Author Archives: Ana Velasco

kevin parker

Tame Impala, A Change of Pace

It’s a little past 8 p.m. in Los Angeles when Kevin Parker’s voice comes through the line. In Perth, Australia, where he’s phoning from, it’s already noon the next day. His voice is decidedly more baritone than the falsetto I’ve sung along with for the four albums he’s released under the moniker Tame Impala, including his latest: The Slow Rush. I try to imagine where Parker is calling from and can’t help but place him at the Wave House in Yallingup, a rickety wooden oasis with magnificent views of the Indian ocean where he recorded Currents, the instant-classic album released in 2015.

 

I know what this house looks like from a video uploaded onto Tame Impala’s YouTube channel in 2017, which has amassed over a million views and over 1,500 comments, some of which praise the gorgeous house but mostly praise Parker himself. The video is a window into the creative process of one of the most intriguing living musicians who, save for a few elements in his early albums, has written and recorded every single detail in Tame Impala’s discography.

 

This is where I continue to picture him as we exchange pleasantries before talking about his most recent work (I offer condolences for the fires in Australia, which he thanks me for while letting on that Perth, where he resides, is fine, thanks. “I’m sorry, too,” he says. In some sort of dark coincidence, Parker recorded elements of the new album in Malibu, until the 2018 California fires burned down the house where he was working, forcing him to relocate.)

 

“So, five years of pressure sounds like a whole lot,” I begin, to which Parker laughs. “What’s going through your mind?”

 

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kevin parker

 

“I’m kind of just happy that it’s a month out from release,” he says. “There were a few times last year when I wondered if this time was ever gonna come. But I just wanna get it out there. I’ve reached that point where there’s been many highs and lows, [and] it all just neutralized into me being kind of zen about it, you know? Like, what will be, will be.”

 

It’s an admirable chill, considering the hundreds of thousands of comments across the Internet that, albeit friendly, have pressed Parker for new music since Currents undoubtedly elevated Tame Impala from star to Star—capital S, eliciting the kind of reverence held by some of his newer collaborators, including A$AP Rocky or Travis Scott. Currents didn’t just widen the scope of how many people were paying attention to Parker’s work, it created a fanatic devotion with an insatiable appetite. Whereas previously Parker could create more freely, The Slow Rush is his first project with a larger audience in the wings, all waiting to devour any element of his creation.

 

“It’s certainly changed the way I think about it,” he says of this new fan base. “Just knowing there’s gonna be people anticipating it listening to it. When I started out, I didn’t know people were gonna listen. There’s always that battle between wanting to give the people what they want and also not wanting to give them what they want.” He laughs. “And also giving something they don’t know they want or they say they don’t want, because I have this theory that even if people think they want the same thing from their favorite artist, deep down they don’t and they only think they will.”
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It’s no grief to his fans—we’ve all held on to inane desire of permanence, Parker too, but he finishes up his thought with gratitude that his favorite artists evolve. “It’s probably what kept me listening.” He thinks for a second as he comes up with an analogy, which makes him laugh. “Like, music isn’t supposed to be your favorite pizza restaurant that just keeps serving up the same pizza.”

 

While The Slow Rush picks up where Currents left off, the five-year interim in Parker’s life is also noticeable, from personal events to experimentations and references. For one, Parker, the voice of loner rock, got married, which transmits into generally happier songs like “Instant Destiny” and “Breathe Deeper.” His skyrocketing success is another theme, which he touches upon in “One More Hour.” But generally speaking, Parker spends much of the album ruminating on the most human elements: growing up and getting older. “Time is something that races by us when we’re not paying attention,” Parker says about the album’s title. “If you count the seconds, they go by really slowly, like we have so much time in our lives. And then somehow we wake up and it’s been a year. Where does the time go? How does it do that?”

 

 

It’s interesting for a musician whose roots are in psychedelic rock to have garnered such massive popularity—you don’t need to be in the music industry to know the current reigning genres are hip-hop and pop. But Parker’s talents are undeniable, his sound both precise in its originality and its influences, and it hasn’t just earned him accolades and recognition but also an inclusionary fan base that crosses genres—a rarity. This appeal has led to collaborations with A-list talents like Lady Gaga, Kanye West, and Rihanna, who included a cover of Parker’s “New Person, Same Old Mistakes” on her own genre-defying album Anti in 2016.

 

But it isn’t only his talents that continue to broaden his reach, it’s his ability to continuously evolve and experiment that allows for growth (expressed with new elements inspired by ’90s house music, disco, and hip-hop). His dedication is palpable in the music, but perhaps more silently in the process, with Parker spending the better part of creative time alone, building on himself, and working tirelessly. He describes this process as a “positive drained feeling.”

 

kevin parker
kevin parker

 

For Parker, making music began as a way to deal with real feelings of being a loner. But after all the recognition, collaborations, sold-out arena tours, and a community of fans he has connected through his work, I wonder if he still feels that way.

 

“Yeah, I feel like as much of a loner as I did before. I mean, I’m married now, so I always feel like I have someone. But… put it this way: I’m still trying to fill that void.” He pauses, searching for the precision of his feelings. “In terms of being able to connect with the world, I still feel like music is my only way of doing that.”

 

The Slow Rush was released a month after we spoke, at midnight on Feb. 14. As the day unfolded, sandwiched between love tributes to partners and love itself, were posts from fans praising the new album. It was no surprise to see that the musician’s devotees had accepted the album with reverence, many of whom joked that the music was their Valentine this year. Their musical messiah had delivered another piece that made them feel connected; the loner, in turn, helping them feel less alone.

 

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diego boneta

Crossing the Threshold with Diego Boneta

Diego Boneta wears KARL LAGERFELD PARIS in a dreamy editorial. The latest range from the French designer perfectly fuses the structure of urban practicality with a timeless bucolic sophistication. The collection is available online now.

 

Diego Boneta might still be a fresh name in Hollywood, but in Mexico, where he was born, he needs no introduction. It’s only one of the similarities he has with Luis Miguel, the Puerto Rican-born Mexican icon he portrays in the eponymous Netflix hit series. Both started their careers at young ages and became heartthrobs almost immediately, a combination of their talents and good looks. It’s not only a fitting role for the 28-year-old, but one that he’s played to critical acclaim, solidifying his status as a bonafide actor.

 

Boneta’s transition from household name in his home country to rising star in his adopted one (he moved to Los Angeles in 2007) has been humbling, especially as a Mexican actor who was found “too white to be Latin and too Latin to be white.” Boneta had guest roles in teen dramas Pretty Little Liars and 90210 before landing the role of Drew Boley in the rock-musical Rock of Ages, joining an all-star cast that included Catherine Zeta-Jones, Alec Baldwin, and Tom Cruise, who became an exemplary figure in Boneta’s life. Not only was he able to break the type-casting mold that had been holding a grip on his opportunities, but he also got to flaunt his vocal chops, which he once again put to use in Luis Miguel, recording versions of the icon’s songs. Now Boneta faces a new milestone as he joins Arnold Schwarzenegger and Linda Hamilton for the new chapter of the Terminator series, Terminator: Dark Fate—his first step into
action territory.

 

I call Boneta to discuss his career, both past and present. He answers with a friendly hello, but upon learning I’m also from Mexico City, the tone instantly changes in the way conversation does when two people of the same country find each other somewhere else: with instant and emphatic camaraderie. Boneta is nothing short of polite and sweet, his charisma and excitement evident even through the phone—qualities that have enabled him to take the dream leap from home star to a rising talent in the film capital of the world. He is deeply and profoundly proud to be Mexican, and it takes no time before we are discussing what that heritage means and how honored he is to be among those helping to change industry perceptions.

 

 

What has joining the Terminator franchise been like for you? Did you ever picture that you would grow up to be a part of something of this scale?

 

It was a crazy ride, and how it all happened was kind of a bit overwhelming. I was shooting Luis Miguel when I auditioned for Terminator, and then the day after I wrapped up the show I had to fly out to Dublin to screen test. It was the perfect opportunity. I had been wanting to do something global after doing Luis, which was more Latin focused. Deadpool was one of my favorite movies that has come out in the last few years, I think Tim Miller is an amazing director with a fresh vision on filmmaking and being able to work with the people involved in this project—I mean, Tim and James Cameron, the original cast, Linda Hamilton, Arnold Schwarzenegger. It was amazing.

 

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diego boneta

 

After making Rock of Ages you said you wanted to become an action star. It seems like that’s starting to happen with these projects in the pipeline. How do you feel about your dreams coming true and what has been the biggest challenge?

 

What really drives me is that I’m very passionate and proud of being Mexican. Growing up watching all these huge movies, I never saw a character that I could play in those movies. I always wanted to be Han Solo, or Luke Skywalker, or James Bond, or Ethan Hunt, but…none of them were Latin and none of them were like me. And the fact that Hollywood now is being open to diversity while staying true to these characters has been interesting. Like with Rock of Ages, the main thing for me was being able to speak English with no trace of a Mexican accent, and I think it’s fair as an actor to be able to play whatever you can physically play. If you can pass for Australian and all you need to do is master an Australian accent, there’s no way you shouldn’t get it.

 

I feel very proud of being able to break some of those stereotypes. Rock of Ages was a huge thing for me. Even though it wasn’t a huge box-office success, personally for me it was huge, because it was the first time a Latin actor played a white role in a big studio movie. And being able to act opposite Tom Cruise, Alec Baldwin, Paul Giamatti, Bryan Cranston—it was just unreal. Every day I was getting closer and closer to being able to push those boundaries, break down these barriers, break down those walls—no pun intended [laughs]—and being able to show that. Your nationality shouldn’t be what makes you get or not get a job. It should be if you’re right for the part physically, and if you deliver it on an acting level—if you’re a good enough actor.

 

diego boneta
diego boneta

 

We are starting to see more representation in the film industry, even within Latinx representation, as more actors are showing the broad range of diversity within our communities. Did you find that you were typecasted or continue to be typecasted because you’re Mexican?

 

When I first started, absolutely, yes. I moved here 12 years ago and it was a very different business then. It was very weird to me because they would put me up for Latin roles, like a Mexican singer, and I’d stand in for them and they’d be like, “No, no, no honey, this is for a Mexican singer.” I’d be like, “But I’m Mexican.” And they wouldn’t believe me. So I was always too white to play Latin,…and I was too Latin to be white. That was the first three years of my life upon moving to Los Angeles.

 

If it wasn’t for Rock of Ages… that was the big breakthrough for me and for many other actors, where it was like, “Wait a second, there are a lot of Mexicans who don’t necessarily look Mexican”—what does a Mexican look like? A lot of these casting directors making these decisions have never even been to Mexico City. They’re just judging based off of a lack of information and being prejudiced without having even been there. It’s not fair. Does it still happen? Yes. But a lot less than it did before. And I think the business is moving in the right direction. I think this new wave of actors is really pushing for that, and we don’t want to be put in the same field as the funny sidekick Mexican, or the gardener, or the nanny, or the chauffeur. Not that there’s no dignity in playing those roles, because there is, but Mexicans are so much more than that. It just has to be fair. That’s the main thing for me. If someone else gets a part because he’s a better actor than me, you know what, great. But if someone else gets the part because, “Oh you know, he’s Mexican,” then that’s not fair, unless it goes against the role.

 

I think there’s still room to improve—there always is. But I think every year, and especially with all the talent coming out of Mexico, everyone is realizing we gotta pay more attention.

 

diego boneta
diego boneta

 

An interesting point is that the people making these decisions sometimes lack awareness about the culture they’ve set out to portray. You’ve been really well known in Mexico since you were a teenager. Similarly, Luis Miguel is an icon, but generally speaking in the United States, it’s hard to relay how important and how famous he is to those who don’t know of him. How would you describe Luis Miguel to someone who isn’t aware of him and his impact?

 

None of my American friends knew who he was, but they heard me playing his music as I was preparing for the part, and at the end of the day they all became really big fans of his music, which I thought was really interesting because none of them speak Spanish [laughs]. The way I would describe Luis Miguel is, culturally and musically, he’s like a mix between Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra, with a childhood and a tragic life similar to Michael Jackson—with child exploitation, abandonment, and very troubled life.

 

Luis Miguel is starting to get more broadly known, but even without knowing that context there are some stories that are universal: A coming-of-age story. Someone who is that big—people get it. And at the end of the day, his music and his voice also speak for themselves. Being able to play him was a childhood dream come true. The first live show I ever saw was his, the first song I ever sang on national television [was “La Chica del Bikini Azul”], it really came full circle.

 

The show garnered an insanely popular following. Has it been picked up for a second season yet?

 

Not yet. But it’s very special to be part of something that is helping redefine Latin television. It’s the first premium TV show in Latin America with 13 episodes and not 70 or 80, all directed by the same director [Humberto Hinojosa], and shot in a very American, premium-cable type of way. No one expected it to be this big, including myself. It’s crazy because I had to sing all of his songs in the original key, and his voice—Frank Sinatra said he was the best singer he had ever heard, and I am not Luis Miguel. It was really hard for me to sing his songs and humanize this character who has always been so mysterious and closed off so that people could empathize with him. That’s really what my job was.

 

diego boneta
diego boneta

 

What is the most important lesson you’ve learned throughout your career?

 

Humility and hard work. There are no shortcuts to success. You have to put in the hours, sweat, blood, and tears. And always, no matter what, humility. I learned that after working with Tom Cruise and seeing how he treated everyone on set, from the director to the grip.

 

If you could work with anyone at all, who would it be and why?

 

Ooooh! Well, I’d have to throw in Alfonso Cuarón. I think he’s this generation’s Kubrick; there’s nothing he can’t do. I also love Christopher Nolan, Tarantino, Scorsese. And actor-wise, I’d love to work again with Tom Cruise. I think Jennifer Lawrence is amazing. Javier Bardem, and Christian Bale.

 

My last question: what does happiness look like to you?

 

I think happiness is balance. Balance with work, personal life, family, friends. It’s way easier said than done.

 

diego boneta
diego boneta
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Ethan Hawke: In Service of the Art

Photographed by Thomas Goldblum and styled by Darryl Rodrigues.

It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly Ethan Hawke became a household name, having seemingly been both an unshakeable presence in Hollywood’s elite for over three decades while also remaining one of it’s most famous outcasts. But he’s not interested in being a movie star – Ethan Hawke is an artist, a concept that, to him and those he admires, is removed from the yearning for stardom.

This is perhaps truest in Blaze, Hawke’s latest effort which he wrote and directed, that chronicles the life of outlaw country musician Blaze Foley. Largely unknown except to true country music connoisseurs, Foley was a true rebel and artist, whose life was as intensely marked by his love and respect for music as it was by his struggle with excess. But Foley wasn’t a rockstar—not to be pitted inside the same legacy of other artists who passed too soon by living under the detrimental credo of “Live fast, die young.”

No, Foley was not a star, nor was he ever interested in being one. Which makes his appeal to Hawke (a fellow Texan) obvious.

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It’s not the first time the multi-disciplinarian has gravitated towards the rebel as his subject. There’s Seymour Bernstein, Troy Dyer, Reverend Toller, Hamlet. It’s clear that Hawke has always held an attraction to the outcast.

“There’s this quote my mother used to have on the wall when I was growing up, ‘There’s only two things in life worth hating: an easy life and vainglory.’ As a kid, I used to stare at it and wonder what the hell it meant,” he laughs, “and I think there is a certain aspect to society that is always celebrating the superficial… and we all kind of play the game, and we try not to, and then we succumb. But there’s a part of us that knows we’re on a rock spinning in space, and that we have no idea why we’re born and why we’re dying, but we just work so hard to forget it all the time. There’s something about people who don’t buy into the knee-jerk artifices of our lives that appeal to me. They just always have.”

Hawke speaks in a particularly warm manner that combines the spirit of an old soul and a curious child. He is excited yet introspective, combining idioms like “soup to nuts” with incredibly wise views on life, art, and love and how collaborating is the ultimate culmination of these. When I ask him about how he first heard about Foley, he starts on the surface before diving deep into the matter. “Listening to country music was always the way to kind of be close to my father and have it be something we could talk about, so I just loved on it hard my whole life.”

Foley’s music came to Hawke by way of his friend Ben Dickey, a musician who he had met through his wife (Ryan Hawke) and her best friend Beth Blofson. Blofson, as it would happen, was in love with Dickey around the same time Ethan and Ryan fell in love, and the four became deeply entwined in each other’s lives. “It sounds so corny to say, but it’s really strange how the universe works.” The universe, it turns out, would slowly roll out the idea of Blaze in a fortuitous manner.

“Over the years we started talking about Blaze a lot and slowly this idea of Ben playing Blaze in a movie erupted in my mind.” Hawke begins to speed up as he talks, excited to share this particular story of the universe’s delightful mechanisms. “You know, Ben is from Arkansas and Blaze is from Arkansas. Blaze is 6’5 and Ben is 6’5, and they’re both big boys with big red beards, and it started to seem like a match made in cinema heaven.” From then on the project started taking shape. Ryan became the producer, Beth became the art director, Ben became Blaze, Alia Shawkat became Sybil Rosen, and as if to wrap an already nice gift in a prettier package, the real Sybil Rosen became Hawke’s writing partner.

Writing with Rosen was a great opportunity, not just because she was the person who knew Foley best, but because of her own particular artistry. “She really understands the difference between telling a story and the facts,” says Hawke, a successful feat that not many biopics get right.

So how do you tell a story about a life and music? You turn it into a song. This is how Blaze is told, not chronologically, but rhythmically, with Hawke creating a circular pattern inspired by verses and choruses and bridges. But it’s not just a story about music, and it’s not just about Foley either. It’s a story about art and love, and as its circular narrative takes the shape of the type of songs that immortalized Foley, it also reflects the shape of Hawke’s real life.

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It is nearly impossible to talk about Hawke and not talk about Richard Linklater. They are, after all, a duo responsible for some of the most lovely experiments in the history of film, finding themselves reunited in Blaze, where Linklater plays a brief but important role. “He and I met and we just got along like gas and fire. I mean, we just couldn’t stop talking,” Hawke recalls. That first conversation turned into a collaborative butterfly effect, spawning the likes of Boyhood and the Before trilogy. “Our conversation has been going on about time and cinema’s relationship to time.”

Hawke has clear gratitude for Linklater. “People ask me why I work with him all the time. The truth is when you’re around somebody who really believes in you, you start to accidentally believe in yourself because you want to be the person they see you as. I remember even as a young man Linklater thought I was a great actor. He would get so excited by my acting and it made me value it, you know because I valued him. It makes you a little bit better, the fact that somebody you respect believes in you. And Linklater was that for me and I try to be that for Ben and on and on it goes, I guess.”

There’s a preciousness by which he recalls certain moments in his life, and one can’t help but catch the excitement that punctuates singular words in Hawke’s stories or the way his laugh booms like short but heavy thunder. Boyhood, with its 12-year filming span, is one of these moments. “I remember my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t want it to be over,” he recalls. Blaze is another one of these moments, the similarity of his attachment and the clear way he and everyone else involved handed over a piece of his heart and soul to its creation. Making these films “had been so vital and so valuable that [they] didn’t need to be a movie,” the experience alone had been sufficiently rewarding.

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Hawke is proud and excited about his work, but when talking about what art and true beauty are, his humility overpowers anything else.

I ask what the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen is, and without skipping a beat he replies. “My children being born.” He goes on, “I know it’s corny, but I’ve been thinking a lot about it recently. My oldest just turned 20, and I have four kids, and it’s hard to imagine that everybody walking the streets was actually born, because when it happens… and this thing starts to breathe on its own, it’s divine. It’s the only thing I’ve really witnessed that, when it happens, you just bow before the universe. You don’t need to give it a name. It’s just absolutely awe-inspiring.”

Hawke’s perceptions of beauty and nature are correlated to what he believes to be the meaning of art. “It’s nature manifest in us. It’s trying to turn the daily brutal minutiae of life that wear us all down slowly like sandpaper into something revelatory and mystical. It’s trying to make sense of how to remind us of gratitude and the magic of life. It’s whatever makes our hearts beat and babies be born. When it’s right, it’s effortless.”

There’s a particularly tender moment in Blaze when Foley and Rosen embrace on the flatbed of a truck as it winds down a scenic road of the Texas woodlands. Before excess happened and the pursuit of some type of success pulled them apart. Before anything was more important than the complex simplicity of their union. She asks him if he’s going to become a big country star. “I don’t wanna be a star,” he replies. “I want to be a legend. Stars burn out because they shine for themselves. Legends last forever.”

“Would you rather be a legend or a star?” I ask. Hawke laughs his loudest and sharpest one yet and pauses to choose his words carefully. “What I think [Foley] was getting at is, if you’re more in service of the art then your life will be full of meaning and joy, and if you want the art to be in service of you and self-promotion, then you’re making your work and your life smaller, and you’re destined to be miserable, no matter how much success or failure you have. So I think on that definition, if ‘legend’ means being in service of the art form itself, then that’s the category I’d want to go in.”

No, Ethan Hawke is not a star, nor is he interested in being one.

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5000 is a New Type of Creative Collective

 

A system of thought

A post shared by 5000 (@5000_official) on

5000 is a new type of art directive that launched in 2017, but don’t underestimate it due to it’s young age. Founded by creative director Taylor Thompson, the New York-based entity has already made covetable strides, being worn by Cordell Broadus, featured on HighSnobiety, and sported by Anwar Hadid (the other other Hadid) – a last name that’s become emblematic with dictating a generation’s fashion and cultural markings.

Beyond positioning itself as the next brand to cop, 5000 aims to establish a relationship between its consumer and their clothes by creating a sartorial narrative between collections. The signature turtleneck, (as seen on Hadid), is as distinctive as it is timeless, retaining its core appeal while adapting with the times.

Not only are the clothes important to Thompson, but the entire philosophy of the brand is to create visual stories that merge 5000’s apparel and lifestyle. As he explains, the Fall/Winter 2018 collection, “A System of Thought” is “about the self conscious development to sustain and handle adverse situations throughout one’s life. This editorial portrays finding a getaway from a rural suburban life to find one’s freedom.”

Comprised of slouchy tailored two-pieces, leather vests, and (obv) the 5000 turtleneck, the Fall/Winter collection creates a timeless narrative that can be worn by anyone. Check out the lookbook below.

Creative Director: Taylor Thompson
Photographer: Mateus Lages
Stylist Assistant: Jacob Ptolemy
Models: Mimi Jung, August Johnson, Jada-Renee Bland
Producer: Jacob Gottlieb

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kerby

Freedom & Future: Interview with Kerby Jean-Raymond of Pyer Moss

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Portrait by Marshall Roach, editorial by Cameron McNee.
Editorial styled by Paul Frederick.

Pyer Moss was established in 2013 and gained industry acclaim for its heavily political Spring/Summer 2016 show, during which a compilation video highlighting police brutality and the emergence of the Black Lives Matter movement set the tone for the fashion presentation. Yet even though it’s been around for half a decade, Pyer Moss is, symbolically, brand new. “I actually bought my company back from my partners; I felt like it was a very unproductive partnership,” says Kerby Jean-Raymond, creative director and founder of the New York-based label.

So how does one start anew? Burn it to the ground, then build it back up—not just figuratively. In a series of three vignettes, Jean- Raymond did just that—enlisting the help of rappers Kari Faux, Vic Mensa, and graphic designer Eddie Opara, who, respectively, burned Pyer Moss’ old signature T-shirts, saged the office, tore apart voided contracts, and debuted a logo redesign. “It was all an attempt to lead up into showing what we are about now, which is very different in my opinion than where we were a year or two ago.”

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The new Pyer Moss arguably made its official land with its Fall/ Winter 2018 show, titled “American, Also.” The modern-Western collection included unisex garments, a live choir performance that included a medley of Black power anthems from soul singer and poet Gil Scott-Heron to Pulitzer Prize-winning rapper Kendrick Lamar, and the launch of the designer’s new collaboration with Reebok. The presentation was compelling on impact, laden with a backstory of true empowerment; inspired by the oft-forgotten Black cowboys like Bill Pickett, the creator of “bulldogging”—now known as the rodeo. “When you think about the cowboy or when it’s being explained in context, you think about a white person who looks like John Wayne or Clint Eastwood,” says Jean-Raymond, “But you never think about the actual real labor hands that the phrase ‘cowboy’ was created for.”

Indeed, the term “cowboy” has a derogatory etymology, buried away underneath its heavily whitened Americanization and turned into an emblem of exclusion. “Me and my friends were out one night… and this guy was wearing this full American flag tracksuit, and… we all felt super intimidated. We crossed the street and in the car we had a conversation on the ride back home about how we don’t feel American even though we were all born here,” Jean-Raymond explains. “I wanted to essentially take the power back and flip it, and rewrite the narrative in a way that lets people know what our contributions to that subculture [are].”

Part of Pyer Moss’ purpose, (and of Jean-Raymond as an artist in general), is to re-contextualize history in order to create a modern culture. It’s no wonder that two seminal labels of the ’80s and ’90s, Cross Colours and Reebok, have enlisted him as the collaborator to bring a new and fresh spirit into their brands. The fact that his first sneaker for Reebok sold out in five minutes after dropping online and in select retailers is a clear indicator of his charge in contemporary culture. But even with an opportunity to access more resources and larger distribution, Jean-Raymond’s main intention is to educate and inspire conversations about sociopolitical issues. The shoe in question, the DMX Fusion 1 Experiment, might be a cool piece and the next sneaker to top cop charts, but it has unlikely inspiration: aid airdrop containers. “We were looking at how food and other aid is delivered to countries like the Congo, and how they airdrop them from these helicopters from like 10,000 feet above, and all of the straps that are around them.”

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It’s the intention behind everything he works on that has made the New York native a sought-after artist, putting precise and thoughtful care not only behind what he is creating, but where it will end up. Past projects have seen him take on mental health and corporate greed (both for past Pyer Moss collections), as well as climate change with a project for the Museum of Modern Art, and LGBTQ youth homelessness with the Ali Forney Center (an upcoming collaborative collection will drop exclusively through Ssense). And while this may seem like the new normal—part of the “wokeness” wave of the past few years—Jean-Raymond has been doing it since 2013, long before it was widely accepted, let alone cool. So what has that journey been like?

“We definitely were ostracized and ridiculed [at first], but I think what I wanted is happening—for more people to take a stand and more people to get involved. I don’t know for sure that it’s been done in the most tasteful way for a lot of brands; I feel like a lot of people are doing it and they’re getting rich off of it, and that… doesn’t sit well with me.” This distinction is essential when talking about his projects—it’s not about putting out messages for marketing, fame, or likes, it’s about bringing up uncomfortable topics such as equal pay and #MeToo (both of which he mentions) to find resolutions and bring about change. It’s clear why pocketable activism bothers him so much. “I don’t know how much of it is altruistic, how many of these companies are actually taking their resources as they’re making money off of this thing, and then reinvesting it back into their communities. It can get very perverse.”

With such a prolific and high-thinking career, it’s hard to imagine Jean-Raymond taking some time off. “I’m working on that,” he laughs. But there’s a long road ahead for the creator; these divisive times making it evident that people like him are necessary to create a fair, free, and sustainable future. One of the aforementioned vignettes is paired with audio from a Nina Simone interview, during which she says freedom is just a feeling. “You know it when it happens,” she carries on to say. To Jean-Raymond, happiness is also feeling that echoes the legendary Simone’s words; “Freedom,” he says. “Freedom and no angst.”

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The Dancing Introvert: We Talk to Aaron Maine of Porches

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Images: A. P. Kim for ESSENTIAL HOMME.
Styling: Terry Lu.

Aaron Maine sits coiled on a couch, the bleached- blonde hair he sported on the cover of his third album as Porches, The House, now back to its natural brown. It’s a particularly cold day in New York, one that elicits the very kind of painting Maine’s lyrics draw.

“I think that I’ll stay inside / If you don’t think that they’d mind / I can’t let it find me,”

Maine sings on “Find Me,” his deep-throated crooning in perfect juxtaposition to the industrial- sounding electronica that solidifies The House’s first single as the new winter dance track. This contrast is, in fact, fitting of Maine himself—he is both quiet and commanding, dainty and rough, vulnerable and powerful. He is complex and honest, qualities that have made Porches such a successful and relatable project for Maine; often speaking bluntly about anxiety, depression, and solitude—issues he confronts when creating music. “The practice of writing and making work is like a therapy or a meditation to me, and that generates a lot of happiness, peace of mind, and self worth, so I think I rely on the physical practice of making work for the cathartic aspect,” he says, his red painted fingers gracefully playing with the chain-link bracelet hanging off his wrist. “It’s kind of like a journal entry that goes public, which is an interesting part of the process each time.”

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We talk about how he feels about his personal thoughts becoming public data. “It still surprises me—it’s so personal up until it comes out.” This is the transaction of art, making what’s inside of you shareable. Maine is privy to this, and has become more wary of what he says. “After the initial vomiting of the ideas I kind of imagine, you know, does anyone need to hear this? Do I want anyone to even think about this? Sometimes it feels good. Sometimes it feels like a massive exploitation of my personal life. It’s a tricky line. When you get yourself in a position that doesn’t feel very good there are ways to do it that still feel honest but also respectful of yourself and the people around you.”

And while Maine describes The House as “a bit more personal and for myself than it has been in the past,” it also includes some noteworthy collaborations, such as Dev Hynes, Alex G (whom Maine toured with and was inspired by during the creation of his newest album. “I really admired the disparity on his records, genre-wise, sound-wise, and production quality-wise.”), and his father, Peter Maine, who is also a musician. “It just felt really good to have his voice on [the record]. It’s almost like the narrator popping in. It felt important.”

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Maine first heard his dad’s song, “Understanding,” in Westchester, New York, where he grew up. Contrary to the resentment some people have towards the suburbs they grew up in, Maine still thinks of them fondly. “I really liked it,” he says. “I always liked silence and walking around.” We share a laugh over the irony that his love of silence has nestled him in the at-times deafening chaos of New York City, but I’m left with the impression that Maine can carry a sense of silence even in the busiest of environments. Home is important for him, I can tell that much, and when I ask him what the title, The House, means, he says, “The first thing I would think about when addressing my feelings was in relation to my house or my apartment. If I was far away I would think of when I was going to be there next. If I was home I would think about feeling stuck or feeling comfortable…I could look at my relationship to this steady thing and judge myself based on that. I like how The House leaves it up to the listener and even myself to decide. The relationship is always shifting.”

For someone as creative and as versatile as Maine (both his sound and his style have undergone various transformations throughout the years), the yearning for stability, silence, and home makes sense. He fiddles with the tops of his checkered Vans, eyes glazed with a daydream as he thinks about happiness. “I like to be working…even if I’m not creating good stuff. I just like doing it all of the time.” He pauses. “I like to have all of my relationships in a good place and feel like I’m being respectful and treating people well. I want to buy a house with my girlfriend; live in Scandinavia and dip into the cities when it’s time. Something like that I guess. I want to be a little isolated in a house. Quiet.” “Instead New York,” I joke. He smiles, “Instead New York.”

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