The Man Who Sleeps
You don’t want to see anyone or talk to, or to think, nor to go out, or move.
It is on a day like this one, a little later, a little earlier, that you discover, without surprise, that something is wrong —
That you don’t know how to live and that you never will.
In his 1974 film Un Homme Qui Dort (“The Man Who Sleeps”) Georges Perec stipulates that seemingly the lowest form of life is a man who consciously alienates himself from society by rarely leaving his home, eating minimally, owning few clothes. A friend joked that The Man Who Sleeps is the one and only quarantine film. In an attempt to alienate himself from society, the film’s protagonist adopts many of the reclusive behaviors we have been reluctantly practicing all year. But the ongoing health pandemic has turned social norms on their heads, and suddenly it seems the best way to alienate yourself is to go about living your normal life. I saw a few days ago a photographer promoting a recent shoot. Before sharing a single detail of the work, the photographer insisted on a paragraph-long parenthetical describing in excruciating detail how the shoot was performed responsibly, in shifts, with lots of masks, sanitizing, et cetera. I appreciate the gravity of our collective situation and respect someone taking necessary precautions, but I hate the sudden need to describe and justify everything they do. It’s that asterisk next to every story of seeing friends or family— an asterisk that pleads “I DID THIS RESPONSIBLY, PLEASE DON’T BURN ME AT THE STAKE.” On one hand, I get it; there are a lot of assholes who can’t be bothered to care about everyone else’s wellbeing. But to not give the majority of people the benefit of the doubt and create an environment in which they feel obligated to protect themselves from condemnation is preposterous.
For years, the online menswear community has force-fed me tweets suggesting that wearing a blazer casually was an offense akin to me turning up to midnight mass tomorrow in that one Cradle of Filth shirt. I was therefore somewhat surprised to find myself two weeks ago in the middle of the NYC (yeah obviously safely, mind your fucking business) in loafers, a wool blazer, and button-down and no one cared. It seems perhaps these tweets weren’t born from an actual real life experience but rather what the deluded #menswear guys believed would happen if they ever left their flyover state cul-de-sac. The simple reality is nobody particularly pays attention — I could show up to a classroom of pajama-clad college students and most would likely assume I have a presentation and return to checking Snapchat while the professor dithers about.
I think it’s a safe statement to say I am really about this fashion shit. I own the “archival” Undercover, the “artisanal” leather jacket, and the bold leopard prints. For years now, I’ve meticulously documented every worthwhile outfit I’ve worn, amassing a several hundred image collection that would leave many worrying about the size of my ego. I have many an image in something gaudy and fashionable which, doubtless, was almost universally praised by friends. However, when idly flipping through my photos, I always pause the longest on the simple things — one picture especially of me in loafers, black jeans, and a band tee. In one arm a tote bag and the other a six pack. The outfit is made only remotely stylish because the clothes fit well but the rest is frankly bland. And I think that’s fine. Sure, “Wonderwall” might be every white kid’s favorite song but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s an absolute banger. Sure, The White Stripes were the band of choice for boring middle schoolers (read: me) but Meg White’s drumming still sends a primal tingle up my spine.
Sure, if you spend your entire style journey trying to come off as “fashionable” you might be disappointed when nobody gives a shit that you’re wearing an unstructured sack coat in a tweed sourced from only a specific type of sheep you can find in one Scottish village and that your daily loafers are made by a paraplegic hermit who lives on the side of a mountain in Italy and learned his craft when God visited him in a dream. If you’re lucky, Becky might say you look nice when you go for that third cup of coffee from the office kitchen. But that’s just because Becky is nice and she can tell you’re trying. Oh, so you just want to look half decent? Well that’s pretty easy.
Regardless of the fact that my esteemed colleague is basically illiterate, I hope he’s right to bet on the classics. Isolating myself in my dusty room, I crave the desire to needlessly dress up in five collared shirts and polished hardbottoms. While I crave getting dressed to the nines, being stuck inside, condemned to solitude, has allowed me to appreciate the simple things — jeans that fit my hips just so, my mom saying I looked good in an oxford when I was 11, the French are cool because they really like Levi’s. Soon as I hit save on this article, I’m going to put on a knit polo and cardigan. For 2021, my New Year’s Resolution is to drop the cost of a mid-sized sedan into black loafers and black jeans.
