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Day 4: Homeward Bound
“Of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man.”
***
“Of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man.”
***
No one gets blogged on Friday. Only the lifers are still here; the die hard sprezzatourists. There's a tiredness to the chatting and smoking that I haven seen before today, as if now that people have to do it for real; now that they need the nicotine and the last-minute conversations are important, they don’t want any of it. I can’t blame them. The empty courtyard is depressing. When you're not surrounded by the mob, caught up in the weird adrenaline - when it all starts to make a perverse kind of sense; then you start to really wonder what the hell you’ve been doing. Are we dressing up for ourselves? For each other? For the Pitti booth babes? Back in January, Steph told me that she likes coming because she doesn’t have to give a **** about what she wears; that the men don’t even look at her. A friend told me that what he’s gotten out of these journal entries has been that my derision gradually turned into grudging respect. He was right. It’s hard not to admire the dedication, and to an extent, the production itself. The courtyard stinks of desperation.
Most of the vendors are trying to pack up and leave. I wander through the empty building that houses the South Korean designers (South Korea being this edition’s “guest nation”), and halfheartedly take a few photos. They want to tell me how to take my pictures, and what I should be taking pictures of, which makes me a little prickly even though I don’t show it. It’s a valid concern, of course; I have demonstrated over the last three days that I have no business using a camera. The Korean girl is telling me to document particular details, as though I have never seen a seam before. “I think you should take one of this, too,” she says. I think I should sleep. The problem is that it gets harder and harder for me to just play it cool the more tired I get, and the fun of walking into the circus has largely evaporated by Day Four. It’s like being around the mediocre parts of the Vegas strip, where the casinos are run down and the bright lights get a little dimmer. The glitz left this morning, headed to Paris and Milan.
Still, I have work to do, and so I make my way to Gray knitwear, where I drop Greg’s name again. I think the guy at the booth assumes I’m there to take pictures for No Man Walks Alone, which seems to confuse him since the boss man’s already been around. I don’t try very hard to clarify. Mr. Hare is next door. The booth is empty, but I take photos anyway and feel sort of creepy about it. Like I’m breaking the rules. I decide not to bother with Camo because it seems boring, as does most of what remains.
Everyone wants to leave. They want me to leave, too. Maybe I should pick up what they’re laying down. There are booths I haven’t been to yet, people I haven’t attacked with my iPhone’s voice memo app. But what’s the point? It’s all nice, everyone says. Very nice. But I can’t tell you about it. I can’t show you. You can’t take photos. I try to look at some bullshit Italian leather company, but they don't speak English and don't allow pictures either so my only takeaway is that they're unfriendly and no matter what they say unlined leather isn’t particularly comfortable.
It's over, really. I know it. The people here know it. I don't know why we're still trying. I'm hot. I'm tired. I want to be done. What's left to see? Outside, they are packing up the tiki bar. The last day is the worst day. I hate it here. I hate the rampant asshattery, I hate the gross bloggers taking pictures of the booth girls, telling them to pose on the steps of the big pavilions. I hate the unnecessary music and the desperate, final dregs of the parade. Walking across the gravel is like walking across Mars.
In the central pavilion, I say goodbye to José, who is angry that a dining companion of his bought a 90 euro bottle of wine the previous evening in a (failed, I assume) attempt to impress a woman. Antonio is absent from his Eidos booth again. The press room is empty. It's just me and a couple of other people who are either behind on work or are clinging to the hope that Pitti will go on for another week, another day, another hour. Long enough that we can squeeze in whatever it is that we’ve not been able to get done.
I give up, make plans to meet David for a final coffee. He’s wearing a hat and a tee shirt. While walking to meet him in rolled up jeans, vans, a tee and a blazer, I realize that suddenly, now that the circus has left town, I’m the one who looks weird. David tells me it appears that I’ve gone native. We have bad cappuccinos in a touristy place that I take responsibility for choosing, we part ways, and that is that. I consider an afternoon run through the Fortezza, but no one will be there anymore. And so I decide that I’m well and truly finished, and think about finding a place to watch soccer.
It’s an Irish pub, of course. It’s always an Irish pub. They’re out of Guinness, though. The bar cheers when the Italians dive, as though tricking the referee is part of the game. I relish their defeat. As I leave the bathroom, I notice a woman staring at my crotch. I am flattered until I realize I wiped my hands on my shorts and it looks like I peed myself. I leave the bar in search of pizza. Instead I find myself back at Cippola Rossa for pasta.
I sit directly next to yet another group of American girls and spend the beginning of the evening trying to avoid making eye contact. Hearing them talk about “walking through the quad” after their psychology classes makes me feel surprisingly old. Thankfully, they leave as I finish my bruschetta. It's interesting to hear them navigate things like splitting a bill; witnessing their social echolocation and casually spying on their interpersonal relationships. I know very little about life, and watching other people learn how to be adults is both humbling and infuriating. They're not even drinking wine. Boys, boyfriends, boys who are friends...masculinity is, apparently, a hot topic for them. This interests me. I wonder if I was the same way. Now I almost never talk about “women” - I think - except when I am decrying someone I hate. Just kidding. I don't hate anyone.
I take a sip out of my wine carafe. Accidentally, I mean. I must be tired. There is a very tan girl standing outside. Fake tan seems weird to me. It can't be healthy, right? Minutes later, the tan girl walks in, introduces herself to me and says that her male friend would like to give me his number. French is our linguistic middle ground, and so I inform her that I have already lucked into a petite copine. I feel very flattered, although I am in a post-Pitti slump of tee-shirt, vest and shorts, and I am very sweaty. But I love to eat out alone.
Let's bring this back to fashion. It's difficult to cling to what you love when you're surrounded by Pitti. Because - here is the honest truth - not everyone looks ridiculous. We (I) just sort of pick and choose who we (I) ridicule. I do not claim to be free from bias, nor should you believe anyone who does. Regardless, the scene - the pocket squares, the neck ties, the suede loafers and rolled-back cuffs - does rub off on you; has its own siren song. Whether this is general human nature or simply my own fallibility I couldn't say. I guess the former, though - somewhere ahead of me there is a winding path packed full of capsule collections and morning press releases.
Alone in my corner of the restaurant, I browse tumblr and get 5 euros off my bill and a couple of winks because the wait staff likes me, or at least wants me to think they do. What a night. Italy loses, boys love me, and I get discounted food. It’s another lovely evening in Florence. Sometimes it is easy to forget about a home in a far away land when you’re trapped on a ship. The waves have their own rhythm, and the sound and the sway become not just normal, but necessary parts of your being. But it’s good that journeys end, I think; it’s good to have a place to return to. The world is full of Circes and Calypsos and all manner of fantastical beasts, but sometimes it is nice to have a moment of quiet.
***
Look, a detail.
Panna cotta, one of the greatest jokes ever played.
Click here to read all of Styleforum's coverage of Pitti Uomo 86
Look, a detail.
Panna cotta, one of the greatest jokes ever played.
Click here to read all of Styleforum's coverage of Pitti Uomo 86
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