A Return to Form

I was biking home a few nights ago around 10:30pm wearing one of my staple fits: four year old cooked Vans, white work pants, and a Uniqlo rain jacket I’ve had since senior year of high school. I can imagine you’re already thinking, “great, here goes Jack getting all preachy about how he denounces fashion when he’ll be writing an essay on Hood By Air or something in a week.” To be honest, you’re absolutely right. 

I felt my first inkling of an interest in fashion at about fifteen years old. I was a Boy Scout and my burgeoning interest was motivated more than anything by a need for backpacking gear that was comfortable and durable but without the unnecessary hardware or ugly mish-mash of neon colors. It started with Topo Designs and their best known item, the Klettersack, in their best known color, blaze orange. For the first time in my life, I got my hands on gear designed to be aesthetically pleasing yet utilitarian and ready for hard use. This drove the way I viewed clothing for quite a while— I was into sneakers based on what was good for walking, hiking, and biking; I bought Adidas Sambas because I had read a review recommending them for walking across desserts and wading through rivers. At risk of sounding like a corny “I liked it before it was cool” guy, the truth is that from my earliest days, I cared more about Snow Peak than I did Supreme.

At some point, though, that did change. I came to a crossroads where I started liking sneakers more because they looked cool than for their function or utility. I traded the arguable versatility of shorts for the constricted feel of skinny jeans. I started looking into overcoats instead of anoraks. And on and on I went, preferring rare Japanese archive pieces and fancy leather shoes over cool backpacks or comfortable running shoes. And frankly, I looked good.

But lord knows I spent too much time stressing about it— I’ve literally skipped classes because I couldn’t get the cuffs on my jeans to look right. But my once utilitarian and now obnoxiously finicky fashion sense found somewhat of a center when I first started buying band tees. I had suddenly discovered a garment that was cool looking, but cheap enough that I could happily wear it in all conditions and beat it up until it found its natural retirement. It fit my desired aesthetic and the average price was probably $10-15; I had discovered something that was rewarding to wear yet accessible. This quasi-democratization of my wardrobe has continued on some level since then. I bought Patagonia baggies, vintage combat boots, and probably enough band tees to make the accessibility philosophy of them invalid. I started actually going outside again— hiking, biking, working out. Just over a year ago, I envisioned a blog titled “A Restructuring of Utility.” I never actually wrote it, but the gist was about a newfound love for wearing teeny-tiny Patagonia women’s baggies with my favorite sneakers and the realization that dressing purely to look “cool” wasn’t making me more attractive or confident. The purpose of clothing was to suit the activity— style designed around lifestyle— just like all the hiking boots I had lusted after at 15 and 16.

In December I bought an Arc’teryx jacket not because of its growing stranglehold on the fashion world, but because I saw a pic of a Supreme employee wearing it while riding a bike in the snow and thought “gee, that looks like a pretty useful thing to have.” I was right; it was the perfect jacket for those cold winter days when I simply could not be bothered to look good. It’s warm, comfortable, and fits well. Since then, I’ve bought a hardshell from Arc’teryx and a Snow Peak raincoat. I got a single speed bike and started using that orange backpack again because, unlike my Undercover tote bag, it keeps my laptop dry and is comfortable when cycling.

I want to go backpacking again. After publishing this article, I’m going to throw on a hoodie and nylon shorts and finally teach myself how to ride a fixed gear. Coming to terms with the fact that lifestyle is more important than clothing has led me to a singular realization: getting absolutely plastered in a Brooklyn Airbnb with the homies made me feel more alive than any $600 jacket ever could. And a little orange backpack is what got me there.