Let's take an intimate look at the brutalist bunker/palace/studio of the lord of darkness and sophistication: Rick Owens. Domesticity at its finest. I have to admit that I have a mild-to-severe obsession for anything Rick Owens does. The furniture, the fur, the shows, the lifestyle, the opulence, the attitude.
If this were the 70s, we’d be watching people doing that. And we’d be doing coke and I’d be an incredibly glamorous fashion designer. Instead this is… domesticity with dogs fucking. - Rick Owens
After reading this fantastic and quite hilarious interview of Rick Owens by Jo-Ann Furniss for Another Mag, let's just take a moment to appreciate the beauty and elegance of his parisian home/office.
Homosexual dogs fucking at any given time, a few black mice, a bengal cat, a black bird nesting and a few beehives on the rooftop. A modern bunker-farm in the middle of the 7th arrondissement in Paris.
Rick Owens is the embodiement of a 21st Century couturier, in its pure, decadent tradition à la Charles Frederick Worth, Paul Poiret or Jacques Doucet. He presides over a court of creative minds and performers, has a palatial home, lives with a charismatic muse (the bewitching Michelle Lamy) and has a vision who encompass a whole lifestyle, making everything around him a little more elevated while celebrating the eccentric, the polished imperfection, the rawness, the anti-conformism in a very contrive and bourgeois industry.
It is peculiar how Rick Owens managed to be so successful, with such a define and restrain aesthetic. There is something reassuring in his world. Seasons after seasons. Something odd and familiar at the same time. A longing to be kinder, to be nobler, to live better.