Bag porn

The Damir Doma AW 2011 shopper bag in black goatskin. I have wanted a new black shoulder bag for about three years. I have searched high and low (and all across the internet) for something big enough to fit all my junk (read: SLR) but still be refined enough to go with all my best outfits. I wanted it to be black, the universal colour of chicness, and leather. But every one I fell in love with was out of my price range.  The XL PS1, the Givenchy, the Alexander Wang...  So I've been lugging my crap around in a handy-but-not-quite-so-chic Backlash leather bucket bag I got as a freebie at a show a few years ago. Enter YOOX. The seasonal sale price plus additional super-secret-hush-hush discount code equated to a whopping 70% off the original retail price. Finally a Damir accessory is mine.

Hoping this bad boy will take the edge off the weekend – I'm coming back to London tonight to pack up Casa di Duck for good. Looking forward to drinks with Charlie and Lexxi, dinner with Anna, and a whole lot of garment bags.  For the next few months I shall officially be a resident of Glasgow...

Duck

Alyssa Norton

I think the bracelet is my favourite accessory of all. I used to be into statement necklaces and I went through a ring obsession phase (always pretending they imbued me with magic powers...) but bracelets seem to be the easiest pieces to throw on to spice up an otherwise plain outfit. They aren't annoying to wear – how many times have I lost a ring after taking it off to type? – and layered up they can be quite a statement in chic. My current rotation includes a beaded thread by Edun and my leather Miansai fishhook, so I'm thinking of adding one of these Alyssa Norton braids into the mix. Cornell-trained artist Alyssa started life as a painter but quickly moved onto more sculptural jewellery work after studying in Mexico. Leather, thread and metal woven together, there's just enough detail to be intriguing while the sombre colour palette means they would go with everything. Not too expensive either...

Duck

Whatever happened to Romain Kremer?

Whatever happened to Romain Kremer?  I miss him.  I've tried tracking down several of his pieces online but I just can't find a stockist anywhere and eBay's no use.  I almost bought a pair of the Camper collaboration sandals from SS 2011 (the last of his shows I attended) last year but in the end a pair of Carin Westers won out.  I was a fool...

Looking back at his archive, it seems that Mugler is 90% Kremer and 10% Formichetti styling — in fact I just discovered Nicola styled Romain's shows in 2008 and 2009.  I like how the collections fluctuate between protective and wearable for winter, revealing and overtly sexual for summer.  And always, always with a nod to the future.    

SS 2011 — need those sandals.

AW 2010

SS 2010

AW 2008 — I'll take the entire white look and the otherwordly jumper.

P.S. Who could say no to a perspex hoodie?

Duck

Cringe

Does anybody else just find this all rather...cringe? I know it's not copycatting or infringing on trademarks per se but it is using another person's name to make money (they cost around £50). And after Henry Holland's name-dropping tees it's not even particularly original. The epitome of that culture which worships brands or designers because of the mainstream celebrities they've become, rather than recognising what they have achieved in terms of design.

I feel like some people who normally have awesome taste have been duped into thinking these are cool.

Duck

Images from Stop It Right Now, Kate Loves Me and Mode Man.

Fashion Week

Jean-Charles de Castelbajac AW 2008 was the collection that really got me excited about the fashion industry. It wasn't the first show I attended – that was Aminaka Wilmont in London earlier that season – but it was the first when the fashion bug really took hold. We were in Paris, the show was in the Louvre, Miss J was sitting across from us and we necked miniatures of Cointreau from our handbags every time the security guard was looking the other way. The live performance by Curry + Coco was stomping (we listened to it drunk in our rooms back at uni every time we were getting ready to go out) and the models danced on the runway, something I'd never seen as a teenager watching FTV obsessively in my living room. We were into maximalist dressing at the time and made cartoon-themed costumes for the fancy-dress after party; I was Le Petit Prince gone gay. It was completely amazing. Both Anna and I bought Rubik's cube JCDC pieces when his store opened in London. I drew an exclamation mark on my face for my birthday party that year.

Since then I've gone to lots (hundreds?) of fashion shows, in London and Paris, and sat on the front row, the second row, the third row, stood behind the sixth row, and twice been left standing in the queue outside when you could already hear the audience clapping from within the tent (*cough* PPQ *cough*). I've done womenswear AW 2008 – AW 2012 in London and menswear SS 2010 – SS 2013 in Paris.

So this is the first season in a long time I'm not going to the shows. Work takes top priority (even weekends are a no-no). But I'm strangely not that sad about it. For one thing, fashion week takes a lot out of you. There's the initial planning, the emailing, the phone-calls and the schedules. Then the standing (inevitably hungover), the running around until your feet bleed, the ache of SLRs on shoulders and the ridiculously rude security staff at Somerset House. Not to forget the money you spend when you don't have a magazine budget covering your expenses... I'm almost looking forward to my 2am thesis freak-outs now.

Don't get me wrong, attending fashion week has been brilliant, exciting and, at times, an honour. But last season in London I really did start to question why I was there, because I just wasn't feeling that JCDC thrill I remembered from my first time in Paris. And I know I'm not alone – several bloggers have expressed the same sentiment to me over the past couple of seasons. That moment was there and now it's passed. Our blogs and our lives are constantly evolving and I'm not completely sure what my runway coverage adds to the online pool of knowledge. When I have the time again I'd love to keep seeing the shows for the designers I'm fascinated by and whose clothes I buy regularly, if they'll have me. But I don't think I'll ever have the urge (or the time) to attempt a full schedule again. I'm still a fanatic, it's just my zeal has become more concentrated. 

Duck

P. S. If Raf would like to fly me out to see the first proper Dior show, I may be able to find a gap in my schedule...

Aragon

The Acne Aragon shirt.  It's silk.  It's boxy.  It has a heart print.  It is £270.  It is called Aragon.  It is not available at the moment.  

I always want what I can't have.

Duck 

McQueenie

Well, after yesterday's pity fest I thought we should start today with something a bit more joyous.  Continuing Monday's theme of gifts, it's time to say thank you to Nathan aka The Provoker for this McQueen scarf I won on his blog last week!  Unfortunately almost all my clothes are still in London so it was a bit hard to style it up, but here we have my casual-chic take on day wear for the modern PhD student.  The ladies in WholeFoods certainly gave me some appreciative looks when I popped over to stock up on soy cream and hypoallergenic shower gel.  Sigh, always the ladies, never the gents.       

The three-year anniversary of my blog is coming up at the end of next month and I am now officially over 1000 posts so I think a celebratory give-away of my own is in order (as appears to be the fashion).  I'm going to have a think over the next week or two and see what I can rustle up.  Watch this space.

Wearing scarf by Alexander McQueen, sweatshirt by Alexander Wang, shorts by John Rocha.

Duck

P.S. Sad-Panda-Eyes is a Duck registered trademark facial expression.

Ken Doll

I just read this blog post by Orlando Soria on Hommemaker (p.s. my new favourite blog) and it really touched a nerve. Orlando lists ten reasons why gay men have (or strive for) perfect bodies. These are:

1. We are surrounded by images of perfect bodies.
2. We compare ourselves to our partners.
3. Our boyfriends see hot, naked men every day in the locker room.
4. We worship bartenders who are hot and topless.
5. We are more successful than straight people, which makes us more competitive.
6. We take our shirts off everywhere.
7. We're frightened.
8. All our friends look like Ken dolls.
9. Our community leaders are personal trainers (see point 4).
10. Because we have nothing better to do.

Now Orlando looks like this (I hope he doesn't mind me reposting this):

In my mind he's hot. I'd kill to look like that. If my body looked like that I too would be walking around with my shirt off all day. But Orlando doesn't feel his body lives up to the example set by the gay community around him, and I can see why because I feel exactly the same way.

You know what I look like, my image is plastered all over this blog.  I'm not fat – I'm what they call skinny-fat. I'm tall and I'm thin enough to fit into all the fashions, but my my arms and legs are skinny and there's this little pouch of blubber sitting on my stomach that never seems to go away. I am not toned by any stretch of the imagination. I'm hairy but I'm not big. I buy trousers in a size 34 but wish I were a 28.

Now I like to think of myself as reasonably intelligent and successful. By the end of the year I should have my PhD, I speak a foreign language, I can cook, I dress well (sometimes). Yet I still feel inadequate because I too don't look like a Ken doll. There is no way in Hell I'd post a topless picture of my body on here. No amount of rational thinking can make me feel better about how I look. I'm surrounded by images of what I, particularly as a gay man, am supposed to look like.

The posters and fliers for clubs, the go-go boys, the bartenders, the gay characters on TV, the Gaydar banners. My body doesn't fit into the three allowed gay types: twink, muscle man or bear. And so many of the gay men I've met living in London seem obsessed with their bodies. It's like the gym is all they talk about. Work, gym, club, work, gym, club. The fabulous holidays and shopping trips are only worth it if you have the ripped body to show off.

Orlando points out that the upside of this trend is that gay men lead healthier, longer lives. I'm not convinced. How many guys do you know with six pack abs who've given up the booze to cut calories, only to chain-smoke their way through the day or pop a few pills before they go clubbing? Really healthy... Reducing belly blubber, moderating cholesterol levels and eating a diet rich in healthy oils and vegetables does make you live longer. But I don't think any studies have shown going to the fitness extremes has a substantial benefit on life expectancy? Correct me if I'm wrong.

I used to think this extreme cult of the body was restricted to the big gay centres like London or New York (thank you, Sex and the City). I was wrong. Switching on Grindr in Glasgow you find bulging biceps and six-pack abs fill the screen, or it swings completely the other way to XXL. There are very few guys with what I used to think of as normal bodies.

It seems (as an outsider) that women are complaining constantly about their representation in the media. But I think gay men have it worse. Not only are we surrounded by images of almost unattainable bodily perfection (attainable if you set aside half your life for the gym – time which could be spend, I don't know, thinking), these images are directly linked to our drive for sex. We can compare one another directly. If I want a boyfriend with pecs, I'm going to have to get my own set first. The dynamic as I see it is totally different with straight couples. The most ridiculous part of this is that I find a whole range of body types attractive, but I can't imagine those ones who are stereotypically “hotter” than me liking me back.

This is basically why I hate my body and I don't know what I can do about it. Worst of all, after reading Orlando's post, my immediate urge was to get on the floor and start doing sit-ups. Pathetic.

Duck

Bound in white

Blindingly white and so minimal one might even describe it barren, the Margiela L'Atelier d'Exercises 'claustrophobic' notebook is the ultimate in stationery chic. It's bound at both sides so you have to rip through to get to the good stuff. Yeah, right — there's no way I'll ever tear this beauty apart. It's going straight on the collectables shelf. I just need to acquire the ostrich feather ballpoint and the empty snow-globe to complete the set.

Thanks so much to Anna for my motivational delivery!

Duck

A walk in the park

Sometimes, just sometimes, it's good to take my Mother's advice and get out of the house to clear my mind.  Maxwell Park is at the bottom of my street.  It's green and airy, and has a pond with nesting ducks, swans and some bird my parents like to a call a little gerbie — answers on a postcard, please.  The area I live in is mostly populated by older, retired people so there aren't any screaming children to ruin my walk.  Just the occasional geriatric walking a designer labrador.  It was definitely good advice because clearing my mind of the stress and junk stimulated all sorts of new ideas to pop up in their place.  Ideas which I'm currently testing on the computer cluster and writing up in my thesis.  Clever brain.  

You'll notice it isn't a scorching 31 degrees here like in London.  In fact, my walk in the park was definitely the right time to test out another new piece from my AW 12 wardrobe — these fingerless gloves from Raf Simons's 1995 diffusion line.  I've always been obsessed with cut-off gloves like this ever since my parents forbade them back in secondary school.  The grey cashmere Brora's are my favourite; I've got through three pairs of them now.  The Raf pair aren't as warm or as soft (they're just plain wool), but that makes them perfect for the transitional weather.  I'm not really sure what the smiley anchor's meant to symbolise but I like it. 

Wearing sweatshirt by Alexander Wang, gloves by Raf Simons 1995, trousers by Odyn Vovk, satchel by Bracher Emden and trainers by Converse.

Duck

Verdant

I like spending Friday nights in front of the Sky+ box with a jar of Mrs Elswood's haimisha pickled cucumbers, a fresh pea cappuccino and a bag of organic, gelatin-free cola bottles.  I also enjoy freaking out the neighbours as the flash bulb goes off in my garden.  Doesn't foliage look so much more vibrant and lush when shot at night?  I'm finding myself strangely attracted to green this season.  I've got the t-shirt, the scarf, and now a pair of winter boots in the mail from Milan.  I just need some green trousers and I can move into the garden permanently. 

You might be able to tell, the seclusion's getting to me.

Wearing gradient t-shirt by Raf Simons, shorts by John Rocha. 

Duck

Warm it up

Besides being a word-class arachnid sanctuary, my Glasgow house also seems to think we're in the middle of November.  It might be sunny outside but within these thick stone walls we're preparing to open the first of our advent calendars.  It's freezing.  I have to turn the heating on to working in our dining room every day (parents away for another week and a half so nobody to complain).  Of course I forget to turn it off again and regularly wake up at 2.30am in a puddle of sweat.  Still, it's a good excuse to start wearing my winter wardrobe.  A scarf in the house?  Only if it's Dries darling.

Mohair and alpaca* scarf by Dries van Noten, cashmere gloves by Brora.  

* Mohair is made from the wool of the angora goat.  Angora wool is made from the fur of the angora rabbit.  Alpaca is made from the coat of an animal that looks a lot like it's a llama, but isn't. Try not to mix them up.

Duck

Lust-list

I'm one week into my DPhil lockdown and insanity is starting to set in. I haven't left the house for days except an emergency taxi ride to WholeFoods for pesto and tapenade. I'm sleep-deprived from nightly spiderwars (the perils of living in any house more than a century old); I've had to decamp to the guest bedroom and give all my best clothes over to the disgusting arachnids. I am now wearing John Rocha boiled wool shorts everyday, watching documentaries about the Amish over breakfast and staying up until midnight worrying about the spin-density matrix. My only joy left is late-night online shopping. And so I present to you my current lust-list from the AW collections rolling into my inbox on a daily basis.

1. Obviously Raf. I need to buy up as much as I can of this collection I love to get me through the SS dry season. From head to toe, I would like it all please. From the Raf Simons mainline: the knitted, structured hat as well as the degradé sweatshirts (another, yes) and t-shirts. From the Raf 1995 line: the hairy t-shirt and the fingerless gloves.

2. The bomber jacket. Either in khaki suede by A.Sauvage or a blue "blouson" in technical fabrics by Sacai.

3. Rick Owens. STAT. Leather high tops and some drop-crotch shorts please (I've almost worn the John Rochas out).

4. A leather-fronted Ann Demeulemeester backpack. I have no idea how I made it to the library without this before.

P.S. The one upside to never leaving the house: the payments are building up in my bank account so quickly I might actually be able to afford some of this stuff.

xxx

Duck

Where was the glamour?

Let's admit it, the closing ceremony was a bit shit. I'm not denying The Spice Girls brought it and looked amazing whirling around the stadium on top of their flashing taxis – definitely the highlight of my night. I also enjoyed (recorded?) Blur, The Pet Shop Boys clad in Gareth Pugh, and Take That's ending. But the rest of it... Ed Sheeran, double doses of Jessie J and Emile Sandé, and no Kate Bush or ELO? WTF.

What pissed me off most of all was the 'fashion' segment (there's a surprise). The build-up on Twitter was immense but then we get 10 seconds of the supers strolling up a slope into nothingness? Where was the excitement or the glamour? I wanted Fashion Rocks meets a Victoria's Secret show on acid. When George Michael sang 'Sometimes the clothes do not make the man' a giant catwalk should've descended from the sky with Kate, Naomi and Stella in a stomp-off featuring fashion's greatest hits of the past five decades. Instead we got some giant billboards that smacked distastefully of product placement and gold outfits so similar a voiceover had to announce who each designer was (McQueen was the only one I could spot in the split-second the models were on screen). The fashion industry in the UK is a big deal (OK we get it, you don't have to keep ramming it down our throats BFC...), so why don't we celebrate it properly? Did they blow the budget on the opening ceremony?  Jeez, you'd think the fashion brands of all people would know how to put on a show.

xxx

Duck

Twenty Twelve

I'm the last person you'd expect to be interested in sport. Despite Mother's protestations I have always abhorred Wimbledon, football, the Olympics...really any kind of sport, live or on television. I've always found it pointless and boring, my body not designed for feelings like pride or patriotism. And yet something odd has happened to me. Some bizarre kind of Olympic fever has taken hold.

It all started with Twenty Twelve. Knowing that Siobhan Sharp's character so closely resembled reality (anyone even remotely connected to the fashion world will have met her sort before) should have made me dread The Games even more, but instead it planted the seed of obsession in my mind. This wasn't helped by the opening ceremony which saw me physically welling up in front the television screen. Sure the second musical half was truly awful (when will they stop wheeling out the decrepit Sir Paul?) but the beginning, with its celebration of British history in Disney proportions, was mind-blowing. Working on my own as I do, it's very easy to feel disconnected from the society around me. It's funny that it takes a thousand volunteers and Kenneth Branagh in a top hat to remind me of the connection between my own work and the immense history of these islands. There are all sorts of reasons one could argue as to how and why, but you can't deny what we as a people have achieved. You really have to step back and look at the big picture to place your own life in context.

Now I find myself checking the medal score on a daily basis, watching the recaps in the evening on BBC One and even streaming some of the events (gymnastics, obv) live while I'm writing up. I wonder if there's a pill I can take for this?

Gradients Part II

Gradient/ombré/dip-dye/WHATEVER! I'm such a fashion victim and I luuuurrrrveeee it. Currently enjoying this grunge flashback but I think I need to get myself a shirt and tie to wear it runway-style. And it arrived just in time for the gradients in my code to start plaguing me again.  Thanks a lot Mr Porter (no thank you really, it sold out everywhere else almost immediately?!).