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The Pittilogues: Pitti Uomo 87, Day 2
What shall we ever do?
What shall we ever do?
I hate everyone and everything when I wake up five and a half hours later. I loathe the idea of putting on shoes. I shower, and try to go back to sleep - impossible. Instead I get up and have breakfast, which is also impossible. I can’t believe that I have to go back to Pitti today. It seems absurd. Isn’t it over? Haven’t we done everything we came here to do? Can’t we ******* leave yet? I will need to nap at some point. Probably soon. Potentially within the hour. I already feel disgusting and sweaty but I worry about what housekeeping will think if I spend the whole day in the hotel with the “do not disturb” sign hanging from the door knob. Fok would probably not find that useful - and neither, for that matter, would I.
I give up halfway through my croissant. My grapefruit juice tastes like battery acid. My eyes look like eyes that have had grapefruit juice poured into them. The internet doesn’t work. Somehow it seems fitting. It is also infuriating. Everything is infuriating. The reality of wearing shoes is almost as bad as I feared it would be. Fok - damn him - was right about sneakers. I regret not having any. If I had brought sweatpants and running shoes, that is what Pitti would see me wearing today.
Instead I look like a moron. Who goes to Florence with three pairs of boots and nothing else? Only dipshits attending Pitti, that’s who. I am disappointed in myself. At some point this morning, my misery will turn to determination and I will trek back to the fair. The time has not yet come. I sort of feel as though I have forgotten my ability to walk. I clunk around like a goose, awkward on the land.
*
It’s 11 AM. My eye is leaking. I am in the press-room. I wonder if people look at me and assume that I am a broken man. I am having what are usually referred to as dizzy spells. This is not a good thing.
David walks in and says my name in a really high-pitched voice, which surprises and terrifies me.
"You look terrible,” he says.
We seee @dirnelli . He tells me I look tired. I am tired. I’m going to try to take a nap at 4:00. That will give me 3 hours to work and get back to the hotel in order to lay my weary head to rest.
Gracia joins me. She takes one look at me and say “My god, you look terrible.”
"It's the eyes," she adds when pressed. I explain my three-hour plan.
And so we dive into the grey ocean of the courtyard and emerge in the crowded booths.
We pass a brand called Moose Knuckles. Come on. And Crocs. Why they are here, at Pitti, I will never know. We pass brands with names like “Derrière" and “Just Over the Top,” neither of which sound appealing. I wonder how, with the crowds and the music, anyone can be expected to do any business - don't forget that this is, after all, a place of business.
I am watching for fuccbois today. I see several. More than several - now that I am actively searching, they are like fruit flies. They are everywhere. They are breeding rapidly. And then we find it.
The Hood by Air stand is in a new building, which Pitti calls the “Unconventional Zone.” It is some sort of “New Experience,” but mostly they just shoehorn everything that is maybe slightly “goth” into a single space. If you want to dress like a *******, I guess this where you go. HBA is populated by a lot of people wearing Hood By Air. But there are brands inside that are legitimately interesting, as well: Reinhard Plank, Isabel Benenato are two of them.
Inside the "Unconventional Zone,” two men are DJing sick beatz. HBA is obviously the star of this show - they’re right in the center, they have the young, hip crew manning the booth, they all…
****.
Okay, look. I don’t consider myself a mean-spirited person. Nor do I usually make it my business to pass judgement on what people wear. But - ****.
Come on. This **** looks ridiculous. I thought, originally, that it was some kind of brilliant social commentary about how obsessed our culture is with status symbols and logos. I thought that maybe it was meant to be a parody of itself, a sort of in-joke: “Look what we can get people to buy!”
No. It’s for real. People, somehow - absurdly - believe in it. They want to wear it. They actively covet thousand-dollar hoodies plastered with what look like a cross between tobacco warnings and the sports-betting ads you see on European soccer jerseys. I can’t believe it. I am completely in awe. Later in the trip, SZ’s Faust will tell me that all the brands have declared that they, too, want to be placed in the “Unconventional Zone.” People, this **** is real. What’s more, it’s not really that different from the scene out by the wall - it’s peacocking, just…with more lines and random letters, I guess. I can’t pretend to understand, but I suddenly feel very self-conscious about wearing black and white. I wonder when we will begin to see the worlds colliding - casentino overcoats worn with Hood By Air ass-flaps, bespoke trousers and Givenchy kicks. It seems inevitable, and I don’t think I would bat an eye.
"I feel like Rick has spawned an entire subculture," says Gracia. She says the air mesh - which, like last year, is very popular - is mostly from Alexander Wang - health goth (sporty goth?) comes to mind. And then you mix that with Rick, she says, or more specifically Drkshdw, and you sort of get whatever this bling-goth (not the Rick and Chrome Hearts bling goth, you see) mash-up is. Everyone who is wearing it at Pitti is furiously white, skinny, and appears to be fifteen years old.
We leave. I am still having woozy moments, and the rainy air outside is a huge relief. We meet Fok in the press room. “You look terrible,” he says. We walk around outside. Everyone looks like a ******* now - the peacocks in tight green silk suits seem no different from the ALLBLVCKSTREETGOTHS. Or maybe it’s lumbergoth, now - every other person has a flannel shirt tied around his or her waist, covering up the leggings and falling just so beneath the Off-White hoodie. Those of you who suggest it has something to do with Kurt Cobain are straight up wrong.
Gracia does her thing well - all is relative, but she doesn't look over the top. Maybe it's because everything simply drapes, and she doesn't appear to worry about where things are going .
And then there are the tweeners, the people who are just…hangin’ out. Not quite ridiculous - or ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as the true believers. There is a constant line for the men's bathroom- probably because we are all full of ****. There is a lot of shearling this year, faux and real. As far as I can tell, all of the people talking on their cell phones - and a number of them do seem to be actually talking - are Italian.
There is a logic to the pitti outfit - or at least, they is an ideal pitti outfit. I’mnot talking about the ideal blogger bait outfit, but the outfit you would wear to be comfortable. Big, loose coats do make sense. It’s chilly in the evening after Pitti, and you can leave your coat open all day. Sneakers make sense, too - this year it’s Stan Smiths, whereas last year it was Flyknits. Maybe the exposed ankles keep you from overheating?
Two of the men at Pitti who do dress very well
You learn a lot about what you feel comfortable wearing while you walk through the Fortezza. I don't want to be a person who has to constantly be fidgeting with their wardrobe - and if I ever need to adjust things, it bothers me endlessly. I am not going to drape a coat over my shoulders unless I am too damn hot and don't want to carry it - I'd probably go insane. Even then, I probably wouldn’t, because how could you possible move?
The day is largely a wash - this has happened to me the last two times I have been here, too: day one is silly but kind of exciting, and by day two I am ready to leave and never come back. Tuesday was good, largely because of our meetings - I can’t tell you how excited I am by the possibility of our Monitaly and Junhashimoto projects - but Wednesday…well, let’s say that I’m not looking forward to Thursday.
*
Dinner on Wednesday is with Gracia and David at a nearby trattoria. The basement in which we are seated smells a bit like a septic tank. Our pâté crostini are very good, as is the carpaccio that David and I order, but after that it’s all a bit disappointing - and the pasta is very salty. Otherwise, the evening is essentially just a string of dick jokes, courtesy of David. I have listed several below, devoid of context. Enjoy.
"Greg really likes the bone."
"This is a huge piece of meat"
"Doesn't quite make your mouth water?"
"Would you say it's as bloody as promised?"
"I can't fit another inch of it in my mouth"
"You kinda ball it up and stuff it in there."
We're done here.
