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.

Kids

Ooh, those young kids and their crazy fashion. Or actually, is it quite so crazy?

Think Fifties and images of Natalie Wood and James Dean will crop up. The white tee with leather jacket is a look much respected today but think back and it was shocking, revolutionary. The tremors running through Peyton Place were measured via the ripples on the blancmange.

The James Dean look moved onto a certain Mr Presley, and daughters were locked away from the aggressive lothario whose songs referenced the tough nuts of the jailhouse and how the kids rocked. Mr Presley evolved, rock'n'roll became the youth culture and the many artists cemented the new generation of society. And let's not forget our own Cliff Richard; he may be the butt of many jokes but he was very cool to kids left of the pond. And the next time you watch Summer Holiday check the wardrobe, its damn good!

Newsflash, The Beatles arrived. Sharp suits and polished shoes brought the kids back to Savile Row – well, the Burton suit – and suddenly, if not emulating one of the Fab Four, it was being cocky to Miss Moneypenny. This was of course if you were clean cut and wanting to be respected by the parents – go on and be the bad kid, the black sheep, and gyrate the hips and unhinge the jaws like Mick Jagger. Rock'n'roll was growing, the cutesy cute of Californian surfers was far too twee and alien to the grey shores of the English Riviera. The Who and The Kinks, The Small Faces and Procol Harum sounded of the streets, of the Kings Rd. Granny went on a trip and she was joined on the ride. Chelsea girls and Chelsea boots strutted down Carnaby.

Hold on – a certain festival was soon to occur with a soundtrack of Hendrix and Joplin, and love was to be felt. Placating the parents was now no longer a concern; being the black sheep was too square, let's just be in love! Daisy chains, in all varieties, even the once respectable Beatles were in love; weed saturated afghan coats and beads, shaggy hair and experimental guitar riffs abounded. It laid the path for Ziggy and Bolan, creatives that were challenging then and still are now. Roxy Music took us to Virginia Plain and we flew to Rio, discovered life on mars and rode the white swan with glittered eyes and an androgynous wardrobe.

We shall here try to forget the tartan army of the Bay City Rollers, or the beaming smiles of the Osmonds (however, what a tune was ‘Crazy Horses’). Teenagers were experimental like never before, beautiful and glamorous, prepping themselves for the truest onslaught of shock and disturbance.

Malcolm McLaren came back from New York, enlisted the raw talents of angry musicians and punk broke forth. Inspired by The Ramones and the New York origins of punk, London beat the drum loudest and angriest. The Sex Pistols had the kids swapping the glitter for safety pins, makeup for hair gel and colour for black. It was a scene to change youth culture like nothing before. Punk to post punk, the new wave was just as loud and its creativity was in abundance. The aesthetic may have calmed, well in England anyway but the music maintained a strong, youthful voice.

New York saw the rise of Talking Heads, B-52s and Klaus Nomi to mention a few, whose music matched their amazing aesthetic to an extent of otherworldly dimensions. None more so than dearest Nomi, whose talent is much missed since his all too young death from that dreadful disease which saw the loss of too many creatives who gave so much in their shortened years.

The eighties saw various styles and scenes amongst the kids. John Hughes' view was polite but fun and in its own way subversive. Two Tone was sending people in droves to the mirror in the bathroom as they sent a message to their dearest Rudy. Bowery was kicking up a storm in Soho, him with his fellow gender benders blitzing through the capital and making everything all Kinky and Gerlinky. No one was fading to grey as the chameleons found their karma. Bowery too followed McLaren across the ocean and joined the equally outrageous Alig.

The club kids of Club 2000 partied in the limelight of lorries driving through the streets of the city, never losing a piece of their costume, though I'm sure many brain cells were lost from the excessive amount of drugs coursing through their painted and corseted bodies.

The more accessible scene of the Haçienda had kids all over the country flocking to Manchester to party happily, ecstasy aided, till the wee hours, acid smiles to match the ones on their faces. Manchester became the music powerhouse under the wing of Factory Records. Youth had never been so financially viable.

The 90s saw the loss of colour and glamour to youth culture. The lad and ladette scene turned a scornful eye on the flamboyant and wielded a nasty tongue which flicked acid, such a shame as it drew heavily on the early sound of the 60's. Soon came the Noughties and a re-emergence of the beautiful happened. New Rave hosted by Boombox, the Studio 54 of the Noughties and golly, the characters returned. The streets of London were awash with the bizarre and beautiful; it became alive because freedom returned. London Fashion Week hadn't been so popular since the debut of Westwood and Bodymap on its catwalks.

Pugh, Schwab, Kane, Tough, Goldin and Giles paraded designs as renegade as their predecessors, Galliano, Westwood, McQueen and Howell. But then the box stopped booming.

And it has not boomed since. A short moment of ponies stepping to a canter beat was enjoyed but it wasn't maintained. The catwalks lost their splendour, the streets held no sashaying aesthetes and M.I.A. joined forces with Timbaland. Youth ingenuity has slowed to a deathly plod, It’s the few now who remain and maintain the powder and patches of the 20th/21st century.

It had been diminishing over the years but has now been relegated to a novelty rather than a wonderment to behold and experience. It’s a fruit pastille when it was the gateaux.  The return of conformity has rung the death peel of the once amazing kid.

Walk the streets of the east and see a bevvy of the acne monsters spouting vile words at the few who choose to embrace the glitter of Bowie. Hear them scoff at the ones whose adoration of the new romantics borders on imitation and watch their fingers point like weapons at those who will never forget the genius of dear Leigh.

The kids are no longer crazy, in their mad clothing and listening to alternative beats. With desperate hoping I shall wait to see if it will awaken and we shall be treated to a sight of the bizarre beauties that only the young can concoct.