I have a deep appreciation for style. I don’t mean fashion runway shows, I mean street style, the people you see every day.
I love passing people in the streets or on the train and imagining the kind of person they are by what they chose to wear. I love all the uniqueness and peculiarities. The Gothic ones with dark, dramatic make-up, the free spirited hippies wearing worn-in clothes exuding freedom and approachability, the girls in yoga outfits who ironically appear determined and focused – anything but zen, the businessmen in starchy suits and gelled hair staring at their phones, the young guys laughing obnoxiously wearing printed shorts and ray-ban sunglasses, or the impeccably dressed women in high heels, perfectly maintained hair, engulfed in expensive perfume.
It’s a very particular unique outward expression of character. I find it fascinating; any and all of those splinters of subcultures from the manicured to the dishevelled. I love it even more when its truly authentic, almost as though the clothes wear them rather than the other way around.
I suppose it’s because I myself can identify with each of those styles but cannot to commit to one in particular. Instead I chose my outfits based on practicality instead of high-fashion. I suppose that right there shows a part of my character.