Correspondence No. 02 Stuart Trevor
Leather That Remembered the RainI don’t know if it was a jacket, a lyric, or a shadow I saw first. Maybe it was all three. Together.
The sharp line of a lapel, the echo of Bowie in a broken speaker, and something winged, black, circling above. A crow, perhaps. Or just the feeling of one.
And just like skeletons dressed for resurrection, I wanted to enter the rooms, not just walk in them with all the spirits and all saints. I felt tall, and strong with a tailoring that carried the scent of cigarettes, rain-soaked leather, and backstage stories no one asked to be told.
There was always something undone in the finish. Like a question you refused to hem.
You made coats for boys who couldn't cry, and shirts for girls who never whispered.
There was a utility to it all, but not the sterile kind. This was functional like a priest’s robe or a fighter’s wrap. The kind of design that remembers to exist.
I think of that worn Prada purse from ‘94 , the one that made me believe something beaten could still be beautiful. I think of DSquared²’s early chaos born the same day as your future did. Blessed irreverence stitched into military seams. You stood in that lineage, but quieter.
More smoke than spotlight.
James Bond in L.A., not the tuxedoed icon, but the version who smokes in silence and doesn’t look back. And then there was you, head tilted slightly toward the sky, walking down All Saints Road like the city belonged to your shadow.
Still Writing: This Time in Form
I wrote first in words.
How might you respond? not with sentences, but with silhouettes.
With coats that remember the rain, shirts as loud as rock & roll, utility rethreaded with ghosts.
With something that carries the scent of wet pavement, old soundchecks, and the quiet defiance of a collar left high.
This isn’t fashion. It’s another letter.
Unworn.
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