Rick Owens' 10 Rules of Style

philosophyofthewellfed:


1.
I’m not good at subtlety. If you’re not going to be discreet and quiet, then just go all the way and have the balls to shave off your eyebrows, bleach your hair, and put on some big bracelets.

2.
Working out is modern couture. No outfit is going to make you look or feel as good as having a fit body. Buy less clothing and go to the gym instead.

3.
I’ve lived in Paris for six years, and I’m sorry to say that the Ugly American syndrome still exists. Sometimes you just want to say “Stop destroying the landscape with your outfit.” Still, from a design standpoint, I’m tempted to redo the fanny pack. I look at it as a challenge—it’s something to react against.

4.
When a suit gets middle-of-the-road it kind of loses me—it has to be sharp and classic and almost forties.

5.
Hair and shoes say it all. Everything in between is forgivable as long as you keep it simple. Trying to talk with your clothes is passive-aggressive.

6.
There’s something a little too chatterboxy about color. Right now I want black, for its sharpness and punctuation.

7.
Jean-Michel Frank, the thirties interior and furniture designer, supposedly had 40 identical double-breasted gray flannel suits. He knew himself and is a wonderful example of restraint and extravagance.

8.
I hate rings and bracelets on men. I’m not a fan of man bags, or girl bags either—or even sunglasses. I don’t like fussy accessories. Isn’t it more chic to be free? Every jacket I make has interior pockets big enough to store a book and a sandwich and a passport.

9.
With layering, sometimes the more the better. When you layer a lot of black you’re like a walking Louise Nevelson sculpture, and that’s pretty attractive. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable is also one of the most attractive things you can do.

10.
It’s funny—whenever someone talks about rules, I just want to break them. I recoil from the whole idea of rules.

this feeling reminds me of those sleepless nights driving through los scandalous. windows down, sunroof open. thoughts of humanity, mortality and love quickly pacing in my mind, one chasing the other. the same NAS album on repeat, the occasional skip from a pothole on wilshire. driving past LACMA, lights illuminating my path brighter than my (future) path. if only life could be so easily illuminated. fucked up. drugged up. crept up. slept up. burnt up. turned down. no matter my aimless meandering, i always aimed for hollywood and vine; our rendez-vous location that had you paying for my cab fare and me sobbing in your arms about a stolen wallet or forgotten friendship. fuck. why does it always come back to this? a sleepless night, fogged by bottles of champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice? a distant memory, immortalized by the feelings that lay nestled in our hearts forever? with the bottles of veuve come the memories of a not so distant past. with the accomplishments come the humbling reminders of who we once were. we were so close to perfection, you and i…

whatever inclination made me think it was a good idea to buy an entire bottle of veuve and attempt to ‘study’ italian/ gmat math was seriously on crazy pills. what??! i dont even drink these days! fuck. this is the shit i do when neil leaves and i have the convenience of my credit card, a liquor store downstairs and freshly squeeze orange juice. i think im on my 6th mimosa. christ. havent even opened my GMAT book; no, im too busy catching up on stupid words with friends games. did you know ‘cunt’ isn’t an acceptable word? im starting a ‘WTSBAIWWF’ tumblr. aka: “words that should be acceptable in words with friends” tumblr. haha. the title is a work in progress. so is my life. time to sign off before my rants get too (em)o. no accomplishments to drink to… 7th mimosa, here i come!