Disrobed

When playing hide and seek as a child I used to always head for the bottom of my mother’s wardrobe. Bed linen at the bottom, skirts and trousers descending, it was dark and secure yet easy to escape. If the seeker was to open the doors with an "aha!" I would not be seen deeply buried underneath the newly laundered linen, the excited pile cleverly concealed by the long skirts hanging, brushing the top of my head. Shadows and fabric playing smoke and mirrors.
 

Becoming a teenager was awful, I was the sad teen, eating the sadness away. And golly can I eat! My wardrobe became a magician’s suitcase, its contents of colourful fabric, various weights and dimensions were relied on to conjure a presentable person.

 How to use my box of tricks required learning and practice, a deft hand with a silk scarf, fine manipulation with the tie (half-Windsor knots are preferred) and a clever eye for fabrics took time and energy. I studied hard, eyes becoming blurry with images from past, and then, present. The history of items, their politics, society and invention were read and understood. The only thing one can't learn is style, this comes with time, growth and liberation.

Great individual style can only be achieved when letting go of society’s constraints and the mind, now emancipated, can think with the colour and texture it innately has. We all have preferences, naturally, but the emancipated mind sees everything and tries everything at least once; it may not be enjoyed but how was one to know? And never is it a wasted opportunity for we get ideas all the time; inspiration doesn't always have to come from the good.

And so with my liberated mind I decided to see if I could retain style whilst disrobed of my clothes of illusion, though losing the adolescent weight and discomfort with my physique has rendered me dependant on the magicians compendium.

Being far from an acceptable nudist beach (well are there any?), I resorted to a day spa, polite, refined and therapeutic. Recommended by a regular, I booked and attended.

Those first minutes of being in a locker room had me returning to school. Undressing whilst never being undressed, I can get changed into a nylon P.E. kit whilst wearing a polyester blazer, acrylic sweater and polyblend shirt in no time, it's all in the flick of the wrist. Oh and as a byway, all that polyester on teens is not good, the sweats, the grime, the hormones! Its not acne, its an allergic reaction.

However, once I saw the middle aged spread around me disrobing, though not a bad thing, I started to feel comfortable. I may not be the waist 26 of the Dior Homme model I always wanted to be but I'm a 30-28 and that's not to be scoffed at; no one was scoffing at all. No sneering or jeering, maybe because I was out of the east, away from aesthetes who consider anyone either not like them or of their circle worthy of instant derision, I felt a sense of belonging. Men together, nothing but our masculinity and that's style in itself.

Walking through the spa with only a towel, the least amount of fabric worn away from my bathroom I began to straighten my posture; no longer reliant on my wardrobe to give illusions of a flat stomach and a moob-less chest I attempted to retain the style known for with a excellent posture and a nonchalant gait. Well it is rather difficult to strut on a wet, tiled floor; one slip and the shame would certainly kill.

This being a place of notable repute, the clientele was polite and well mannered, no leering, no ogling, no errant hands in the sauna's gloom. However as I took some respite in the sitting area outside, the sweat freezing in icicles from my nose and elbows, a mature gentleman engaged me in conversation, discussing the many benefits of the sauna and how one can't beat a good Turkish bath. He asked what I did for a job. "Yes that makes sense, you do have a presence."

Was having a presence a good thing? Something advantageous? On many occasions I have been told I have a presence, which has always been a polite alternative to "you look like no one else in you zebra stripe leggings and crocheted jumper". It’s never a positive; people don't like people who don't assimilate to a genre. It appears I don't assimilate, there happens to be no genre for my general aesthetic, though I refute this vehemently – I promise you I don't dress that left field.

Asking for an explanation, "you make yourself known when you enter a room, you have a style to your person" – his words not mine.

"My mother was strict with posture, I could never slouch or lollop."

"Yes, posture is important but it’s more than that; either you have it or you don't. Something within, the French have it, Italians have it."

I think I was in love; being compared to the French has been my dream since 15. It is undeniable the French have style, Parisians certainly monopolise the term. I was undecided about Italians but each to their own.

Donning clothes I returned to comfort; concealed in fabric I am able to play tricks and conjure the person I want to be, but when I was shed of them I tried to understand the concept of style from being myself, only myself, warts and all. I remember reading an article about tailoring that said when seeing the slight imperfect puckering along the edge of a collar, one knows it has been hand sewn and is therefore a bespoke suit, of superior quality and individual.

I too have come to that conclusion, it is the imperfections of one and how carried that give one style. Think of great individuals who have the tag of style swinging from their neck – Leigh Bowery with his size, Klaus Nomi with his receding hairline, Twiggy with her waif-like physique, Bette Davis and her beaky nose and thin lips. All had presence but they had style too because they knew their flaws and worked with them. Davis smoking and blowing smoke through her nose is still devastating as are the Freud portraits of Bowery in all his glory.

I, we, create a presence with clothes, but one must never forget the person wearing them because that's where the style originates. And whether concealing or playing with our flaws with a persona or couture, one should not, cannot hide that particular style innate within each person.