My Strange Take - Hands and Yubi Kiri
in fashion, hands are never innocent
eyes might lie but hands never learned how
you can always look without consequence
but to touch is to admit
the most romantic moment is never the touch
it’s the second before it
fingers hovering, deciding if they should stay imagined
thinking about louise trotter’s bottega veneta campaign
there were faces, but they felt distant
everything returned to the hands
how they moved, how they held, how they let go
the story wasn’t in expression
it was in gesture
and then there is yubi kiri
japanese kids locking pinkies to seal a promise
something soft carrying something irreversible
that same feeling lingers here
a touch that feels like a promise
even when nothing is said
because a gaze can rewrite itself
but hands stay honest
My Strange Take - Yves Klein ANTs
I keep returning to ANT 03, though never in the manner one is expected to.
“ANT” as Anthropométrie, Yves Klein’s attempt to systemise the body, to translate it into measurement, into structure, into distance. And yet I never meet it at that distance.
Because before it is a method, it reads as a name.
Ant. 03.
A coincidence that refuses to stay neutral. A code that begins to feel intimate, as if language itself had quietly folded in on me.
I don’t arrive through the body,I arrive through the title. And by the time I look, the distance has already collapsed.
What remains is not performance, but residue. Not image, but contact.
A body pressed into presence, suspended between what has just happened and what is already disappearing.
And the blue so absolute it feels unreal does not describe the body, it holds it still. Prolongs it. Arrests it without fully fixing it.
What interests me is the tension: control and surrender, system and excess. A classification that never fully contains what it names.
ANT, followed by a number, meant to organise the body. But the body persists elsewhere outside its own definition.
Somewhere between his language and mine, it stops being an object.
Not entirely his.
Not entirely mine.
Just suspended, insistently, in between.
My Strange Take - Sex with no nudity
Sex in fashion was never loud,it lingered.
In Helmut Lang, it’s the tension of something almost unfastened nylon, straps, a waistband sitting just low enough to feel intentional.
With Ann Demeulemeester, it’s softer shirts left open at the throat, fabrics collapsing like they’ve been held too long.
Hedi Slimane at Dior Homme made it distant bodies turned into silhouettes you look at but never reach.
While Comme des Garçons under Rei Kawakubo pushes it into something stranger desire that disrupts, that refuses to behave.
Miuccia Prada in Prada Fall 2019 lets it sit in discomfort knits clinging, skirts misaligned, intimacy that feels slightly off.
Raf Simons at Calvin Klein Fall 2018 makes it young, uncertain layers half-protecting, half revealing.
And Anthony Vaccarello at Saint Laurent keeps it in the aftermath shirts left open too long, leather against skin, a body that stayed out past intention.
Even The Row in its silence understands:
sex is in the pause,
the loosened button,
the fabric that remembers the body.
Never exposed.
Just… still warm
