Theme: GENERAL DIRECTION

10.04.2021

At the moment I’m not sure where I’m going with this.

In fact, with anything to be precise.

It’s 3.36am and I’m lying in my bed with the ceiling fan whispering.

I’ve been in Ghana almost a month now. When I had the overwhelming urge to make the jump to Africa to connect with my family here, my direction was so precise.

So clear the vision.

The vision of the jump.

Nothing beyond that actually.

And now I’m here.

The free fall was not a crash, that can be established.

It was warm big brown arms and smiles instead.

‘This is your home’ I am being assured.

I am literally 9 years old again.

A strange adult_kid hybrid at my dad’s house.

And it feels good.

And from this space of safety, I am venturing out.

Direction?

Any.

On a daily basis I am navigating and exploring.

Taking everything in, trying to stay away from overthinking or discriminating.

And it’s a lot.

To take in.

I am building my own world around my perceptions.

My own parameters.

One direction which seem to be crystallising is fashion.

Omg, the fashion!!!

Coming from a monochrome life in Amsterdam, colour is being set free in my mind.

Everything in my living space used to be off-white.

And mirrors.

If there was any bright colour, like a plastic bag or an ornament, I had to remove it because my eye would travel to it constantly piercing my mind and bugging me.

A sore spot.

Most of my clothes used to be grey and while and black and denim.

Utilitarian.

I loved it.

Sure, my UK wardrobe years ago was somewhat eccentric at times because of all the charity shops I perused and all the rather lush parties and creative folks in my circle of friends.

An era of fashion.

Which I feel is coming back.

Because I’m being bombarded with it.

I could sit all day at the fish market and watch.

Crustacean-selling women wearing the coolest outfits.

By default.

A Stylist’s dream.

They care about their outfits but also cannot be precious about it.

When sitting on a low stool in dark mud, descaling fish.

There is a pragmatism too.

Printed t-shirts.

Company promotional ones with random logos.

Ariel.

Grass green.

I want it.

Worn cotton pinafores with zipped pockets at the front to carry daily earnings.

Layers.

All heavily worn.

Hips wrapped in busy African print cloths.

Head scarves in the same, however, completely opposite colour and pattern.

Which geniusly works.

My mind naturally dwells in symmetry.

I colour match things.

Well.

Even my shopping.

I would choose the same product but a different packaging if it didn’t match the rest of the content in my basket.

Without thinking.

Basket case.

Here, in Africa, I am aesthetically challenged.

All my colour boundaries and perception pushed.

It’s exhilarating.

I am not disturbed.

Quite the opposite.

I cannot get enough.

I love it all.

Textures. Colours. Quality of fabric.

The more worn the better.

Fashion working hard.

Fabric on the hustle.

Fighting the red dust and traffic on the roads.

Wrapping and holding and protecting.

Cloaking stealth food stains.

Not prissying around in wardrobes.

Life cloths.

And I’m obsessed.

Found a beautiful piece of cloth on my step-moms ironing board in the perfect shade of lime and yellow with the sweetest pattern.

The cotton is so soft.

I ask her if I can have it.

She raises her black eyebrows.

It’s old and got two holes and a massive tear, why on Earth …?

(She would say WTF if there was no hell)

But the qualityyyyyy, I reply.

Of worn things.

Pre-loved.

Heavily appreciated.

That’s what I’m after.

Always have been.

We drive in the car past someone’s washing line, and a cloth with a specific print catches my eye and I literally want to jump out and take it.

And leave money.

Certain prints here don’t just catch my eye, they hold it hostage.

When I go to a market, there are thousands of different patterns to choose from in shops.

Not two the same.

But a lot of them i appreciate but not keen on.

Am I still too structured?

A guy on a motorcycle and a pile of clothes got flagged down by mom yesterday and she told me to choose some fabrics.

Oh, by the way, this is how it works.

There are traders who walk or ride the residential areas all day long.

With produce.

It’s called hawking.

From washing (clothes) soap to dried fish to face masks to avocados and peanuts.

It’s cheaper and more convenient than to face the hassle of the market for one thing.

You simply flag them down and you buy.

Wait on the porch

So fabric guy came to the house and I started choosing.

It was so hard.

I tried not to discriminate the colours and the patterns.

Tried to match like a fish wife but my tidy brain got exhausted.

All fabrics are so wildly different and didn’t quite match the way I wanted them to.

In order to get that Aaahhhhhh feeling.

That drop in my shoulders.

When the sun comes up.

And I felt pressured.

Both him and my step mom wanted me to make a purchase.

I believe I chose wisely but I need to start being more selective.

At the moment I’m like a child in a fucking candy store after having never tasted sweets so I’m overwhelmed and greedy.

I need to learn to walk away.

But it’s so much fun.

Stuffing my face.

No regrets.

Because no matter which fabric I choose, I’m on the right track.

In the direction of fashion.

There was this girl in the market the other day.

I reckon about 8 years old.

On her cropped hair she wore a tilted 80s white-ish baseball cap with some print on it, a dirty white-ish little dress with puff sleeves, a Peter Pan collar and gaping broken zip in the back and old ladies 70s cream patent leather low heels which were slightly too big.

It looked awesome.

Gucci AntiCouture.

And the way she walked.

Totally aware of her fabulousness.

Effortlessly stylish.

Within the means which were available to her.

Maxing her (desperately) limited resources.

Being a style icon.

This is a quality I seek.

I hunt for.

The core of fashion.

Beyond labels and brands.

Fashion in essence.

I can’t wait to do photoshoots again.

That’s the plan.

The only way for me to get around when not owning a car is taxis.

However, addresses are a bit of an urban myth.

Businesses have addresses.

Mortals don’t.

So basically, when I have to take a cab from a friend’s brilliant Afro Bar called “The Tribe” to my house at the end of the night, I have to instruct the driver to go into the general direction of Tano Krom.

At the big junction with the gargantuan pothole in the middle including a large protruding stick, so drivers and cars don’t fall into it, we turn left and after 100m left again at the big mango tree.

General but specific.

My address is Billy Street.

But the cabbie wouldn’t know.

He also is a only mortal.