a monster after three days.

You were terribly insecure. I used to get on very well with an American buyer and when you noticed that we worked hard while having fun, you made sure I never had an appointment with her again. Maybe it was my kindness that beat you. Whatever it was, you were on a mission to frustrate others, since you didn’t think much of yourself. And everyone knew it.

I remember the day you passed out before an important client came in. I had to take over while you looked like death and I honestly thought you were going to have a stroke. I think you were slowly beginning to lose your power. After that appointment the fashion director asked me to come to his office and the conversation started to feel like a job interview. What was going on? Were you completely out of it? And what made this guy think I wanted your job? I guess no one had a clue about what to do precisely, as is often the case in this maddening business.

The glory days didn’t last long. Despite all your lies, persistent scheming and bad faith, the new owners of the brand decided to close the fashion house down. I was no longer working with you when it happened, but I heard that you were calling buyers and crying over the phone, which was quite pathetic. Dignity was never your forte.

That’s the thing about witches. They fool everyone for a while, but one day it’s over. I knew you’d never have a job like that again, and you never did. It was time for me to move on and learn about other things in life. 

I’m glad we met.


Proposed by Dandyakuza on Tuesday 13 July 2010 at 12:10 PM · Permalink · Comments (0)