Halloween

During my early childhood we were poor. Not like living in boxes and boiling shoes for dinner poor, but grad school, immigrant, resourceful poor. Having an older brother, hand-me down clothes were the norm for me too. Hell, I still have some of my brother's and my dad's shirts.

Being both frugal and creative, Halloween was usually one of my parent's times to shine. Costumes were a chance to showcase their artistry. That and birthday cakes, but that's another post. In Greece we didn't have Halloween, so that was sort of new, at least the tricks or treats part. Costumes however we were familiar with and back in the 70s it was still common place to - gasp!- make your own! This was before the ready made, pre-muscled, blood filled or severed silicone wonders you can get these days. Back then we had to actually think of something, plan and construct our own get-ups or else we'd end up wearing our gym clothes, pajamas or the dreaded sheet.

In our household, the heirloom costume was the executioner's outfit my mom made one year. We did the Greek tsolia once, but the ridicule my poor guinea pig brother dealt with that year was enough to denounce candy for good. So, my mom made him an executioner the next year. Let me paint a picture of what this looked like. Starting from the bottom, we had black pilgrim style shoes, naturally worn over a pair of my mom's black panty hose, which were strangely comfortable. Then, we had a pair of billowy, elastic waisted, purplish corduroy shorts. Then a black turtleneck with black gloves. Topping it off, our headgear was a black conical hood with eye holes, reminiscent only of the kind of hoods you might see in dixie (it was the 70s, so it wasn't weird at all). Finally we'd finish it off with a scythe we'd shape out of a cardboard box and color with crayons. At the time this seemed as authentic as an executioner's outfit could be. Looking back, I cant really picture a real executioner wearing the purple shorts. Anyway, it was truly a sight to behold.

My brother wore that costume for about 4 years, while I patiently waited for that wonderful torch to be passed on to me. I remember clear as day the Halloween that I finally got to wear the executioner suit. It was 1979. I was 7 and stoked! All day I waited eagerly to get home, get changed and get out to scare the bejeezus out of the neighborhood kids. That evening, after struggling to get into the panty hose, my mom making last minute mends to the hood and gloves and my dad fashioning my corrugated beheading instrument, I was finally ready to depart and collect my sugar-filled booty. I opened the door and to my horror, it was raining! My dad ended up driving me up and down the street, while my mom and I, with umbrella in hand, would go door to door, trying to find a house that was still open for business. There's no such thing as a rain day for Halloween folks! So much for my big chance.

The next year I got to wear the costume again finally in nice fall weather, like I had hoped. As the years went on though, the purple turned pink and looked a little less executioner and a little more Fredrick's of Hollywood. The gloves and hood frayed and finally I just outgrew it. We never threw it out though. It's still in an old suitcase in my mom's basement along with baby clothes, baptismal blankets and select articles from deceased grandparents. Secretly I'm waiting to have my own child so that I can resurrect it for one last go. Now if only it were adult sized!

Rooted

My family left( or uprooted ) from Greece in 1970 and moved thousands of miles away to begin a new chapter in their lives, the pursuit of higher education and a hopefully the brighter future that would come as a result. At the time, my family wasn't mine yet, having consisted of just my parents and my brother who is 7 years older. He was 5 then.

So, they began their masters degrees and started a new life in an odd new country that was foreign to their culture and continents away from their nearest relative.I was born a year and a half later putting the final bow on our atomic little family. The familial bond that occurs within an environment like this is deep and lasting and in fact often the basis for what we deem as quaint areas of our cities. Little Italies, Chinatowns, Greektowns, etc began primarily as clusters of ethnic outcasts that found some solidarity and comfort in being together in a strange place. Usually these streets didn't look as gold as they did in the brochure.

For those not familiar with the life of the globe-trotting grad student, one might think of a cross between the idyllic life of country-roaming hippies packed in a van juxtapozed with some sort of highly regimented military family, living in safe, microcosmic compounds within alien environments.

It's not really like those.

My parents came over with the 2 allowed suitcases (they somehow convinced TWA that my 5 year old brother also needed 2 suitcases of his own that weighed 8 times what he did), a couple boxes of books, a stuffed donkey (being Greek, I guess a stuffed bear must seem weird) and a drive and work ethic that is inherent in the immigrant experience.

6 months after I was born, we moved again to yet another strange part of this new world. 3 years after that we moved again. 6 months later we moved again. PhD in hand and family in tow, my father finally began his new career...at 34 years old. 9 years later we moved again. I got tired of moving 5 times in the first 12 years of my life, so I haven't strayed far in the 20 odd years since.

My parents eventually divorced. I suppose that if absence makes the heart grow fonder, then being joned at the hip and traversing the globe must make it calcify. My brother and I are grown now too, have our own wives, homes and lives, yet as different and independent as we are, we all remain near one another. Even though we have a large age difference (which is less apparent now in our 30s and 40s), we were always that one constant friend that you'd know you didn't have to say goodbye to.

As I fast forward to the present, my friends from the University all spread around the country and globe, while I remain close to my family, I dont have any regrets. I have always enjoyed travelling and there's obviously a romance to the nomadic lifestyle (the adjective of the action being that which ultimately decided my parents' fate). I travel extensively, both for work and for fun, but enjoy having a homebase to return to.

In my opinion, part of being rooted in one place is by choice, then eventually it becomes fueled by obligation. Why else do so many childern who move away from home, return when their parents have gotten old? My brother and I often speak of moving again as we've sort of grown bored with our locale and have seemingly reached the "Peripherique" of our career opportunities. Now that our parents are older, we'll be driving the moving van to the next stop. We figure we'll all just move together. I suppose our roots are mobile.

Fashion

My parents emmigrated from Greece in 1970 to pursue higher education and the chance to broaden their professional horizons. What this meant though was leaving their families and careers, moving several thousands of miles away and basically starting from scratch. That was just prior to the start of University that autumn, where my father was to attend and earn a Masters Degree in Urban Planning. With nothing to their name but a few suitcases and a 5 year old (my brother), they set upon their way and never looked back.

I recall a story my mum had told me of those early days were they had been invited to a Christmas party. The hostess, trying to be welcoming, told my parents that they should feel comfortable to come to the party dressed in their native clothes, as they would back home. My parents looked at eachother sort of puzzled, but accepted the invite and planned on attending. Weeks later on the eve of the party, my parents got ready, got a baby sitter for my brother, and left the house. To this day my mom recalls the disappointment in the hostess's eyes as she opened the door to greet my parents. There they stood, my dad in a pair of slacks and a dress shirt and my mother in a skirt cut at the knee and a light sweater. Apparently the hostess must have been expecting them to show up in some elaborate robes and/or headdresses. We're Greek, not Incas for christ sake! The fathers of democracy, not some backwoods savages! Perhaps if my dad had worn the skirt and sweater instead, that may have done satisfied the poor woman.

Anyway, about a year and a half later I came along. For the first few years of my life my parents were still working towards advanced degrees and we lived the somewhat impoverished life of the grad student. That meant that for several years I wore either hand me down clothes from my brother or worse yet my mom would make us clothes, which for me at 3 years old, not so bad, but for my 10 year old brother, he may as well have worn that skirt.

Eventually my parents finished with their degrees and got teaching postitions at a good University and began their careers again after a 5 year hiatus. This didn't however mean that we began dressing any better. Now there were mortgage mayments and student loans, trips back to Greece for the summers and 2 growing boys. No money for such extravagances. I was destined to wear my brother's clothes until I was 40, or maybe I figured until I could buy my own things.

For some reason, going back as far as I can remember, I have been particularly fond of clothes. From about 4 or 5 when I HAD to wear my brown leisure suit for my passport photo, through the early eighties when I saved my own money to buy Lacoste shirts and Sperry topsiders. The mid and late eighties saw my transition to a punk, mod and skinhead style. I went from black leather jackets, Doc Martens and torn jeans to tight slacks and trench coats and ultimately to Fred Perrys, bomber jackets and braces. Always somehow adding my own twist, whether in the details of changing out buttons and laces or my color, pattern and fabric combos. Gay sounding, I know.

Over the course of the next several years during my time at Design school I found my opportunityto experiment a bit. For many this means messing with drugs or sleeping with members of the same sex. To me it meant trying out various style experiments (and several fashion design girlfriends). The magic of vintage clothing stores and thrift shops landed me some impressive bowling shirts and sharkskin suits, while also puttng me in overalls and fedoras. What can I say, I was just experimenting!

Being a designer I think it is really important to look your best as your appearance communicates that you know what good style is. Clients notice. I notice too that the last few years as I've worked my way into my thirties and into a salary level that affords me some indulgences, I have begun to narrow down my tastes to certain materials, brands and overall looks that work for me.

My wardrobe has gotten pretty focused on some key brands the last couple of years, as I think a few houses do certain things better than anyone. I'll start with Diesel jeans. The last few years have shown us a proliferation of the 100 quid+ jeans with True Religion, 7 For All Mankind, Citizens of Humanity, et al. Most of these are flash in the pan companies that have jumped on the jean bandwagon to make a quick buck, but will likely not be around for many years. There is no well defined equity to their brands, nor is there any real brand loyalty or heritage. They're just brands of the moment, not brands with momentum. Diesel has been around since 1978 and in my opinion are the best jeans made in fit, style, quality and value. If I'm going to spend that kind of money on jeans, they better be good, they better look great and they better be Diesels.

I'm also a big fan of Hugo Boss, for both their more formal clothes (Boss Black) and also their sportswear (Boss Orange). They not only make excellent fitting dress clothes (their dress shirts are second to none), but also have extended their brand into the Orange line, which really capitalizes on a little served market, 30-40 year old guys that have some money, but want to look cool and expect quality. Great stuff.

Miuccia Prada gets some odd looks from time to time with her daring runway shows and bizarre juxtapositions of materials, but you've got to hand it to the famed Italian fashion house, they make some amazing classic pieces that should be part of every wardrobe. Both the Prada and MiuMiu labels have brought high fashion to the pret-a-porter world with fantastic pieces that while expensive, can stay timeless. I particularly like the Linea Rossa details and the fabric choices, both in materials and patterns.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention a few other favorites and UK stalwarts, Ted Baker, Ben Sherman and Burberry. Ted Baker is well known for his exquisite pairing of bold linings and traditional fabrics in his suits. Nice detail. He also has amazing ties and some gorgeous sweaters. My favorite sweater I have is a Ted Baker zip-up wool hoody which is great on it's own or layered.

Ben Sherman is a classic brand that seems to be able to strattle the line of high fashion and affordability and they also seem to have a fun twist. They make great fitting dress shirts that are perfect examples of the Carnaby style. Nice shoes too, but I would guess that like Diesel, they probably license out the name and dont make them themselves.

Burberry has a history as long as fashion itself, dating back to 1856! Known best for their distinctive "Burberry Check" tartan pattern, they have a few areas where they're unbeatable. Having invented the gabardine something like 120 years ago, it is safe to say they make the best raincoat. What I actually like even better than my vintage trench are my Burberry undershirts! They not only fit exceptionally well, but they use a tight cotton knit that doesn't pill and they add some really nice details (a subtle tartan swatch) both inside the neck and on the left side of the lower hem and seam. The last few years the creative directors at Burberry have done a great job reinvigorating the brand and the extension of the Prorsum line has added a freshness to the brand that will continue to carry them well into the 21st century.

I almost forgot John Varvatos, who I think has also done a nice job targeting the Boss Orange market, again looking to attract the 30-40 year old male that wants to look great and doesn't mind spending money to do it. Cashing in on the nostalgia with their collection of shoes for Converse was a smart move too and has been done far more successfully than other similar attempts by other fashion houses.

These aren't the end all be all of design, as there are several other designers/brands, mass brands and select pieces that you cant go wrong. Versace ties are great(their clothes are horrible) or Dior's newer work (Hedi Slimanne is really solid). I like Alexander McQueen's stuff and Philip Lim's 3.1. Stores like Banana Republic, Mexx, Urban Behaviour, Zara and H&M give us affordable everyday stuff that you can mix in with your expensive stuff. You pair a cheap t-shirt from a street vendor in Camden with some Diesels, a MiuMiu jacket or some nice shoes and you'll look like the whole package sent you to the poorhouse.

Overall my fashion philosophy would be this. Be smart and keep it simple. Classic looks should be staples in every wardrobe as should a few key fun things to mix things up. Having some new items from season to season that are a bit trendier help keep the classic stuff fresh. Details are still very important too and can be the difference between an ok outfit and a great outfit. In my opinion, if you can swing it, it's worth spending a bit more to buy items of higher quality as they will last longer and you'll get more satisfaction from them with each wear. And you'll look great too.

The thing about parents...

As a designer and artist I (my work,actually) have, through education and practice, been subject to years of highly subjective, deeply critical and sometimes downright nasty commentary. By now, having suffered through that gauntlet of professors, clients and random passers by, I have grown a pretty thick skin. If you can't take some abuse (remember, it's aimed at the work, not you), you just shouldn't pursue a creatively focused career. Otherwise you'll end up like countless other creative types before you and just go fucking nuts, shooting your ashes out of a cannon, cutting off your ear or hopefully at least coming up with a more creative way "out".

For the past several years I seem to periodically go through a cycle where I need to feel creatively productive. This is due in large part to this most common of occurences. Guy goes to (insert type of schooling here), he gets really good at what he does, he gets a good job, works hard, management says 'heck, if he's that good on his own, maybe he can lead an army of his clones', guy then moves into management. Hopefully he gets good at that too, otherwise he gets canned. Remember, you can't get promoted back to what you were originally good at if it doesn't work out. So, what happens in this process is that eventually you are no longer doing what you love and instead you are trying to train monkeys to be like you. Not fun...mostly. To help you reconcile this, they give you bigger paychecks. That doesn't suck. The thing though is that there is a creative form of expression that's lost. I imagine it's kind of like making it big as a musician, where the charm that got you there is what they want to strip from you to make you appeal to a broader audience. My audience is small.

I was getting to a point, being the need to still have a creative outlet. Those last several years I was talking about, I have been (when motivated) painting. This isn't something that I do for long stretches of time. It sort of goes in waves, say like every 2 years I'll get in a groove for a few months and crank a bunch of stuff out. Then something in my house breaks or I get really busy or there's a sale at Barney's and I fall off the creative wagon. It's a bit manic, but longer term. I'd like to do this more often. Paint that is, not stop and start like some crappy tv you bought at a thrift store because it was a sweet deal. Now, if I had a benefactor or sugar mama I could have been a painter full time. Granted I'd get bored and take breaks from time to time, we are flaky us creative types, are we not? As it stands, I squeeze a few hours in here and there between errands, chores, socializing, etc. Seems though, when I finally get all the shitty work out of my system, I have to stop.

I come from a family of artist, designers and architects. We can take critcism well, but also like to give it. Anyway, a funny thing happened yesterday and it started something like this:

My dad, who is a brilliant man (an accomplished architect, urban planner and economist, not to mention a gifted artist to boot) came by to see the work I have been doing during my most recent period "on". I have a show coming up next month and I thought I could use the feedback. My studio is in my basement, so I brought a couple pieces upstairs for better lighting then took dad downstairs to see the rest of my work. We (more like he) probably spent about an hour all told going through each of 10 or 12 paintings. It started with the usual (but uncomfortable), "hmmmm". Then in detail, my dad with his still strong accent (even after 35 years), begins to critique my work to pieces. Being a proffesor , he's trained to inflict crushing blows with minimal effort. The overall feeling was a sort of 'better learn how to walk before you try to run'.

Funny thing is that after the weeks of my friends and my wife all saying that my work was great, I really just wanted a real opinion and some tough love frankly. You could say I asked for it.

What I find most interesting about yesterday's events though is that, at this point in my life and career, I can have my work (or anything else for that matter) torn to shreds and I'll just brush it off. For some reason though, and I imagine no matter how old you get, the criticism our parents give us always seems to sting a bit longer.