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03/31/2020
Palonera
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Palonera
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"This is you!"
He was regarded as the enfant terrible of Italian haute couture and shared this title for years with the Frenchman Jean Paul Gaultier - Franco Moschino, exceptional talent and revolutionary, self-ironic "court jester" and ambassador at the same time, who with his extraordinary, provocative yet always wearable creations defied the establishment.
Moschino, who had learned and worked for Versace, resisted following the laws of the fashion industry throughout his short life - he accused it of decadence and grotesqueness, unconditional greed for profit and roped parties, and yet the more he scolded it, the more fervently he was loved, praised and roared with celebration.
And in rare sincerity deeply mourned when he, only 44 years old, died in September 1994 from the consequences of HIV infection.
Among those who mourned was I.
I had liked him, this wild boy, who could have been Freddy Mercury's sibling, so strikingly their resemblance seemed to me in some pictures.
I liked the casual non-seriousness of his clothes, the winking rascal grin, the denim jacket printed with peace symbols and hearts, for which I had to spend more money than I could actually afford.
I liked the belt with the golden letters, which bore his name, which a handful of friends had given me for my birthday and which still lies in my cupboard today, although it hasn't fitted me for a long time.
And what I liked best, what I liked most of all, was his fragrance, the first, the only one that was ever something like a signature, which I bought again and again over the years.
I was 19 when we met, "Moschino" and me.
It was the time in my life when almost everything was green-white-red, a coffee was only good if it was called espresso or cappuccino, the biscuits were called cantuccini, amarettini maybe still.
Pizza and pasta were staple foods, a fragrance per se noteworthy if it only came out of the boot.
My style icon was a head shorter, native Venetian with a penchant for high heels in which I could not even stand, let alone walk at her pace.
One day she brought him to Giuseppe's tiny trattoria, where we often met, put him on the table in front of me and said: "That's you!"
And she seemed to be right about that.
Never before and seldom afterwards was I so often spoken to about a fragrance, I was associated with it as much as on the countless days I wore "Moschino" afterwards.
"When I reached my desk after a thirty-minute walk in the morning, dishevelled by the wind and coiffed by the weather, I was told two open office doors away.
"Moschino" was, although not a sledgehammer, powerful and durable, it remained from early morning until late at night.
He wrapped me in warm glow, in old dark gold, in velvet, brocade and terracotta.
He straightened my back and shoulders, set my feet firmly on any surface.
A fragrance like a palazzo, timeless, noble, of morbid elegance - crumbling frescoes, flaking plaster, an old Michelangelo on the ceiling.
"Moschino" snuggles up, but doesn't cuddle, doesn't cuddle - the warmth it radiates is never deceptive about corners, points, edges, about resistance and obstinacy.
It bears the signature of its creator, its namesake - despite all the owlish mirroring and all the capers, Franco Moschino always placed great value on true value, not only the monetary value, be it in his clothes or in this fragrance.
And perhaps now, a good three decades later, it is time for flacon number six.
Moschino, who had learned and worked for Versace, resisted following the laws of the fashion industry throughout his short life - he accused it of decadence and grotesqueness, unconditional greed for profit and roped parties, and yet the more he scolded it, the more fervently he was loved, praised and roared with celebration.
And in rare sincerity deeply mourned when he, only 44 years old, died in September 1994 from the consequences of HIV infection.
Among those who mourned was I.
I had liked him, this wild boy, who could have been Freddy Mercury's sibling, so strikingly their resemblance seemed to me in some pictures.
I liked the casual non-seriousness of his clothes, the winking rascal grin, the denim jacket printed with peace symbols and hearts, for which I had to spend more money than I could actually afford.
I liked the belt with the golden letters, which bore his name, which a handful of friends had given me for my birthday and which still lies in my cupboard today, although it hasn't fitted me for a long time.
And what I liked best, what I liked most of all, was his fragrance, the first, the only one that was ever something like a signature, which I bought again and again over the years.
I was 19 when we met, "Moschino" and me.
It was the time in my life when almost everything was green-white-red, a coffee was only good if it was called espresso or cappuccino, the biscuits were called cantuccini, amarettini maybe still.
Pizza and pasta were staple foods, a fragrance per se noteworthy if it only came out of the boot.
My style icon was a head shorter, native Venetian with a penchant for high heels in which I could not even stand, let alone walk at her pace.
One day she brought him to Giuseppe's tiny trattoria, where we often met, put him on the table in front of me and said: "That's you!"
And she seemed to be right about that.
Never before and seldom afterwards was I so often spoken to about a fragrance, I was associated with it as much as on the countless days I wore "Moschino" afterwards.
"When I reached my desk after a thirty-minute walk in the morning, dishevelled by the wind and coiffed by the weather, I was told two open office doors away.
"Moschino" was, although not a sledgehammer, powerful and durable, it remained from early morning until late at night.
He wrapped me in warm glow, in old dark gold, in velvet, brocade and terracotta.
He straightened my back and shoulders, set my feet firmly on any surface.
A fragrance like a palazzo, timeless, noble, of morbid elegance - crumbling frescoes, flaking plaster, an old Michelangelo on the ceiling.
"Moschino" snuggles up, but doesn't cuddle, doesn't cuddle - the warmth it radiates is never deceptive about corners, points, edges, about resistance and obstinacy.
It bears the signature of its creator, its namesake - despite all the owlish mirroring and all the capers, Franco Moschino always placed great value on true value, not only the monetary value, be it in his clothes or in this fragrance.
And perhaps now, a good three decades later, it is time for flacon number six.
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