So Street: My journey from streetwear to high fashion and back. Part 8
I have taken a couple of months off the story of my fucking life as a designer....at the end of the road there is a sign that says...you are screwed! If you have been following the story you are probably by now aware that most often than not I was flying by the seat of my pants...still do. I guess I've just gotten better at it.
Anyway going back to where I left off in part 7, just read it if you haven't or buy a shirt and don't bother reading it: trust me you'll look good.
The day after the show I am trying to figure out who had ransacked my New York showroom and had taken all the outfits from the show. If you recall in part six I recounted how our new production partner, a large California apparel manufacturer, headed by a husband and wife team, decided to take us on primarily on the strength of our label's presence in the press and the New York fashion week circuit, among other things. They were also suppliers for a major US discount chain. Well in a brash show of force, they had decided to gain entrance to my showroom and take all the outfits. I had to call the Los Angeles production facility and after been placed on hold for half an hour I was informed that the outfits where there.
They had been invited to the show, after all they had bankrolled it, however their South Bay, suburbanite lifestyle did not allow for the time away from the children soccer practice and the country club Sunday roast..I could tell however that they looked at me with a tinge of envy...I could also tell that between them there was a union mostly predicated on work.
She was actually doing the scheming and the plotting, he was by his own admittance, carrying her bags, tagging along, in a kind of dickless way and resenting it all. All of this was inflated by the apparent lack of physical chemistry between the two...I knew all along that it was her doing at he was carrying on her dirty work...The plan was to take my designs knock them off and sell them to their large discount chain clients.
Needless to say the New York trip had to be cut short, some of the press opportunities had to be missed or rescheduled, hard to do especially in the midst of fashion week. Except for WWD and a couple of other publications, not much else was said about the show, Marie Claire, who had been one of the sponsors and had intended to photograph some of the outfits in New York, had to be postponed for a latter date, I flew back to Los Angeles to see what the fuck was going on although I already had a pretty good idea.
Meanwhile I had started dating my future wife, since that night we had met up in NYC we had been seeing each other on a regular basis, It was a pretty charged up relationship at the beginning, augmented by the fact that we shared a common thread in our work and the sex was also pretty awesome.
I started confiding in her about my issues with my partners, and even though I struggled with the possibility of having to once again uproot my label, I knew sooner or later it was going to be inevitable.
October of that year I was invited by one of our Japanese distributors to visit Japan. The trip was completely organized and sponsored by them, they paid for everything! It was a full on turbo amped up, excursion into the excesses of Tokyo, in all its chaotic esthetics, and cultural kinks. It was also the trip that took us to a whole different level...It was Nistka on tour, with geisha girls, incredible night clubs, rivers of booze and fantastic food, Sumo wrestling, and whale sperm... What happened next it will surely amaze you. But more on this next time around...I leave you with something I scribbled on a cocktail napkin in this restaurant supper club in Roppongi while waiting for my turn to sing Karaoke...
I am lost amongst a multitude of people
traveling east on a west bound train.
Signs that melt in the rain of multicolored lights.
Last night in Tokyo. I am drinking Suntory with a straw
while the Cat sleeps in a corner of the restaurant.
Tiny teeth singing “Don’t be cruel”
I wish I could understand this fascination with America;
This flat line culture thrown into the desert.
The streets are dressed in red, cab drivers driving
with both hand on the wheel, white gloves and
Needlepoint doilies on the seats.
They insult you with a smile.
New York comes to mind for just an instant,
then I laugh for I knew New York
invulnerable and open inside the belly of the Whale.
Nothing seems to move anymore.
These words no longer come easy.
There is a Japanese punk band
Blaring out from a T.V.
“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off “
it is well past one and
a couple of more nights are all
I have got left.
But I am fed and sheltered,
This is not my life. It cannot be.
It is the Emperor’s wife that casts
her spell on these white clouds tonight.
I wonder what whale sperm tastes like...