RECIPE
An idea is never final.
I work in a trance.
I improvise.
I have no aesthetic objectives.
With no program in mind I stay open for experimentation.
It’s a jam session.
Nothing makes sense until it does.
The ingredients are rarely calculated:
A 1950s apron.
An early distressed COMME des GARÇONS jacket.
A Gap anorak. Left over textiles.
Some Nigel Cabourn with a splash of Margiela. Dirty carpenter pants.
With an inclination toward playing with tension I cook the old with the new and while the salad slowly takes form, the dominant color reveals itself.
Today, it’s khaki.
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RECIPE
An idea is never final.
I work in a trance.
I improvise.
I have no aesthetic objectives.
With no program in mind I stay open for experimentation.
It’s a jam session.
Nothing makes sense until it does.
The ingredients are rarely calculated:
A 1950s apron.
An early distressed COMME des GARÇONS jacket.
A Gap anorak. Left over textiles.
Some Nigel Cabourn with a splash of Margiela. Dirty carpenter pants.
With an inclination toward playing with tension I cook the old with the new and while the salad slowly takes form, the dominant color reveals itself.
Today, it’s khaki.
