Download There I Go By Gucci
Fajar Roux
Guccio's wife and children all worked in the shop. Aldo, the son of Guccio, became increasingly involved in the family company since he started working there in 1925. He convinced his father to grow by opening a new shop in Rome (21 Via Condotti) in 1938, and launched more Gucci accessories (gloves, belts, wallets, keychains). During World War II, the artisans of Gucci worked on making boots for the Italian infantry.[11][10]
On January 28, 2023, it was announced that Sabato de Sarno would be Gucci's new creative director.[68] De Sarno previously worked for Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Valentino.[69] His debut collection was received to mixed reviews. Some outlets praised the clean, minimal and commercial looks De Sarno showed.[70] Others however characterized the collection as lacking the eccentric vivacity of Michele's work for the brand yet not proposing a coherent new point of view. Tim Blanks for Business of Fashion wrote "there was nothing new about it" while noting that the stakes were significantly higher for De Sarno's debut compared to that of Michele, when the business of Gucci was less prosperous.[71]
I have an addiction. It isn't drugs or gambling: I get to keep what I use after I use it. But there are similarities: the futile feeding of the bottomless beast and the unavoidable psychological implications, the immediate hit of the new that feels like an orgasm and the inevitable coming-down.
As any addict knows, impulsivity is the meal ticket of addiction. The more you do it, the more you do it. Mine coincided with the boom in online purchasing and increasingly sophisticated websites. Up until 2010 or thereabouts, there was a leather jacket here and a pair of leather pants there, a modest collection worn sporadically. My everyday style was basically the same as it had been growing up, khakis from J.Crew and blazers and shirts from Brooks Brothers and Hickey Freeman and Jos. A. Bank. There was a phase in my life in the mid-1980s, after a year at Harvard on a journalism fellowship, that I took to wearing bow ties. They perfectly suited me at the time for the way I felt, scholarly and cerebral. Despite obvious longing, I did not buy my first leather jacket until the mid-1990s when I was 40.
If there was a precipitating event for drastic change, it took place in the late summer and fall of 2009 with the departure of two of the most precious people in my life. My wife, Lisa, left to take a job as an administrator at New York University Abu Dhabi. My youngest son went off to Kenyon. I no longer felt like much of a husband; the 7,000-mile distance from Philadelphia to the United Arab Emirates hardly lent itself to weekend pop-ins. I also lost the one element of my life that had always sustained me and been constant, the raising of my three children. I felt alone. I was alone. Life with anchors keeps you moored. Life without anchors keeps you adrift, which eventually leads to some kind of trouble. Add in a life of extreme repression, and explosion is inevitable. Or maybe it's implosion.
I began to buy, as silly an understatement as somebody drinking a quart of vodka a day and insisting that he or she is not an alcoholic. Clothing became my shot glass, another round, Net-a-Porter. But too often hits wear off, and the laws of supply and demand for an addict are pretty simple: You replenish. And replenish. And replenish. You fool yourself at certain times into thinking that's it and you have quenched the beast. But the beast is never conquered, and you don't really want to conquer the beast anyway, until there is disaster. I wasn't mainlining heroin, just impossibly gorgeous leather jackets and coats and boots and gloves and evening jackets. I wasn't harming myself or anyone else. I was spending enormous amounts of money, but because I make a good living and received a generous inheritance from my parents, there was no threat of going broke. My wife and children never lacked for anything. Plus, I was a person of enormous willpower, and over and over I told myself that I could stop anytime I wanted.
Lisa in general liked the rocker look. But there were times I was too outrageous for her taste, and she began to feel like she was living with a hoarder. The kids liked the flair, maybe, but there were times they seemed embarrassed, or simply stunned. My friends, particularly those from Philadelphia, were appalled and confused and amused. With the exception of Lisa, nobody had any real idea of the extent of my addiction.
I remained steadfast in my Brooks Brothers uniform, except for the time my father took me to a wholesale-clothing store. There was good quality at good prices, probably because there was no hint of ambience, just racks of clothes where size was a game of chance. But I felt like I was in a New Orleans whorehouse, colors and bright checks serving as my hookers. My dad bought me a sculpted jacket with an intricate pattern of orange and black, and a pair of pants in the same colors that fit tight.
In Milan I realize that my penchant for high fashion, leathered out in tight pants and jacket and gloves and tough-assed black boots with thick three-inch metal heels from New Rock in Spain, is a way of making up for lost time, sadly so much of it. My idol when I was growing up was Jim Morrison, not just because I so thoroughly enjoyed the nihilism of the lyrics, but the look, the black leather pants that clung to him like second skin and apparently did because he wore them for weeks at a time.
I began to wonder about sex and sexuality and where exactly I fit in in the complex spectrum. I did go into the sexual unknown, and the clothing I began to wear routinely gave me the confidence to do it, to transcend the rigid definitions of sexuality and gender, just as I also know there were the requisite stereotypical snickers.
Was I homosexual because so much of what I wore is associated with gays? I did experiment. And while I don't think it is my sexual being, I can tell you that gay men as a group are nicer, smarter, have a shitload more fun than straight whites. Was I veering toward becoming a dominant leather master in the S&M scene, the leather fetish an obvious influence in most of the clothing I purchased and in much of high fashion itself? I did experiment. Was I a closeted or maybe not so closeted transvestite? Tom Ford makeup is divine; the right foundation and cheek blush and eyeliner and lipstick can do wonders for the pallid complexion. Thigh-high boots add to any wardrobe, although walking on six-inch stilettos for hours is just a bitch and therefore confined to the privacy of my house, seen only by the UPS man, who at this point could not possibly be surprised by anything. But a dress or skirt just doesn't look good on me, and I can't ever do a thing with my hair. The look I was going for was more David Bowie androgynous. It wasn't successful.
Still, there has been progress. The thrill of what I own lasts more than a single fitting. I turn out every day in the rocker look that has become totally comfortable. During the Gucci trip a fellow invitee said I looked like "Bon Jovi," a compliment that at this point in my life means more to me than any piece of writing. Both my wife and my therapist have refused to let me pass the beast off any longer as some temporary compulsion. I have agreed to go to meetings for sex addiction, since clothing and sex for me have become one. But I am only going to stem the addiction, not change the way clothing makes me feel depending on how I want to feel on any particular day. I am sometimes afraid, the beast nowhere near bottomed out, wetting its beckoning lips, knowing me better than I know myself.
Team Gucci all went out together the final night of the trip. We started drinking at the Four Seasons bar. We made a dinner reservation for 9 p.m. We drank some more. We got there at eleven and drank some more. We decided to go to a dance club called Yab. I hadn't been to a dance club in thirty years. But I was revved up and decided to stay up all night, since the ride to the airport was at 5 a.m. I haven't stayed up all night partying in thirty-five years.
I've recently purchased a brand new Gucci silk scarf that the seller describes as made in Italy and authentic. Upon arrival, I examined the scarf carefully and I realized there is no label saying "Made in Italy" (as it's clearly indicated in the listing) but a simple "100% silk" and wash symbols. The scarf was supposed to come in a Gucci paper bag but I never saw it. It came in a rather cheap looking plastic bag with a partially torn label stuck to it ( I noticed this before purchasing it but I stupidly thought the identification code (which the Gucci people I called told me every Gucci item must have in order to be original) was on the back of the white tag (which is shown only on one side in the photo in the listing). No identification code exists, and no "Made in Italy" label.
This is the first time I have to send an item back internationally because it wasn't as described: the seller insisted the scarf was original and made in Italy, but how is it possible if there is no label saying that and no identification number on it whatsoever?
the Made in Italy label is on scarves sold here as well as abroad. I have posted a pic of the back of the label and the tag. My feeling about it is not good, as I have called the Gucci shop in Rome who, in spite of not being able to disclose too much info, said the serial number and the country of origin label are important. It is true that even a perfectly authentic looking scarf can be a perfect fake, but the seller shoudn't have stated that it is made in Italy, since there is no proof of it.
These sandals have been my go-to option for years and years now. Believe it or not, they have actually been around for 25 years, and tons of brands have made dupes of the famous sandals. But in my opinion, there is nothing that compares to the real deal.
A group of at least nine men could be seen sprinting out of the store around 3:10 p.m. Monday in video posted to Twitter. The LAPD confirmed that there was a robbery at a store at Westfield Century City mall. It was not immediately clear if the men were armed or if anyone was injured.
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