He learned the dress code of honor and elegance. He has a unique perspective on the world that reflects off his silver eye-patch. In a black tie and thin-striped double-breasted suit of lightweight wool, he is sporting a Mugler metal neck brace hiding a holy tattoo on the nape of the neck. The footprints of his topstitched ankle boots alone leave a hint of this secretive man.
Gray has become his favorite color since he has been wearing false identities to infiltrate the Milieu. The lightweight wool suit leaves him free to travel the world without the least sign of annoyance. Always between destinations, he keeps his metal neck brace for soothing the tension of long-distance flights. Liking his beetle pendant, which he clutches before each new destination.
His body has the accents of mutant metal. His second skin of gray latex is a non distorting mirror, as dense as a mercury lake. He wears a collarless jacket with leather braiding and a pair of fingerless mittens on endless night out. High decibels and clamor alone bring him peace. He completes his mission under a silver sky, with the full moon.
The Lieutenant of the Sans-Souci
"A military style wool jacket with large engraved horn buttons, and a sailor's hat and patent leather gloves. "In a hoarse, shaken voice, a woman describes a man whose outline she has barely seen and who continues to haunt her memories. They are both onboard, but the ship is a city, a whole world. She will constantly look for him in the corridors and gangways. In vain.
To brace against the whims of the markets, he wears a leather harness over a white herringbone shirt, never rolled up, in line with the cliché of a highly charged trader. Always wearing leather gloves and impeccable shoes, this golden boy of finance gets respect from the entire world of speculation. Sought out by an influential woman with colossal investments, their encounter will change everything.
He banks on black velvet, distracted from the top with glacially white latex. Between depth and radiance, he chose a pair of steel clawed cufflinks. He refutes any sense of belonging, assignment. He is the man with two faces, never revealing his true countenance, preserved behind black plexi glasses. A single blink would bring his ruin. He wears a collarless jacket that no woman's hand can hold back.
He left the university to live, finally. He keeps some trace of his studious past by wearing a plaid jacket jazzed up with patches of leather. The pleated shirt with a black velvet front is another sign of his quest for emancipation, perfected with anatomically cut black leather pants. Never again will he play the nice boy others used as an alibi. All that is done.
His eternally youthful air is a privilege he can make fun of by wearing a tie. He is in good hands with this three-piece suit in red velvet, bearing the Muglerian emblem, which gives him the necessary drive to become what he dreamed of being: the greatest chef, an admired violinist, a math genius, a wanted criminal. He sees the future with the assurance of someone with a great destiny.
He knows the habits of arms dealers, the favorite tables of drug dealers. He covers high-profile cases, always dressed in an oversized collar trench coat, a highly stylized shirt with a favorite camouflage pattern and washed lambskin jodhpurs. His post requires a certain dress code, with the trench coat as a mainstay.
He works alone, drinks Moloko, listens to Beethoven and leaves no calling card. Whatever the case, you will always remember his matchless style, golden leather pants, plaid jacket and a knit velvet trim cardigan. Dandy hacker by profession, he raids large networks for the sole pleasure of compromising the system, unsettling the digital balance worldwide. He enters without breaking in, with panache.
Under his aristocratic hound's-tooth hat, bloody thoughts turn into refined phrases. His elegant cashmere frock coat is rimmed with the fur-lined hood of his khaki hoodie, full of questionable intentions. By the condition of the gray-green jodhpurs, you can see that he doesn't tiptoe around confronting his demons.
Just stepping out of the Shrine, infused with the coppery afro-beat sounds of Fela Kuti, he buttons up his ruched black velvet shirt, laces up his boots and throws on a beautiful plaid jacket. He now has the arguments of a high dignitary entering a new round of negations with a feigned diplomatic corps bluffed by his style every time.
He knows the adrenaline of racing, the intoxication of betting, the beauty of the horses, the cold of the stud farm, the ruggedness of the stables and the discomfort of Chesterfields. His life consists of training, for which he is always elegantly dressed in a caramel leather trim fur lined jacket and matching jodhpurs. Superstitious, he wears the colors of his favorite filly .
Do not trust his appearance; he is a changeling. He venerates hybrids, amazons, saurians and his bestiary tie attest to his fascination for mixing genres and species. Is his leather bracelet a souvenir from a faraway molting? Probably. He knows that the experience of another reality is to come. He is ready.
He emerges from behind his golden glasses, at full speed, to appear sculpted in a suit combining the extreme distinction of cuts with the sensuality of leather. He lives on adrenaline on a sun-drenched track, riding towards infinity against the sounds of David Bowie, traveling through time unscathed. He pursues the horizon until the very moment when the sky lights up, to melt into the red sunlight.
Born amidst the landscapes of the Southern hemisphere, he has grown up through nighttime encounters, played all the instruments, tasted all the delights , and learned extravagance. They say he is a doctor, clairvoyant, engineer, art dealer. He is the adventurer of an evening, not to be questioned.
You can see he is well-built under the wool cocoon. He feels no need to show off his impressive muscles. Dressed in a hand knit sweater or dressing gown, he inspires confidence in the most influential students, handing down his knowledge of the body. He teaches them about physicality, strength and endurance and knows that in his precise moment he alone is in charge.
Up in the sky. He only feels alive at the controls of a plane he knows better than anyone. From up there, his peers are like the ants printed on his scarf. On the ground, he dons his aviator glasses and hat as if the next flight was always imminent. His down jacket is the color of the Earth he loves to fly over: as blue as an orange.
She has run into him, enveloped in a wool coat, at the door of the building where they live without knowing each other. She is taken by the round scarf-like collar he tucks close to his neck and the sensual tilt of his head. She hasn't seen his hair or hands, which he protects against the Siberian cold. Not yet. She knows nothing of the man wearing leather pants. Nothing yet.
One fixture in his personal dressing room: black and white. He likes no other colors. Says that his sky blue eyes make the sky the same color. Leaves the house at nightfall. Black jacket in wool skin and patent leather, with removable zippered sleeves over a white Southern shirt with a removable front. Black belt with a beetle buckle, white stretch jodhpurs and high-tops with white chaps. He feels alive again.
While a dead leaf likes to float with the wind, this Chevalier d'Eole wants to withstand the gusts. He confronts the blizzard without blinking, raises his fur collar and never looks back. His colt skin parka with inlaid wool yokes and leather pants are his signature to the end of the epic.
Worshiping Saint-Exupéry, he has the angelic look of great idealists. He would like to make it his job. His shirt is as sensible as a child's picture. His gloves and three-quarter patent leather coat with a wool skin collar inspire confidence. His copilot will attest to his noble-mindedness.
When he arrives in a city, he chooses a hotel near a park. He comes from a country populated with spruce, rare essences and thick-furred animals, reigning over expanses of forest. His coarse wool skin jacket brings to mind the trunk of a robust tree. The padded shoulders reinforce his stature of a man of the woods. His beige knit overcoat welcomes to the fireside.
Images of power, scent of leather, clouds of dust lifted by the passage of beasts. In charge of exceptional livestock, he knows every one of his animals by their bulging muscles, supplying the most renowned restaurants and himself ready to sample the soul of his meat. His fascinating wool skin jacket and apron with metal loops infuse everyone from kitchen to dining room with a charge of animal tension.
Like the Scarab Beetle God who inspired his bronze patent leather carapace, this man that come forth from the bowels of the Earth pushes the Sun in front of him. Formed over many mutations, his muscles fill in the forms of his sleeveless jacket and patent leather pants. He is the source of the flashing light.
To be fair, he will not say that a block body is a system absorbing all the light it receives. Yet he wears black in an inimitable way: in a two-fabric jacket, smocked shirt and stretch cotton trousers. Cultivating the art of detail with care, he has the English genius for excess. With him, fur, eye patch, cane and hat become discreet add-ons.
A matchless dancer and star of Milonga. His way to lead has become legendary. His graceful, fluid movements draw admiration from everyone. A way to move he likes to extend with anatomically cut leather pants. A taste for representation he revives with a wing-collared tuxedo shirt and a bright green frock coat.
He likes to entertain at home. To hold a salon. He welcomes guests in quilted red velvet jackets with shawl collars, before slipping out, though practicing scales bores him, on his way to a heavily draped mansion where his piano professor is waiting.
His film star looks and slender body earned him the nickname of Peter Pan. He gratifies this attention by wearing a feather hat to keep his childhood imagination intact. But if he wants to grow up, he needs black . A jet-black four-button suit and coal black smocked shirt fix him firmly in the adult world.
He would have like to live in times when dueling was a form of virile politeness. Yet he feels no nostalgia and proves it by wearing colt skin pants and patent leather loafers. He chose the frock coat for its ornate trimming on the double lapels and the pleasure of hearing and then pronouncing the word Brandenburg.
He wore nothing that wasn't a tribute to the dance floor. He never takes off his sexy velvet tuxedo jacket with sequined shawl collar, or his black plexi cuffs as loud as a DJ set. His pants allow for beautiful dance moves. Night life is what he knows.
Where does it come from? From a movie by M. Night Shyamalan? From an unknown time warp? From a Baroque community of all influences, styles and energies? He seems too young to have a past and yet his outfit speaks of generations: ornately trimmed velvet frock coat, granite leather pants, tie and herringbone shirt. He wears an entire century.
He spent his adolescence in a room without posters or idols. Rather than worship them, he wanted to be like them, to wear silver leather pants, sequined roman collar jackets and a strass eye patch - without pretense. Now, he is one of them, and they all know his glittering stage costume.
He lost his memory in the East, learned to breathe again in a temple, understanding the necessity for silence. He is force and concentration. Look for him greeting his guests in a wool skin bathrobe and large ribbed underpants.