Once in San Francisco I came across a young homeless man while I was waiting to cross at an intersection of Chinatown. He was shivering with cold or something worse, but he was beautiful and I swear, would have thought the same thing even Steven Meisel.
When I think back to San Francisco, over the Golden Gate Bridge, the docks at six in the morning and the freezing fog, I always remember the parka and the hair of that guy.
Street style is hard to define, because the street style is not a fad. It’s something that happens. Street style is how I dress myself and how you dress yourself.
Fashion is a reasoned creative process. Street style is a mashup of what we do every day, the rappers we listen to in the underground and TV series we binge-watch instead of going to bed early.
Born in the ’60s in England with The Beatles and the miniskirts in Carnaby, again confirmed in the 80s in the skater community in California, the street style continues to escape the designers who try to tame it in their collections, creating garments that are inspired the road but cost a gunshot.
Nevermind. The era of the official fashion, beautiful and terribly undemocratic, it’s over. Trends and consumer behavior now makes them the elitist mass, validating them in time.
Liberté, égalité, fraternité.