Omari Douglin boutique O

When I close my eyes I imagine in a vast and infinite field of the color black. A color I see as a representation of my authentic self, the color of an elegant and tasteful sensibility, timeless and classic. It can be a mystery, or it can be very straightforward in its reply of rebellion. When I open my eyes I can’t seem to get away from the white cube. Whenever there’s an idea, it gets spot lit like an actor in a play in my mind. A lot of ideas don’t really come with instructions but I try to pull them out and then push them back in.

Each booth is a thought bubble with clothing items used as notes on desire. There is sophistication around elegant curated movement of expression, ricocheting off the idea of constructing a look throughout the show. Or more specifically, a type. Styling is the catalyst for harmony between the clothing and figures, women and the nature of their individual character. Color and form alter the body, like building up a painting or assembling a sculpture, so that she too is a total work of art. Here, fashion and art become shamelessly synonymous, not just supplying goods and services, but introducing art as an experience with self.

The mannequin and its semblance of human presence, the idealized, aesthetic or otherwise, poses questions around the site of desire, our implication as viewers and the psychological relationship therein. As an object resembling the human form, the mannequin has an intelligence that reflects and represents basic qualities in human behavior. A reflection on our addiction to consumerism and obsession with capitalism is essential. The only way to even bend out of this condition is to try it on for size, hurry up and buy.

When I close my eyes again there is clearly something eternal about the color black. Existing without a real beginning or end, it’s sort of a comfort zone for my imagination to conjure. Created through absorbing all colors, it can be paired with any color. It’s the absence of color and light but it’s my light. How does one push the boundaries of black bodies, black figuration, black expression and black imagination?

This time a woman’s hands conducts an orchestra in my head. Shrouded but perceptible, she emerges through the veil.