Saturday, the 4th of November
Deep, dark, rich, scratchy neckwear. Woolen smoke and mulberry; knotted silk like cresting waves and guano; this cravat a rainbow of memories cold-pressed, photo-pristine, shabby and loved. Shabby but loved. LOVED. Did I yell that? It's the scarf, the warmth-giver, protecting my voice, my heart, blazening my intentions all over the show.
Flat skirts, box-stencilled, the order of heritage worn by girls, only girls, a garment that is a telescope into a fundamental aesthetic.
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