Dress: Puane via Modanisa, Boots: Clarks, Jacket: Vero Milano, Glasses: Silhouette
I am a citizen of the world, known to all and to all a stranger.
Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus
Rotterdam is inconsistent, irrelevant and impossible to emulate. It pulsates and it’s alive when it wants to be. It can also stop breathing rapidly only to watch you lose yourself in one of its charming streets.
As soon as you start feeling that Rotterdam looks vaguely familiar, it changes as though there is a hidden mechanism underneath that juxtapositions the walls, the houses, the canals and even the people. A genuine Rubik’s cube, never solved and never to be solved.
There was that one time when I was a bit feverish and I told my boyfriend: “Could you please find a zero brain work movie for us to watch? I need some mind numbness.” He then found a really bad Steven Seagal movie. It was epic, it was just what the doctor ordered: an ageing Seagal fighting zombies with some mind blowing special effects including sounds like ha-tschhhhh and d-schhhhh as punches.
Of course, had I been in the mood for some serious cinema I would probably be moaning to you right now about how I wish I could get that one hour of my life back.
That’s how I feel about this book, Paris Street Style: Shoes by Isabelle Thomas. It’s harmless, entertaining and will inspire you to buy a pair of shoes. I was pleasantly surprised to see a few pairs that I already own photographed and serenaded to; including creepers by Underground, Louboutins, Nikes and Walter Steiger heels.
Shoe fans will not put this book down until they read it cover to cover. At least three times. It’s a compelling nonchalant read – that’s how French it is.
The authors don’t shy away from crude phrases and some will make you cringe. The translation from French to English doesn’t always work. I am multilingual, so I could feel the awkward grammar crawl in here and there which I found wildly entertaining.
But enlightenment and education are not the primary reasons one picks this book up. You pick it up because it’s on your coffee table as a bookssessory. Because it is a true relief hearing chic French people voice their disgust at nylon knee high socks that cut into your knees, about feet in dire need of a pedicure and marvel at the fact that the word hooker is used in a fashion book.
I can’t find any faults with this read because I take it for what it is: a subject of envy when seen on my coffee table and a book that solidifies my status as a “fashionista” in front of everyone. It’s a piece of fantastic entertainment. Enjoy the cringes, enjoy the bluntness and enjoy the fashion.
Just like you wouldn’t look for Cubrick’s directorial brilliance in a Seagal movie, don’t look for academic conceptualistic fashion in this book. You will however learn to speak French using shoes only. And that’s a skill worth having.
Thank you to Abrams & Chronicle Books for sending me a copy.
Oh Ccuoco. I have no idea how to pronounce the brand name but I am a keen learner.
When the lights dimmed and I heard the Arabic chill out inspired music, you got my attention.
When I saw the first look in all of its accessorised glory I was hooked on your aesthetic, Ccuoco. I thought to myself – this collection is so me: the goth of the Middle East.
The butter soft leather, the sexy make up, the seriously floaty silks – everything looked perfectly dark and devious.
There was only one thing I regretted in this show; that it ended so quickly. It was just a flicker of light, one of the brightest ones this London Fashion Week.
Ccuoco, your fanbase widens.