07 March 2008

I was working for Havemeyer, Melkweg and Sturgeon at the time. Little boutique firm off Montague. Or was it Maiden? One of those little ducked in streets. Before they figured out the grid. Used to take lunch breaks in Grand Central. Loved listening to all those leather soles pounding the marble. It had a rhythm to it. Then again, back then, everything did.

We dreamt up schemes in clam bars. Always trying to see the oyster for the pearl. Figure out what we wanted before we hopped a puddle jumper to Seram. It was me and this dude Gordoun Leseurre. You know those houses tucked into the hills when you're winding through C├┤te d'Azur? That's where Gordoun grew up. Looking down a hill. Cars vanishing into tunnels. French blues, chalk pinstripes and suspenders. Just me and Gordoun eating oysters after work. It was simple.

But we'd have to roll back the footage to Aubagne if we're really gonna set this story off proper. Surrounded by the Garlaban, and Sainte-Baume to the north and Douard to the south. Both of us recovering travelers and practicing snarks, we'd quiz each other on the motorways of Belgium sipping Disaronno until that Luxembourg sun rose and told us it was time for sleep.

Gordoun used to sleep in his car. I guess I couldn't blame him. Gordoun had this cherry red '57 Maserati 200SI. His father won it at an auction in Brandenburg. Didn't know the first thing about cars. Gave it to Gordoun for his 21st birthday. Alejandro de Tomaso drove it around a few times at one of the Formula One World Championship Grands Prix. Thing was brand new. Still smelled like rich, cognac leather. It was a race car. It was Gordoun's bedroom.

I had a girl back home at the time. Her name was Believer, Believer Vacanza. She had the body of a 1975 Vogue cover girl. A true woman's body. It poured like cake batter into a steel muffin pan. Her eyes were like judges. I melted into her pockets. Her cream coloured wool pockets. Her voice made me crave pancakes and naps with the window open. Curtains billowing. News radio on. Sleeping until 4 o'clock type decadence. We didn't care. As far as we were concerned the world was on pause until we decided to push play.

Mixing classic with modern, tradition with innovation. Punk with class. Not giving a fuck with refined royalty. In her closet a double-breasted coat in pure wool in brown houndstooth with inserts in cocoa-coloured velvet on the collar and pocket flaps. Six buttons in bone. Three decorative leather buttons at sleeve cuffs. Lined in silk.

Lined in silk or cashmere. That about summed us up. We wanted beauty and comfort for ourselves. Didn't care what anyone else saw or thought. I'll wear gloves made from burlap and cardboard so long as they're lined with silk and cashmere. Decadence for me. For her. For you? We just couldn't be bothered...