Shorts & bags (South African girls)

Hong Kong at Campo Grande

Waxed effect

The Sports Jacket

It’s not only concepts that are mutable and dynamic. So is our vision of them. My perspective of the sports jacket is quite different today from what it was half a dozen of years ago. There was a time when I considered it a superfluous extravagance of those who wore it. Like the guy that started using part of his work suit on Sunday afternoon or, even worse, that anticipated it’s use on Friday and Saturday nights. But what we wear isn’t simply a free exercise on how to cover the skin. Our attire carries with it a set of symbols and signs, that whether we like it or not, serves as a communication platform with those we meet everyday. According to Durkheim this is what is called "social facts". Something external that is imposed on the individual. Like a collective standard that is applied regardless of his will. When a brand conceives a piece of clothing it’s not only providing a beautiful vision to a potential customer. It's also selling an image, a concept and, sometimes, a dream. And from the moment we buy that piece, we're also consuming the concept, the image, the dream and whatever that piece transmits. This works for the clothing, dermocosmetic, auto or food industries. Because what’s at stake here is not merely the rag with which we cover our body or the service that we receive, but also where those items take us to. The platinum credit card matching an afternoon shopping on 5th Avenue or a restaurant at Mayfair, a beauty cream of a premium brand who could only be located in Paris, a convertible running those very same Corniches where Grace Kelly filmed and died or a cotton coat recalling Portofino's marina.

One of these weekends, I went out at night with two more friends. We took my car and as we stopped by some traffic lights next to a car filled with girls one of them said “girls never look at us when we go out in Zé’s car”. My other friend replied that the sports car of another friend that wasn’t with us that night was the best decoy for attracting girls, but the same friend that had depleted my old Fiat from any aphrodisiac ability wisely said:
- No, the best car for girls our age is my station-wagon. It transmits the image of the guy who wants to settle down and raise a family.
I could write whole paragraphs, wasting your time, and still I wouldn’t be able to express the idea as well as Manel. The concepts and the vision we have of them change as much as the years change the body that we show in front of a mirror. Yesterday a blazer would make me feel tacky and I considered (well, I still do...) a low-cut t-shirt the best thing ever after the invention of the wheel. Today, the informal tone with which I treat the piece of clothing that names this post, makes me feel even more elegant and sleek. For a more rural look I can add it some tire boots, or folded hems for a younger look, or even a beard too long to be considered acceptable by some male magazine, but here’s the truth: in the presence of a woman the jacket makes me feel, not necessarily older (let’s face it, we all politely refuse that adjective), but possibly wiser, interesting and charming or any other attribute socially valued and usually associated with older men. And we all have the right to dream. I don’t pay much attention to the type of press that tries to impose life styles and consumer trends directed to those people with significantly higher bank accounts than mine. On the other hand, why the hell can't I wear something that will make me feel like a million dollars? Will that make me a frivolous person? Like Jorge Palma’s music: “In the land of dreams you can be who you are and no one will hold it against you. In the land of dreams everybody is treated equally by everybody.” From an esthetically point of view, in this precise moment, my enchanted vision of life includes a table in front of the water, be it a river or the sea, naked ankles and an evening breeze that is only bearable wearing the sports jacket. That casual but sleek image (where do you think that the expression “casual chic” comes from??”) reminds me of a good looking Argentinean guy that gave me shelter one night in the 7.ème arrondissement and that told me “Pues mira (R)osé!”. And there he was, in front of the mirror preparing for his night hunt, wearing a beautiful linen jacket and repeating this mantra:
- Joder tío… ahora sí, estás listo para ligar. Joder tío…ahora sí

Singularities of a red-haired girl

Sebastiano

Back to Duomo (floral look and knit blaser)

An Alsatian touch at Campo Grande gardens

Francisco and Parq

There’s no need for playing games. I only really noticed Parq the precise moment that Parq informed me that it had noticed me. It’s that old mental process (and so human) that makes us give back to those that treat us nice. Like the overdosage of sympathy that we start to feel about someone that gives us a sincere compliment or that shows availability to help us, it was also after Francisco proposed me an interview that I got more interested in perusing those pages. And, funny enough, that's where it all starts, in the sense of touch. The feeling is good, and so are the paging and design. But truth be told, of all magazines dedicated to urban fashion and culture – that could only be a more complete way of saying “style”(because "style” is not only defined by what we wear, it's a generic attitude glued to an aesthetic assumption by which behaviors and desires are oriented) – we couldn’t expect otherwise. But it’s not only the cover that works well. The content does too. Like a boomerang, with a starting and ending point at fashion and going through architecture, design, cinema, music and any other form of art. Even the advertising seems to be ruled by higher standards of quality or simply good taste (if you think I’m exaggerating, just check out the magazine and then we'll talk). But for some people this publication can pose a serious problem – it’s free. As we well know, a vast majority of the population only values the products and services for which they have to pay but I don't remember ever seeing someone making a comparison between the quality of the Berardo Collection and what they are (not) charged at the entrance... Parq is good. There! And you can find it in some of the hippest places in Lisbon. In stores, coffee shops and artsy venues. And also in Oporto, Coimbra, Aveiro or Évora. And I can only congratulate Francisco Vaz Fernandes and all those people that collaborate in Parq. Oh, and by the way Francisco, I wasn’t the only one to be convinced. My mother became a fan too

(the details of) Anne Sophie

The exotic Danish couple

Charming mother, charming daughter

Yesterday I caught these two doing this...

And "this", from what I could tell, can be seen here

Do Homem™ *

[To Mr. João Mineiro. Because behind big companies there are always big collaborators. Those of you who know San Giorgio know exactly what I’m talking about]

In the showroom. That’s where the suggestions for the next Fall/Winter were. And that’s where these pictures could have been taken. But in the almost 2 hours that I was in Diniz & Cruz I didn’t only hear about coats and ties. I also heard about people. And I met them. From the cleaning ladies to the sales agents. From the warehouse guys to the tailors. From the line responsible to the heirs. I don’t know how many hands I shook, how many times I nodded my head or how many times I smiled. I guess it were the enough times needed for suggesting that these pictures were taken, not near the pieces I'll want to wear next Winter, but in the production floor, near those that give life to this collection. That’s Mr. José Manuel Cruz in the picture. Mr. José Manuel Diniz, his namesake, is missing. The two, along with Mr. Fernando Diniz, founded Diniz & Cruz 38 years ago.

None of them suspects and we must recognize that the number won’t impress anyone, but it was 5 years ago that my relationship with this company started. I was going to have my first real job. The training stage was about to begin and I needed a suit. The rite of passage to a suit and tie in the life of a youngman still using a youth card isn’t always easy and, since I couldn’t avoid it, I was determined to live it in the most pleasant way. I praise my patience at the time since I searched all over town for the perfect suit. There was not a retailer where I didn’t enter, asked, tried or simply snooped around. I realized that a small number of brands absorbs the vast majority of the offer and I came to a simple conclusion: the market has more that just one or two interesting brands. I could easily name you half a dozen. But I’m not here to tell you about what I like or simply tolerate. I’m here to tell you what I like the most, of what are my preferences (I suspect that’s the main advantage of writing to myself).

“That suit is ours”. That was the first thing Mr. Cruz told me when I got near. It hadn’t been difficult for me to do this courtesy and I wasn’t surprised that he noticed. Among the 14 suits and coats that I have in my closet, only 2 are not Do Homem. I had been wanting to visit their factory for quite a while now. You see… I’m not an annoying person, but I’m one of those clients that can be a little bit insistent. In Lourenço & Santos, a store near the old Condes Cinema, I once insisted that the buttons of a coat in the Do Homem new collection had been sewed a centimeter above of what this brand had accustomed me to. The sales assistant thought that I was crazy and politely nodded while trying to convince me otherwise. The man was partly right (I do have a certain level of craziness and my mother is the first one to admit it), so I called the Diniz & Cruz factory telling them what had happened and to provide them my feedback. Marx said that the struggle between the classes was the engine of change. I’m a bit more obstinate and think that what makes things change is the feedback that people receive when it comes to their work. I asked them if I could visit the factory and they told me that I could visit a store in Largo da Graça that belonged to them and that would be the ideal place for my questions and to have an extended sample of the brand. The store is San Giorgio. That's where I found Mr. João, to whom I dedicate this post and Mr. Horácio, the fourth person to appear in this article. San Giorgio recently went through some improvement works and reopened 3 weeks ago, with the same Portuguese pavement entering the store, but with a new enchantment. The truth is that the visit cost me more than I expected but we already know that’s the risk we take when we enter such a store.

The Diniz & Cruz Group has two brands, Do Homem and Dalmata. I won’t talk about that second brand because it’s directed for women and all I know about it are some fancy catalogs. But the first brand is my trademark. And I remember Mr. Cruz looking at me with a provocative look and saying “our coats are probably the best coats in the world”. I laughed and replied that he didn’t have to waste time with me because, for good or bad, I had been convinced long ago. I was delighted to visit the factory, to know the “production line”, “cut area”, the “pressing area” or the warehouse and live the normal day of a production unit of that size. I followed the several stages of the creation process, I saw the future collections and discovered beautiful patterns that are never sold in Portugal because, as I was told, nobody buys them here. Those same patterns are exported to some of the most famous stores in Paris, London or some Italian cities. And I was also pleased to know that “my” brand was reopening another store. Lourenço & Santos (remember the store I mentioned above?), where I would religiously stock on knit ties. I haven’t come back yet, but I’m planning to. Now believe what you want. Tell you about my favorite brand, my favorite store or of the old store that reopened is not just free publicity. This blog is too dear to me for that. This post, I assure you, is nothing but a friendly advise.

* Trademark belonging to Diniz & Cruz Group

Who created the rule that squares should always be worn from the waist up?

Tomé

(with all due respect that Italians deserve from me) Of all the times that I was there I don't remember ever seeing a stylish guy in such a Piaggio

Ci vediamo Milano

Out of time. I had always been there out of time. In August the heat swallows, kills, dries. The continental climate turns the peak of Summer unbearable and, like in any metropole away from the sea, the city dies. Some supermarkets close and, as strange as it may seem, some hotels too. Water, as an element, is practically non-existent. The sea is far away, there is no river and the only thing remotely similar to lakes are three channels opened centuries ago and that are incapable of hydrating our body and spirit. Add to that the unbearable sun that seems to melt the tar. It’s not famous for being pretty and, when compared with so many Italian gems, it is not. But what Milan lacks in beauty it makes up in magnificence, sobriety and cosmopolitism. And that’s what I found in May that I had never found in August. This cosmopolitan city, filled with sleek and sophisticated Milanese that, at the same time, are not very friendly. They assess our hair, our skin tone, the cut of our coat, the color of our pants and our shoes and we only receive a smile from them if we convince them that we’re worth it. To me the biggest difference in the way Italians and the rest of the world dress is that thin line that makes a certain accessory an essential item to some and something completely superfluous to others. And we can tell that from a tender age, like a cultural characteristic in all of them. Men, women, rich and poor. Most kids wear a bracelet, a necklace, a hair band or a scarf in the jacket that most English, Portuguese or French kids would consider completely unnecessary. The global village does not allow striking differences regarding a beauty pattern, a style or whatever. So it comes down to details. And that’s were these guys excel, both men and women. If you please allow me, that old slogan by Mr. Azzaro fits like a glove to describe Milan, “for men that love women that love men”. And when I think about it I remember the person that would play the dandy part perfectly. Let me present you Luigi, in one of those Augusts when I mistakenly visited Milan. Unlike August, I already miss May and from what I can see, Camilla misses it too

When in Milan... do as the Romans do

Ann-Kristin

I have a theory about blogs and bloggers. Sometimes people ask me “but what are you going to do with that?” and I always recognize in that question the same suspicious and annoying tone when, during my college years, someone asked me what would my studies lead me to. It was some sort of diplomatic variable for “I don’t understand why you’re wasting time with that shit. Unless I’m mistaken, that won’t take you anywhere”. Now, as before, I just shrug my shoulders and waive my head in a confirmation to my interlocutor of what he knows, or thinks he knows - that what I do is useless. These are the same people that look at me in shock when I tell them that I’m not particularly interested in having banners jumping on my Web site advertising this or that on the left side of this text. And that’s precisely why I don’t share that theory with them, just in case they consider it silly, improper or pretentious.

Ann-Kristin is Norwegian. If I remember well, she was visiting a Swedish friend in Milan that works on a TV station and that, this I remember very well, always had suggestions for interesting parties. I had met her the day before and, after running into her precisely in one of those parties, these two photographs represent the third time we met in less than 24 hours (you have to admit that it's impossible not think that we rule a place when things like this happen). As Ann-Kristin is part of the Elle team in Oslo, I thought that after sharing that theory with one or two friends I should do it with someone in the same business. And, like all in life, it’s always comforting to do it with someone we don’t expect to meet again than with those we meet on a daily basis. That theory, not that innovative anyway, encompasses two simple premisses. The first one is that the online editions are winning market share when compared to its printed counterparts. I don’t know how it will be in 5 or 10 years time but things will probably be in the same inconceivable level that they were 5 or 10 years ago. The second is that bloggers are some sort of John Does that, without any kind of support or structure, won the attention and respect of Internet users by themselves. I cannot imagine a more democratic way for a perfect stranger to publish his work online discussing issues that his academic history or career never allowed him to address, or simply talk about what he wants. And, little by little, for this or that reason (or simply because when we do what we like the most, we risk doing it well), the blog builds up a faithful and regular audience that, with time, provides respect and status.

Some time ago I met Ana Garcia Martins (next to the “pussies guy”, they seem the perfect Portuguese references to document this idea) and told her that I considered fascinating that a personal project like a blog could provide such satisfaction [I suppose there is no need to talk about Scott Schuman or Yvan Rodic]. Not that I think that Ana or others owe something to their blog. I just consider that the blog was the perfect vehicle for them to express a certain talent. Something that wouldn’t happen 10 years ago and that possibly won't make any sense in 10 years time. But until then this is just the way it goes. When someone asks me about the personal satisfaction that a blog can give us I always remember that basic theory. "If the press can't live without the online world, the online world can’t live without the blogs… (can the press live without bloggers?)" Ann-Kristin thinks it can’t

Formal eccentricity

Same time, same place. Different weather, different bikes

Meeting friends in strange cities always makes us go through that stupid (but quite nice) feeling that we just got there but we already rule the place. We know that x is the trendiest zone, that y is more adequate for this or that and that if we cross through that tiny street we’ll get to the most wanted place in town. The first time I met with Martino I was eating a Milanese specialty while chatting with a Japanese couple. This couple was staring so lavishly at my camera (which, by the way, is also Japanese) that they were starting to fall on that stereotype of Japanese tourists and their cameras. Martino’s Napoleonic look delighted me so there I went and asked if I could take his picture. He reacted so naturally to my request that it was like I had asked him for the time of day or about a tourist info.

The second time was different. I was having lunch with a Danish girl that I had run into by chance at Via Brera and that I had met a few days earlier. She was drinking white wine like if it was water but unlike most women that usually don’t appeal to me when they get drunker than me, I was absolutely delighted with her and her enchanting drunkenness. She transmitted femininity through her every pore. Through the look (and her eyes), through the smile (and her lips), through the semi-naked shoulder and through the cleavage that she showed when she laughed. Even through her clumsy English that 48 hours earlier had seemed so perfect. When we find enchantment in all these details we run the risk of the person in front of us realizing the good impression that she is leaving on the other side of the table. So there we were, she was drunk but lucid enough to notice my growing surrender as she oozed femininity. Nordics are known for their practicality and this girl was no exception. At a given moment she reminded me that her availability was not proportional to the quantity of alcohol she had in her blood and that, although she was enjoying the moment, she didn’t want to make the wrong impression. I guess this was just a sophisticated way of saying, “just because it’s Sunday, we’re both drunk, we’re both reasonably attracted to one another and our apartments are close by, that doesn’t mean we’ll be having our desserts there”. I told her, with a mocking look that aimed at making her feel a bit ridiculous, that she had found more good reasons for that to happen than I thought were possible. By now, Gonçalo, whom I was waiting for, and that was not an imaginary friend (as she probably assumed), was finally arriving. I got up and reminded her that the only reason I hadn’t suggested taking her photograph was because if I did it wouldn’t be proper to write about her and that lunch. But Martino was different. When a friend asked him the purpose of those photographs, like any good Italian he raised his hands to the sky and mockingly replied something like “you know, me and fashion, fashion and me”.

So there we went still with that stupid (but always nice) feeling that we already rule the place

Navy Milano

Those brief moments when the night dawns into the day (sometimes "less is more", sometimes "more is more")

The colours of motherhood

Oriental Milan

Sarah & Octavio