Personal Introduction

In all honesty, blogging is not my thing. I've never kept a diary, i've never written down my reflections on the day and i've certainly never felt the need to share said reflections with strangers on the internet. As one of my colleagues recently pointed out, if a man stood in the street shouting to everyone about what he'd done that day and how it made him feel, people wouldn't listen, they'd just ignore him, or at most have him sectioned. That said, it is a neccessity for me to write this blog, and neccessity is the mother of all invention, so what's the worst that can happen? However, before i begin, let me make it clear that you shouldn't expect any self indulgent drivel here. There will be no moaning about the people i work with, no whining about the weather, no bleating about the state of my skin or the failure of my relationships. What there will be is descriptions of the things that interest and amuse me. There will probably be some stuff that offends you, maybe things you don't agree with, but certainly not anything that has been written badly, and that is a promise. So, my name is Matthew, I'm 23 and i've almost finished my degree in fashion journalism. I've written and styled for Arena magazine, assisted on shoots for Pop and am currently writing the style section for FHM magazine as a freelancer. I've been hit on by the head of KCD, come closer than i'd have liked to kissing Jody Harsh (she's a drag queen) and once gained entry to a Louis Vuitton party by pretending to be Tim Blanks. But i don't want to tell you about any of that. I'd rather tell you about where i'm from. That place is Woking, a small commuter town about 45 minutes from London. Depression hangs over Woking like a fog, clouding the minds of its youth, shackling them to it's grey, characterless walls. The neon light of the fast food outlets and arcade blinds the residents, stopping them from looking any further afield, so people don't know any better. Certainly they've been to London, but they didn't understand it. Real life has been right in front of them but the people of Woking can't see it, content as they are to stand in Leicster Square drinking overpriced alcohol and cautiously clock watching, terrified that they might miss the last train home and be trapped in the city overnight. Drunkenly they wander, ten abreast, singing songs and throwing fowl language around like it was loose change, their heavily gelled hair standing stiffly to attention in the night air. Terrified of anything new, they mock those not in shirt and shoes and franticly search the narrow corridors of their minds for an insult worthy of an unusually dressed man: You fucking gay boy! Woking you see, sums up everything that is wrong with this country. A small, insular town full of people too afraid of change, difference and diversity to embrace it. This is most acutely obvious when you look at the way the people of Woking are dressed. There is no individuality. People don't like to stand out, they like to blend in, look the part, fade away. And so, it is with heavy heart that i present Woking to you, the reader, as the antithesis of everything that I believe in and long may it serve as a reminder never to mock, deride or belittle what we don't yet understand.

The Four Ages of Fashion

Hello,

So for some reason my original post/ introduction doesn't seem to be up here, i'll try and rectify that asap but in the mean time my name is Matt, i'm 23, i'm straight, i like to write.

Now i'm going to cheat a little bit with the answer to the two recent questions posed about London and New York. Please note that this is not becasue i'm lazy, it's just that i think i can kill two birds with one stone.

There seems to be a fairly well defined set of stages within the fashion world that are represented by the four main fashion capitals, sort of like the four ages of fashion. They run in the following order:

Firstly, London.
London is the birth place of innovative fashion, the enfant terrible, the sulking teenager. This is the place to come if you want to be different, if you want to be noticed, it's where you come to go through fashion puberty. Each year the colleges of London give birth to hundreds of naive, awkward, gangly designers trying desperately to get their foot on the first rung of the ladder. In London a designer is free to do whatever they please, to show off, to shock, to scream for attention. It's the fashion equivalent of a child standing on its head in the middle of a family gathering; all the adults smiling dismissively at the precocious youth. The adults know that in a few years they'll have matured and will be embarrassed when reminded of their behaviour. It's this spirit though that makes London what it is, a breeding ground for dangerously exciting creativity.

Next comes Paris.
The spotty teenager's skin has cleared up and they are no longer so desperate to shock. Mindful of the incredible couture heritage that floods the city with romance, the designers are mindful not to mar things with brash, provocative statements. The adult's approval at the family gathering is still important but where there were once acrobatics, there is now an affected air of sophistication that is almost, but not quite right.

From Paris to New York and a coming of age.
New York is where lives in fashion are made. There's no childish innocence to fall back on. No Gallic indifference to hide behind. Either you make it here or you don't. New York is where shit goes down. By this time, you won't be standing on your head at the family gathering because it'll be you whose organising it. New York is the sophisticated adult that London hadn't realised existed and Paris tried so hard to be. It doesn't care about letting everyone know how dangerous or sophisticated it is, it just does it, and it does it better than any other city on the planet.

Finally, Milan.
Milan is the final stage in the four ages of fashion because it's where the serious players reside. The break neck speed and cut throat nature of New York has slowed to a reverential pace that speaks of confidence, maturity and security. Milan doesn't care about shock tactics. It doesn't care about feined sophistication and it doesn't care about success because it's been there and it's done it all. What Milan cares about is design, beauty and style. New York might have been organising the family get together, but only because it was Milan's wedding anniversary.