Advertising director and photographer whose stories explore the intersection between memory, transience and the beauty of the everyday. Author of the photo book, Debut and farewellpublished in 2024 by @ParipeBooks, pUS commercials circulate at festivals such as Cannes Lions. From Mexico, the city where he settled, he shares with Sucesos de Moda a selection of iconic garments that accompany or enrich his travels.
“This year I traveled a lot, a little for work, a little for pleasure. And as is often the case, it ended up being a mixture of both. Every trip involves a silent battle with your suitcase. On the one hand, you convince yourself that you can reduce your life to the unjustified and always insufficient 23 kilos. But upon return, the same baggage begins to expand and rebel. And there’s one, between the corridors of The Lagunilla On a Sunday, pretend that everything will fit back in, that there is no excess weight, that somehow everything will fit in your hand luggage. We deceive ourselves with ridiculous strategies: “I’ll put this on myself,” “I’ll carry it in my hand,” “This thing probably doesn’t weigh much,” until at the end of the trip it becomes a game of Tetris where, of course, you never win. (Has anyone ever won at Tetris? I’m serious.)
The clothing I chose for this tour belongs to two worlds that overlap: On the one hand, those that always win the battle for space in the suitcase. On the other hand, Lasque, like someone who doesn’t want to, added up on the side. In this case, in Mexico, where I am now.
A raw shirt Comme des Garçons, Vintage, from the 90s. The pointed collar is a bit of a rarity, a piece that can be easily moved between different situations. It’s one of those shirts that, for some reason, makes you feel confident and “well-dressed” (whatever that means). I think we should all have a piece of clothing like this, one that protects us from the unpredictable. The jeans are Arthur Firemy friend Juan’s Argentinian brand. I’ve had them for years and they’re on the verge of falling apart. But every tear, every loose thread is a testament to use, to the amount of time I’ve worn them.
I bought the bear and pearl necklace at the Insurgentes subway station from a Generation Z. I bought it like someone trying to grab something new, feeling partially alienated, but trying to use the thirty-eight million in mine Not to reveal ID. leave behind
Boots, perhaps bordering on cultural appropriation, have the power to make me feel four inches taller. Every time I use it, the “tac-tac” of the wooden sole on the floor is a small drama that accompanies my steps, a personal soundtrack.
The glasses are part of Alessandro Michele’s first collections for Gucci. There is something of an eternal twilight about amber glass, and it became my favorite way to avoid absolute black. I haven’t worn black sunglasses in years.
I bought the cases on a trip to Bangkok, from a small street stall that unusually “only sold cases” (there’s a market for everything). I regret not buying more. They’re one of those things that don’t take up space, that get camouflaged among the tights in the drawer and are forgotten until they show up at just the right moment and add that certain something to any look. A minimal detail that makes me feel more prepared for the rave.
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“Finally the belt. This piece of leather that seems to separate me between what I was and what I am. “A piece of my country and another of my new home”
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