In the know

Last night I went to a concert in an abandoned ball house...very divine decadence – crumbling plaster and faded gold leaf - sputtering candles expiring with a fizz onto chipped gilt mirrors. In a word, fabulous. I went with a friend to see a very earnest Finnish pianist play Brahms. It was lovely. My friend told me that he would be accompanied by a man who owned a very exclusive boutique, so I of course dressed for the occasion, which meant my very best cravat and the Kelly green loafers I only bring out for the most special of occasions. I thought I looked pretty good, truth be told.

When I arrived, my friend greeted me warmly and introduced me to a painfully thin couple who were dressed entirely in what seemed to be black rags. I thought they looked like hobos dipped in India ink, but my friend assured me that their clothes were very expensive. The woman extended a limp wrist and smiled, except that it looked like she was wincing in pain. The man looked me up and down and gave me a withering glance, the kind a society matron gives when confronted with a wet dog. They did not comment on the shoes…..everybody comments on the shoes! I think it is because the shoes were not black. My friend told me that this man and his girlfriend had not been seen in anything other than black for almost 20 years. Perhaps they are mourning their sense of humour.

After the concert (which was appropriately dark, being late Brahms and all), we went to a little café for a bite to eat. Over lentil soup I learned all about the man in black – his business philosophy (be aggressive), his “concept” (be aggressive but try to hide it), his tips on how to succeed in life (there are winners and losers- you choose). I think I was supposed to be impressed, and I was: I was especially impressed that a man who sold clothes for a living thought so much of himself…It showed lot of chutzpah, I thought. I mean, if he were a master tailor who knew how to sew an exquisite button hole - that would be something. If he made shoes and knew how to cloak a customer’s foot in buttery calfskin, I would show my reverence. But the shmatta business? Are you serious? Am I to be pontificated to by someone in trade?

I must admit, however, that this man’s confidence piqued my interest, so I decided to check out the website for his store the moment I got home. I was immediately confronted by a solitary image of barbed wire. Did this mean he was selling striped pajamas? Was there even still a market for that in Berlin? Actually, the barbed wire was meant to suggest a barrier which signaled the exclusivity of the venture – a velvet rope for the most masochistic of fashion victims. Of course..... Question: Why is it so cool to be forbidding? Who invented that? Moving on…..

I learned that the store is so exclusive it doesn’t have a sign to let you know it is there. You are just supposed to know. Oh, and the location of the store changes every few months and this is not advertised. You are supposed to know this, too. You are also supposed to know that the store is not really a store but actually an “avant garde guerilla sartorial experiment” which is open for 4 hours a day, by appointment only. What’s next, land mines?

It goes without saying that everything on display was black. Most of the items were artfully torn, ripped or discolored. I believe the term that they used was “distressed”. There was one piece - a scarf, I believe (it was hard to tell) - from a very exclusive underground designer that consisted of frayed clumps of wool in various shades of “muted charcoal, midnight and pitch”….it looked like my grade 8 sewing project and cost 400 Euros… 400 Euros? For a scarf that doesn’t even keep you warm? What are they, mishuggah? I can only imagine bringing something like that home, only to discover that my father had mended it by morning with a piece of denim scrounged from his workbench in the garage. “Why can’t you buy yourself a decent scarf?” He would say. “Let’s go to Canadian Tire – they have scarves on sale for 4.99. Nice ones…warm! So what if they have reindeer on them? Are you going to fucking care what the fucking scarf looks like when its 50 below?”

Good point.

It gets better. I scrolled down to find a one-of-a-kind fiberglass coat by a Japanese designer for 5000 Euros. I immediately called my friend…“could it be true?”, I asked. Indeed it was – my friend told me that he had actually seen the coat in the store before it was snapped up last month, and that he noticed that the label said “not to be worn – fiberglass cuts skin”. An $8000 coat that you can’t even wear. Who would sell such a thing? Maybe it comes with a special undergarment? Maybe there is a danger element I don’t know about? Maybe we’re all going to hell in a hand basket?

Am I just supposed to know?

I told my friend that with 5000 euros you could pay the rent in Berlin for an entire year. He laughed, and we agreed to meet tomorrow for coffee – not lunch, mind you. My friend always brings a sandwich with him wherever he goes. He is trying to save money while he finds a job here in Berlin. In the meantime he studies German 5 hours a day and goes swimming in the evenings because it is less expensive. He wears bright red pants that he bought at H&M.

They look great.