Wow — thank you for writing this. It’s strangely comforting to realise I’m not in this alone, and that in some way, I’m in it with you. I value what you do and what you publish — your work is the opposite of cringe, and it’s a genuine pleasure to read.
I come from a small town in western Poland — the kind of place where “cringe” isn’t a concept, it’s an instinct. Loud, blunt, unpolished. If you don’t fit the mould, someone will let you know before you’ve even crossed the street. I was always that kid: expressive, restless, never quite blending in. It shaped me — gave me thick skin early — but also taught me to self-edit before I even opened my mouth.
I chose a path that took me into art and fashion. I love my work — the projects, the collaborations, the way it allows me to build things that didn’t exist before. I love what it demands from me creatively, and the fact that I can make a living in this space. But the industry itself? That’s another story.
Warsaw — my “capital city” phase — is a different arena entirely. Grey, self-conscious, pretending to be liberal while quietly hoarding its insecurities. In the art/fashion bubble here, “cringe” doesn’t shout. It wears Margiela loafers and speaks in half-smiles. It arrives as a glance, a pause too long, a compliment that’s also a cut. It’s comparison as currency, elegant undermining as entertainment, micro-dramas dressed as critical discourse. In a small town, at least you know when you’re being mocked. Here, it’s moisturised and served on ice.
I’m not fully free of it — but I’m close enough to test my own limits. Last week I bought a Homme Plissé jumpsuit. Let it hang in my room for days, like it needed to acclimatise before going outside. I still think it’s a little cringe. Also cute. And I look dangerous in it. Ten years ago, I would’ve sent it straight back. Now, I wear it anyway — because sometimes that’s the whole point.
You reminded me that these small acts — posting the thing, wearing the thing, ignoring the pause — aren’t trivial. In an industry like ours, they’re how you claim your own space. And maybe, if enough of us do it, the air shifts. :)
Btw I’m rocking the same Yoko Sakamoto work shirt you mentioned on IG — mine’s in kakishibu dye, not that perfect blue one you have (which I’d kill for, but couldn’t find in an L anywhere in Europe) — and, just like yours, it comes with a matching couture accident stain, courtesy of the fat sauce from my falafel ❤️
Wow — thank you for writing this. It’s strangely comforting to realise I’m not in this alone, and that in some way, I’m in it with you. I value what you do and what you publish — your work is the opposite of cringe, and it’s a genuine pleasure to read.
I come from a small town in western Poland — the kind of place where “cringe” isn’t a concept, it’s an instinct. Loud, blunt, unpolished. If you don’t fit the mould, someone will let you know before you’ve even crossed the street. I was always that kid: expressive, restless, never quite blending in. It shaped me — gave me thick skin early — but also taught me to self-edit before I even opened my mouth.
I chose a path that took me into art and fashion. I love my work — the projects, the collaborations, the way it allows me to build things that didn’t exist before. I love what it demands from me creatively, and the fact that I can make a living in this space. But the industry itself? That’s another story.
Warsaw — my “capital city” phase — is a different arena entirely. Grey, self-conscious, pretending to be liberal while quietly hoarding its insecurities. In the art/fashion bubble here, “cringe” doesn’t shout. It wears Margiela loafers and speaks in half-smiles. It arrives as a glance, a pause too long, a compliment that’s also a cut. It’s comparison as currency, elegant undermining as entertainment, micro-dramas dressed as critical discourse. In a small town, at least you know when you’re being mocked. Here, it’s moisturised and served on ice.
I’m not fully free of it — but I’m close enough to test my own limits. Last week I bought a Homme Plissé jumpsuit. Let it hang in my room for days, like it needed to acclimatise before going outside. I still think it’s a little cringe. Also cute. And I look dangerous in it. Ten years ago, I would’ve sent it straight back. Now, I wear it anyway — because sometimes that’s the whole point.
You reminded me that these small acts — posting the thing, wearing the thing, ignoring the pause — aren’t trivial. In an industry like ours, they’re how you claim your own space. And maybe, if enough of us do it, the air shifts. :)
Btw I’m rocking the same Yoko Sakamoto work shirt you mentioned on IG — mine’s in kakishibu dye, not that perfect blue one you have (which I’d kill for, but couldn’t find in an L anywhere in Europe) — and, just like yours, it comes with a matching couture accident stain, courtesy of the fat sauce from my falafel ❤️
ayo i’m growing my bangs out right now so i can become a rockabilly pass the rogane
I’m gonna do the same ??????? Rockabilly culture 2026
Allergic to haterade
that’s the motto 2025 and onward