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The Pittilogues: Pitti Uomo 87, Day 1
What are the roots that grow out of this stony rubbish?
- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
We meet for breakfast downstairs. Our hotel is - I have to say - very nice, except that the multiple Italian women in the room next to me are making noise until past midnight. When I tell David this, he raises his eyebrows and makes a suggestive face. I resist the urge to give him a purple nurple.
Breakfast, for me, consists of pastries and pork products. Some shaved ham, bacon, two croissants and a cappuccino, to be specific. I am all about pastries in the morning. And pineapple. Which they have, so I eat it. I am all about pineapple in the morning. Every single one of us makes a point of offering Gracia an orange. Really it's jealousy; children on a playground. We cannot compete with her Junya, with her triple-laced Ann Demeulemeester combat heels. She is our Belladonna, our grail, at sea in the unreal city. We walk to the Fortezza. Fok scoots. We both want him to have a holster, Hansel-style, for his weapon of choice.
Once we arrive, our first stop is Monitaly, where Fok and I talk with Yuki for a long time. Once again, his clothes are beautiful. Nigel Cabourn cruises by to tell him so - yes, I just intentionally dropped Nigel Cabourn's name. Deal with it.
I attempt to explain the pavilions to Gracia, but can only sort of mumble things. I am not that helpful. She and Jen, who is in charge of our photography for the trip, explore. They find some cool things - Japanese yarn companies-turned-knitwear-producers, pink hats at Pitti W, things I cannot name or, more accurately, remember.
****, my back hurts. Why is standing so difficult? When is lunch? Lunch is now. We are sitting in the furthest corner of the buffet room. It is unlit, barn-like; dark and crowded, which means convincing the horde of assholes to let you through. This is impressively difficult. We eat pasta, arugula, cheese. "This pasta is amazing," says Gracia. "It's like real food," I insist.
I consider seeing how much wine I can drink. I decide it is a bad idea - which is itself a good idea. Jen tells me later that I "looked kinda white." I believe it. I have seen the photos. They are not encouraging.
We talk about theories of breakfast, and the practice thereof. I tell Jen that I'm not really into yogurt. I'm into pineapple. I'm really not that into oatmeal.
"Yeah," says David. "**** oatmeal."
The furious French woman from last summer (to catch you up: she was yelling about "not being shown the respect of a CEO" while in the lunchroom. David's response - "you're not a CEO") is seated next to us, and almost immediately begins to yell at everyone about their "lack of respect." Apparently, irony is lost on her.
"I'm amazed she came back after how she was treated last year," says David. Evil French lady seems to back off once she realizes I can both understand her AND be maybe kind of insulting in her mother tongue. Who can say what evils the People of Pitti bring with them. Her entourage is silent, staring into the opium-blue of their phone screens. It's not my place to judge.
After lunch, we head to the central pavilion. It takes maybe 35 minutes to walk 200 feet because - and I am being serious here - every single attendee (or at least those who hang out at The Wall) thinks they're more important than you are, and won't get out of your way. I find it odd, but perhaps I need to consider a brightly-colored overcoat - placed on the shoulders, not worn.
At Isaia, downstairs, there are male models in gladiatorial armor. No one has any idea why. They are wearing almost no clothing at all (doesn't Isaia sell suits?), and it's...armor. What.
We catch up with José and Leticia of La Portegna (I manage to scare José), as well as with Niyi of Post Imperial, whose wares I have not seen before. They are SUPER COOL. Yeah, he's a forumite and everything, but the prints and colors are so good it almost makes me wish I were wearing a suit. Greg shows up, and we chat for a while. It's Niyi's first Pitti, which means that, like Gracia, he sort of assumed we were making it all up. For those who are still wondering: we are not making it all up.
"It's like Comicon," says Niyi. "Except those guys know it's a joke."
It is notable that Niyi's business card for Post-Imperial doesn't say designer or conceptual lead or whatever - it just says President. President. That is boss. He's a boss dude.
I join Gracia and David at Rombaut, who is there because he was invited. His sneakers look pretty cool, especially when they're on the feet. He's got some interesting stuff to say, too.
After that, Fok and I swing through Jun Hashimoto (I am ten minutes late). Every year he brings more. His outerwear is, I think, very cool. He also brought @teenagelightning 's Ouroboros shirt. I have attached a photo below.
After Arpenteur, I have had enough. Here's a fun fact about the Lyon-based brand, though: a disciple of the late Hergé does their illustrations. They are charming. I shake hands, I leave, I seek the relief of the press room. It is time to go. I collect my Junya-wearing compatriot (rather, she collects me) and we say farewell to Pitti for the day. We both seem a little shell-shocked.
Gracia tells me that within moments of sitting down on the wall next to the (admittedly swagged-out) Jussy-D, a ring of vultures - sorry, photographers - descended upon them both. I feel a twinge of treacherous jealousy, but shove it down, all the way into my ridiculous white back lace combat boots. There is room in the bulbous toebox.
Are you familiar with the stereotype of the narcissistic "fashion person?" I am. Intimately. This is their sacred grove; the clicking of the cameras their damning mirror. Perhaps, when they disappear, mustaches are all that remain. I complain about them to Gracia as we walk through the gauntlet and into the free air of Firenze proper. She asks, politely, "Aren't you one of them?"
I splutter, but am at at a loss. Am I? I shake hands, I air kiss, I can show Gracia through the pavilions. I recognize people. We nod heads, sometimes, through crowds. Perhaps they are only indulging me. Perhaps we can only indulge each other. Hypocrite lecteur, I think. We are all brothers. The line between reality and manufactured fiction is difficult to follow. Dinner awaits us, if we can only stay awake for it.
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