Expensive Shit™

Catalogue of expensive habits and cheap fetishism.
Clean-cut and razor sharp, he wears his glasses, gum boots and a duffle coat to walk the family dog along the white cliffs and above the swirling ocean. He is the ex-subversive in sunshine-gold leggings who decided long ago that the true anarchist hides his motives from public attention, until he gradually realised that his identity had shifted along with his posture. His children reblog ancient photographs of him smiling in sunny Berlin parks, dehydrated and embarrassed, alongside body-painted cyber-beatnicks and colourful bicycles, parked in heaps after a rally. He remembers the year he started paying taxes more clearly than his son’s birthday. Two girls jog past him, smiling politely, and he clenches the leash tighter, smiling back. Reiz Ratte, € 200–300.–

Clean-cut and razor sharp, he wears his glasses, gum boots and a duffle coat to walk the family dog along the white cliffs and above the swirling ocean. He is the ex-subversive in sunshine-gold leggings who decided long ago that the true anarchist hides his motives from public attention, until he gradually realised that his identity had shifted along with his posture. His children reblog ancient photographs of him smiling in sunny Berlin parks, dehydrated and embarrassed, alongside body-painted cyber-beatnicks and colourful bicycles, parked in heaps after a rally. He remembers the year he started paying taxes more clearly than his son’s birthday. Two girls jog past him, smiling politely, and he clenches the leash tighter, smiling back. Reiz Ratte, € 200–300.–

2008’s MMM wraparound shades represented the post-dot com cyber-present. Twitter was on the rise and you carefully augmented your reality and Gibsonian present with a collection of handy ebooks on a various array of electronic devices. You were quick on the draw to help poise the open ears of marketing execs of strategies to come and scraped some extra cash into your coffers. The world was your oyster and you watched as the burgeoning French electro scene exploded everywhere bringing back some of the aspirational ideas of 80s futurism. However it was short lived as before you knew it you found yourself down on your luck in a recession crash with a failed New York dream blowing away like tattered stock tickers of years past. We’ve all been had by the bankers and now the illuminated power-structures made their final moves to show the nation state that they and The Cabal are the ones pulling the strings. It is only seemingly fitting that A-Morir release their own rendition of Maison Martin Margiela’s wraparound shades with Mad-Max spikes on the front. The future won’t be pretty and if lucky it’ll remain in the present Zero History of iPhones and a relatively ok limbo-state between war and recovery. However somehow mid-term elections and News-Entertainment oligarchies cause you to question that inkling of hope. You’ll need those spikes during the collapse to head-butt any mutant scum that come your way and these mirrorshades won’t let them track the whites of your eyes. Fashion is now about survival and the gritty numerology of the price-point harkens darkly to the number of the beast. You clutch your Apple-Device and a cheap chinese-made solar charger in a symbolic handshake under your coat pocket and think to yourself the last lines from John Carpenter’s Escape From LA: “Welcome to the human race.” Women’s Sunglasses by A-Morir by Kerin Rose, US$ 222.- from Karmaloop

2008’s MMM wraparound shades represented the post-dot com cyber-present. Twitter was on the rise and you carefully augmented your reality and Gibsonian present with a collection of handy ebooks on a various array of electronic devices. You were quick on the draw to help poise the open ears of marketing execs of strategies to come and scraped some extra cash into your coffers. The world was your oyster and you watched as the burgeoning French electro scene exploded everywhere bringing back some of the aspirational ideas of 80s futurism. However it was short lived as before you knew it you found yourself down on your luck in a recession crash with a failed New York dream blowing away like tattered stock tickers of years past. We’ve all been had by the bankers and now the illuminated power-structures made their final moves to show the nation state that they and The Cabal are the ones pulling the strings. It is only seemingly fitting that A-Morir release their own rendition of Maison Martin Margiela’s wraparound shades with Mad-Max spikes on the front. The future won’t be pretty and if lucky it’ll remain in the present Zero History of iPhones and a relatively ok limbo-state between war and recovery. However somehow mid-term elections and News-Entertainment oligarchies cause you to question that inkling of hope. You’ll need those spikes during the collapse to head-butt any mutant scum that come your way and these mirrorshades won’t let them track the whites of your eyes. Fashion is now about survival and the gritty numerology of the price-point harkens darkly to the number of the beast. You clutch your Apple-Device and a cheap chinese-made solar charger in a symbolic handshake under your coat pocket and think to yourself the last lines from John Carpenter’s Escape From LA: “Welcome to the human race.” Women’s Sunglasses by A-Morir by Kerin Rose, US$ 222.- from Karmaloop

He bites his lip shyly waving goodbye to André Léon Talley’s back, as the car jerks away from the Lutécia and down the boulevard, past the sidewalk where only two nights ago he was handing out cigarettes to a group of legendary, previously rival actresses whose names he would forget to Wikipedia later, two loud, wet starlets born from the same artist mother and different artist fathers, Olivier Zahm, Lindsay Lohan, a few people he might have recognised as Kanye West, Alexis Dziena being very polite to a drunk photographer, and Catherine Deneuve wearing sunglasses and chatting on the phone about her holidays or dogs. He remembers laughing when someone mumbled, How sick of Lisztomania can you get? Not sure what he was laughing about, but his reflection behind the bar was satisfying. He remembers overhearing Marc Jacobs referring to him as, possibly, a horny teenager from Mumbai. Now his time is up. As the Stade de France slowly disappears from view, he smiles to himself and holds back a tear, clutching his Bottega Veneta Crocodile handbag, € 10,419.-, filled with Astier de Villatte Crème Suisse for his mother and dirty American Apparel day-glo underpants.

He bites his lip shyly waving goodbye to André Léon Talley’s back, as the car jerks away from the Lutécia and down the boulevard, past the sidewalk where only two nights ago he was handing out cigarettes to a group of legendary, previously rival actresses whose names he would forget to Wikipedia later, two loud, wet starlets born from the same artist mother and different artist fathers, Olivier Zahm, Lindsay Lohan, a few people he might have recognised as Kanye West, Alexis Dziena being very polite to a drunk photographer, and Catherine Deneuve wearing sunglasses and chatting on the phone about her holidays or dogs. He remembers laughing when someone mumbled, How sick of Lisztomania can you get? Not sure what he was laughing about, but his reflection behind the bar was satisfying. He remembers overhearing Marc Jacobs referring to him as, possibly, a horny teenager from Mumbai. Now his time is up. As the Stade de France slowly disappears from view, he smiles to himself and holds back a tear, clutching his Bottega Veneta Crocodile handbag, € 10,419.-, filled with Astier de Villatte Crème Suisse for his mother and dirty American Apparel day-glo underpants.

I wear capes and carry sticks, young man in the window, my purposeful demeanour benefits from a certain direction in my stride, so when I slow down to tip the old hat at your sister in front of your shop, young man, my motivation should be as clear as your sibling rivalry and awkwardness are muddy; I have effortlessly brought this triangle into being; as much as you cringe behind your apprentice cobblers’ workbench, young man, word is now out, there is no stopping me, thank you very much. New York Hat Co Mad Hatter, SEK 1000.–

I wear capes and carry sticks, young man in the window, my purposeful demeanour benefits from a certain direction in my stride, so when I slow down to tip the old hat at your sister in front of your shop, young man, my motivation should be as clear as your sibling rivalry and awkwardness are muddy; I have effortlessly brought this triangle into being; as much as you cringe behind your apprentice cobblers’ workbench, young man, word is now out, there is no stopping me, thank you very much. New York Hat Co Mad Hatter, SEK 1000.–

Holding a blue curaçao drink in one hand, on the terrace overlooking the bay, wearing a white Jil Sander summer dress. The Japanese empire may be decrepit, degenerate, decadent, but there are signs of hope: cruisers out at sea, freshly painted and ready for action. Schoolgirls in sailor outfits and white gloves lining up for the ceremony. A few metres under the earth, the beast shudders and sighs. Linda Farrow × Raf Simons × Oki-Ni Special Edition Sunglasses, £185.-

Holding a blue curaçao drink in one hand, on the terrace overlooking the bay, wearing a white Jil Sander summer dress. The Japanese empire may be decrepit, degenerate, decadent, but there are signs of hope: cruisers out at sea, freshly painted and ready for action. Schoolgirls in sailor outfits and white gloves lining up for the ceremony. A few metres under the earth, the beast shudders and sighs. Linda Farrow × Raf Simons × Oki-Ni Special Edition Sunglasses, £185.-