Put it on in a vintage car with soft rain outside, and even a happy relationship somehow resonates with the melancholy of it. Let alone one that has directly suffered from the thing called love.

Lately I have put myself — through direct experience, and through a good deal of introspection and research — into the question of what has actually happened to modern love. Not just dating. The meaning of the word overall.

Because if economic dependence has largely been erased from the list of reasons one must find a partner to provide for them; if there is a subversion of masculine and feminine energy disrupting the traditional roles; and if we now have extreme exposure to romantic possibility through nothing more than scrolling and swiping — then what does the word love actually mean anymore?

Which led me to a friend whose character I respected, and was intrigued by, from our first few encounters.

Pim — Jindaporn Jayangkura — is a content creator working with a discerning lifestyle brand alongside her husband, Arm Korakot Unphanit, who is the reason I met her in the first place. The story of these two caught my attention. They met at a media publishing company, and though they were working for different publications, fate — if I may say it — brought the two writers together.

Before that, Pim wrote for Cleo: a women’s lifestyle publication with a large part of it devoted to relationships between people.

So with all the questions I have accumulated — all the burning curiosity about everything that seems absurd in the realm of love, modernity, and the relationships between people — I believed a conversation with her would reveal something I had overlooked. Or give me a perspective I had not yet considered.

Subscribe now

Patrick:

At this point in your life, what do you think love is?

Pim:

It’s a feeling — a positive feeling we have toward another person. I don’t see love as something that exists only between a man and a woman, or only in romance. Love is almost like matter that can change form and seep into everything. Sometimes you can feel love toward someone you don’t even know, without wanting anything in return.

Romantic love becomes more complicated because passion and other feelings get mixed into it. I’ve never felt a strong need to define it precisely. People understand the feeling in their own way. But we often mix love with other things — with possession — and that’s normal too. It rarely exists in a perfectly isolated form.

Patrick:

Do you believe in the idea of the one — a single person who is your only true life partner?

Pim:

I once read Only Love Is Real by Brian Weiss. The idea, as I remember it, is that a therapist works with two people through past-life regression and discovers that their paths seem to connect across lives. They may not always be lovers; they could have been parent and child, or had some other relationship. It raises the idea that perhaps there is someone we keep meeting.

But personally, I don’t take the idea of one lifelong one very seriously. Maybe some people meet a person and stay with them for their entire life — their first and last love. For me, if there is such a thing, that person might be the one for a particular period of your life. The person who is right for you at twenty might not be the same person who is right for you at thirty.

What matters to me is commitment within that period. I don’t mean having two people at the same time and saying you can’t choose. I mean that for that chapter, you are the one for each other. I don’t need the concept to be bigger than that.

Why make life harder by insisting there must be one perfectly correct person for all time?

Patrick:

Timing feels like one of the most painful factors, because it matters so much and we cannot control it. Many of the women I have seriously liked have already been in a relationship. How do you see the relationship between love and timing?

Pim:

Timing matters in everything, not only relationships. If my husband and I had met five years earlier, we might not have had this kind of relationship. It might not have lasted this long. We might not even have liked each other. Things have their own fit and their own timing. We don’t always need to understand why. Sometimes the answer is simply: right now, it isn’t right.

When you’re young it’s easy to think — it has to be this person, and if not, who will I ever meet? But life is long. You don’t know who you’ll meet later. Maybe one day you’ll meet someone you like even more, and that person will fit the kind of relationship you’ve been waiting for.

I also think most people get stuck in some kind of relationship pattern for a while. In your case, maybe the women you’re drawn to share certain characteristics. Did you know they had partners before you liked them, or did you find out afterward?

There may be some common trait or factor that attracts you. If you can identify and interrupt that pattern, maybe you get out of the loop. I can’t tell you what the pattern is — that might take someone trained to explore it, or you might simply learn your way out of it over time. I had my own loop and eventually came out of it without realising. Again, it came back to seeing how I myself had changed.

Patrick:

I actually tried breaking down my own cases, and even used AI to look for common traits. The pattern it gave me was something like: urban, intellectual yet also socially connected, exposed to many people, broadly attractive, high self-awareness.

And then I thought — if that’s the type I’m drawn to, what are the odds they’ll be single, or overlooked? At my age, many people with those qualities are already in stable relationships. That’s why timing feels so frustrating. It’s outside my control.

Pim: But the timing isn’t right doesn’t mean you surrender. Not everyone you like will always have a partner. Someone might become single later — though by then you might not like them anymore. And you haven’t met everyone in the world.

You also don’t know what another couple’s relationship is really like. Some people look deeply in love from the outside when the relationship has already broken down. These things can’t always be judged by visible rules. A lot of it is emotional, and takes time to understand.

Patrick:

Why do people feel lonely in huge cities like Bangkok, New York, or Tokyo, where they are surrounded by people all the time?

Pim:

I’ll answer this as my own opinion, not as an expert. I don’t think loneliness is automatically dangerous. It happens. It looks especially strange in a busy city because there are people everywhere, so you think you shouldn’t be lonely. If you were alone in rural Scandinavia with a cow, people would think loneliness made sense. In a city, the contrast is more visible.

I think loneliness can even have a healthy side. Society trains us to connect constantly — to connect with the world, share things, go live, meet people, do activities. When we are trained to have connection all the time, we can forget how to be alone. Then the moment we are alone, we think: I’m lonely. Maybe we have forgotten how to spend time with ourselves.

I talk a lot about checking in with yourself, because today’s version of you and tomorrow’s version are already slightly different. In my thirties I became much more aware that I need to keep updating my understanding of myself. What do I think now? How do I feel about this now? I’m not the same person I was at twenty, or even five months ago. We change constantly, and sometimes I surprise myself by discovering I now feel differently about something.

I personally don’t get lonely very often. I need a lot of private time. I can love being with my husband and still be happy when we’re apart, because I get time for myself. Loneliness isn’t necessarily bad if you know how to be lonely — if you can sit with it rather than immediately treating it as an emergency.

Patrick:

For me, working for myself, the downside is that I can go an entire day without seeing anyone. I work, I finish in the evening, the sky gets dark, the room gets quiet — and I suddenly realise I haven’t really talked to or shared anything with anyone all day. A friend of mine works in an office and still experiences the same thing when he comes home. We may have plenty of followers and contacts, but we don’t necessarily call or message them.

Pim:

I experienced something similar when I became a freelancer. I came from the Cleo office, which was incredibly noisy and social. We shouted across the room, gossiped, joked, talked all day. When I started working from home, I missed having female coworkers to talk to. I felt lonely in that sense too.

But I was also an only child, and had always liked being alone in my room, in my own corner. So I gradually adjusted. Maybe having Arm, someone I can talk to about anything, helps. But I still think this kind of loneliness is normal. You feel lonely because you haven’t connected with anyone.

If the loneliness truly felt unbearable, maybe you would build a community, or join something. But sometimes we feel lonely and still remain with it, because we don’t actually want just any substitute. We may already have a specific picture in our heads — perhaps we think the only cure is a partner, not simply joining an activity.

I’ve tried joining clubs and it never really worked for me. I’m probably introverted, although I’m not someone who refuses to talk to people. I just don’t usually start. Being in organised social groups can feel psychologically exhausting. Even a book club sounds terrible to me: I like reading, but I don’t want to finish a book and then sit in a circle analysing it. I read it, I finish it, I move on. That taught me something about myself.

So maybe you sometimes enjoy part of your loneliness without realising it. You can be lonely without it destroying you. And everyone relieves it differently. For one person, chatting is enough. Another needs to meet face to face. Someone else may actually like the lonely feeling. There isn’t one method for everyone.

Patrick:

There’s a line in Green Book: “The world’s full of lonely people afraid to make the first move.” What do you think people are afraid of? Two lonely people might be sitting near each other, both wanting connection, and neither approaches.

Pim:

Maybe rejection. You might think — what if the other person doesn’t want to talk to me? Then you decide you shouldn’t bother them. But I also think it can simply become a habit. If you’ve been alone for a long time, you get used to not approaching people.

An extrovert can walk into a place, talk to people, make friends easily. An introvert often thinks through everything: What should I say? Is this topic okay? Can I share something personal yet?

Sometimes loneliness isn’t strong enough to beat anxiety, or the comfort of the safe zone. Loneliness itself can become a safe zone. You’re lonely, yes — but staying quiet feels safer than talking to someone and not knowing what will happen.

Patrick:

What should a single person do then, if timing is important and largely uncontrollable? Do you believe in actively searching for love, or in living your life well and letting it arrive when it arrives?

Pim:

I strongly believe in living your life. I say that because I spent so much of my own life chasing love. Then one day I stopped needing to chase it — not because I decided I never wanted love again, but because I realised I had other things to do. And that was around the time things changed.

But stopping the chase doesn’t mean love appears immediately. It has its own timing.

I believe that when you live your life instead of constantly hunting, you eventually meet what is genuinely yours. If you are always searching desperately, you may grab something that isn’t actually right for you. But I understand why not everyone can relax about it. A single friend can still ask every day: why am I still single? And I can’t answer that. Nobody can give a simple answer.

Patrick:

When you say chasing can feel like struggling too hard — does that include dating apps? Is being on one a form of desperation?

Pim:

No. I think whichever route you take, you’ll meet someone when you are meant to meet them.

Imagine two routes reaching the same destination at the same time. On one, you run the whole way and arrive exhausted. On the other, you sit in a car and do something else along the way. The destination might be the same, but your internal experience is completely different.

That’s the difference I care about. One person can be single and think: I’m okay, I can be alone, I even like being single. Another can think: I hate being single, am I the only single person left, is something wrong with me, am I strange? The behaviour can look similar. The feeling inside is different.

Dating apps are just tools. Instagram can function like a dating app too. Using one doesn’t automatically look desperate to me. Trying too hard is about your emotional state, not the behaviour itself.

Patrick:

I use the word elegant a lot. Is there such a thing as navigating love elegantly? What would it mean to approach it with grace?

Pim:

For me, searching for love elegantly isn’t about refusing to chase, or following some perfect rule. Whether you search actively, don’t search, or struggle a little — the most elegant thing is to be yourself.

Be yourself is difficult to define, but I think authenticity in love is the most graceful approach, because it means you value yourself.

Don’t try to become the person you think someone else will like. That is ultimately less important than whether you like yourself. Whether or not you have a partner, you are the person you have to live with for your whole life. If I had to live as someone I disliked, just because another person liked that version of me, I couldn’t accept it.

You are also the person who looks back at your own life. Other people aren’t sitting around thinking about what Patrick was like last year — but you may think about who you were yesterday, or ten years ago.

So showing your real self is one of the best things you can give yourself.

Every time I have a conversation with Pim, it provides a novel perspective while holding a similar tone. A little contrast. A worldview that contradicts my own, but stays open enough to provoke thought rather than close it down.

For this conversation — the longest we have had — it took a few days of reflection before a name arrived.

Archibald Alec Leach. Or, as you know him, Cary Grant.

The man from Bristol, whose whole life can be read as an act of becoming someone else. He changed his name. He tweaked his accent and his speech patterns. He engineered his body language. He described pretending to be the man he wanted to be until, as he put it, “he became me.” And he became one of the icons of elegance of the twentieth century.

At first, Pim’s conclusion on navigating love elegantly — to ‘be yourself’ — seems to contradict the entire existence of that man.

But consider that in his fifties, Grant spent years in psychiatric therapy — including roughly a hundred supervised LSD sessions — trying to find himself. And that in the realm of love, it took four divorces before he settled, finally, with Barbara Harris: the woman who stayed with him until the last moment.

The construction worked completely in every room but one.

So if you ask me what I now think about modern love — among all the contemporary conditions that have shifted so much in the last decade — the practical answer, while not romantic to hear, is this.

Accept what you can control, and what you cannot.

And embrace the feeling anyway. Whether it is love, passion, attraction, or whatever else gravitates you toward another human being.

For more of Pim’s work, and a worldview that extends well beyond relationships — she writes La Garçonne Diary, named for a French term once used of women who stepped outside the conventional. It is where she records what she notices in ordinary life.

Substack · Instagram

For me, it’s a conversational place, a space that serves drinks (ideally crafted ones; either cocktails, niche wine, or some IPA beer rarely found in department stores). To tender the heart and soul of visitors, whether they come in a group, as a couple, or alone. But it’s always a place for connection (or hopefully so).

Now, I would like you to imagine the scene of a Wednesday evening, past 9 o’clock, and what I saw was a different kind of people than I normally saw at the bar called ‘Mutual Bar’—by regular standards, it’s a cocktail and after-work hangout place for white-collar workers in the CBD area; but this time, it was quieter and contained an ‘intentive aura’ that went beyond drinking and talking endlessly about life.

A ‘Lecture Bar’ is a trend that came out of nowhere but surprised me plenty. The idea of turning bar into cultural symposiums, lectures, or discussions from artists, influencers, and KOLs from different industries and sectors, from finance, sociology, and psychology to pop culture.

The first time I heard about it 3 months ago, to be honest, I was skeptical. I thought it was just a trend, a ‘counterculture’ to previous decades of hedonism, just like the mass adoption of “Longevity” buzzwords, where everyone in Bangkok seems to wake up at 6 am and go to Benjakitti Park with a ‘run club’…and perhaps I still might be right, since it has been less than a year since dozens of ‘Lecture Bars’ across the city have occurred. Only time will tell, but the more interesting thing I’ve come up with is that—whether it’s a trend or not—it’s proof that ‘meaningful conversation between humans’ is still a concern among the public and still matters—and it ‘can be done’ alongside alcohol.

This made me think of the visual image I always romanticize—the idea of intellectual salons back in the Belle Époque in Paris during the late 19th century or ‘cafe society’ in Manhattan during the early 20th century. A gathering of artists, writers, socialites, or just social climbers; both sides of interesting thinkers and, on the other, ‘clout chasers’; yet it doesn’t deny the image of well-dressed people, well-curated venues, and well-thought-out conversations. Vanity or not—it’s an experience that feels sophisticated to be in.

Back to the ‘Lecture Bar’ of 2026—that happens in Bangkok (and perhaps other major cities around the world), the reason why it relates to urban people is perhaps the erasure of ‘tradition, excessive formality, and rigidity’ from it. No dress code, no salonnière, no exclusivity based on status. Only a ticket price, a price for a drink, and that’s it…entering the ‘well-cultured’ space of modern days.

Sure, there’s certainly one who just went there for ‘content’, as I witnessed the act of taking a photo or short video of the guest and moderator on stage for an IG story, and after that, ‘got hooked’ by endless scrolling instead of what was really happening on the stage; but most people actually sat, listened, and engaged (since the discussion itself was far from a business seminar or something hyper-intellectual that sprays quotes from Schopenhauer or Descartes).

Another aspect that has shifted in context and shown itself to me is ‘how people here treat alcohol differently’.

In Europe, the idea of having a bottle of wine and a 3-hour-long conversation is certainly not a new thing. Aperitivo is an ingrained culture that unconsciously blends into the everyday lives of natives who were born and live there. However, back in the last decade, the perception of alcohol in Bangkok was far from that ‘slow burn’ but rather an intense hedonism of escapism.

Now, with this thing happening, an after-work drink, a group of people in a single space, gathering for an idea, a conversation, a connection between other humans—is another proof that drinking alcohol is not entirely bad here anymore. It serves as a companion for the night that makes dialogue smoother, ideas flow more freely—with the ‘optimal amount taken, of course’.

Hope might be the word I’d have for this trend.

Even if it’s a temporary hype for some to attend and post on IG to accumulate social capital, it doesn’t matter. It’s evidence that there’s a demand for meaningful conversation between humans. Moreover, with depth, with critical thinking…these are virtues that never fade away.

By the end of the night, after a glass of Negroni and Gin Rickey, and over an unexpected connection with another individual, I could reassure myself that night that my idea of creating my own ‘salon’ might not be a daydream anymore.

Big cities always carry a distinct narrative that serves both romance and melancholy at once. Considering that I walk past hundreds of people daily — thousands on some days — why is the idea of isolation, of loneliness, of whatever word we use to describe the disconnection between one another, still so profound?

Especially on the matter of romantic relationships.

When it comes to love, I am far from the best person to speak intelligently about it. I do not even know what that would mean. But something that happened three days ago might have brought me closer to the layers of meaning behind the term.

A rainy Thursday evening in Bangkok. Traffic jammed, as ever. A street called Song Wat — which is really a thing here right now, for tourists and locals both: the old-world neighbourhood, the cultural heritage, and the recent pop of cafés, restaurants, and creative spaces. A new area to explore.

The occasion was the grand opening of a new brand by a well-known friend, who had invited me.

It was fascinating. Very unusual, and distinct from the events I am familiar with — most of mine are menswear, design, classic-culture circles. To be exposed to a contemporary, more fashion-forward scene was a genuine shift.

I still kept my own register, of course. My obsession with tailoring, in the form of a Polo Ralph Lauren double-breasted blazer as a layering piece — though this time over a white T-shirt and white jeans, with Cuban-heel boots instead of the conventional preppy lookbook.

There were many interesting people there. People I would rarely have the context to speak with. I met plenty.

But no one compared to a young woman — very bright, very attentive — who walked the length of the store with her iPad. Clearly working the event in some capacity.

I saw her sit down for the first time in the inner part of the store, and had the chance to open with:

“Love your style. Very working-woman vibe.”

She laughed.

Teased me about the line for a while. And the rest of that half hour was a continuous exchange of respect, of ease, of stories from both sides.

Then reality arrived, in the form of a glance at my watch and the knowledge that I had to get back to editing a film.

As you may guess — it felt too bad to end the encounter like that. So I asked for her Instagram. Followed her. She followed back. Everything perfect on paper.

Until that night, after the work was done, when I found out that she was already with someone.

And once again, the city gave me its usual response:

This is more times than I can count now. A very strong connection at the first encounter, in real life — and a reality harsh enough that it could not care less how perfect the moment was.

Which is understandable. Timing rarely arranges itself for anyone’s convenience, and the people worth wanting are, almost by definition, already wanted.

That is the reality of it in 2026, I suppose.

What happened three days ago is one good example.

And what did I do afterwards?

I returned to the medium called cinema. Considering that cinema is a way of understanding the worldview someone else holds on the same subject — the writer’s, the director’s — and how they want you to experience it.

But this time it was not the nostalgic fantasy of old Hollywood. Nor an existential piece from a European auteur of the 1960s.

Something contemporary. And surprisingly, the messages there made me accept the harsh truth of it better than any of the old canon would have.

First, the film Roger Ebert described as “sweet, funny, and observant” — Swingers (1996). Which reminded me that all the gloom comes from the inside. That it comes from your own mind, and does not necessarily mean you are what your mind says you are.

Then Past Lives (2023), which I consider very faithful to Celine Song. And which arrived with a simpler and heavier idea: “Timing is crucial to a relationship. And it is unbearable that you cannot control it.”

Watching both, in a single day, after finding out the unpleasant reality — it gave me a kind of clarity.

Not in a hopeful romantic way. Not in a pessimistic one either.

Just a reminder of the reality of life, and of the nature of a big city. That it is normal to be hit by the timing factor. That it hurts a little when you find a rare individual you want to know more about, and find them unavailable, and have to shut off any further interaction.

And that it is also fine to feel it. And to continue doing it anyway.

Because that is part of being human, is it not?

The evidence that one still has the thing called a heart. And the feelings that come with it.

And it has begun to consume me again.

My relationship with this city is ‘a place that bombards me with social-class comparison, status anxiety, the materialist game.’ And no matter how much I want to break free by sprinting to the top — so that those factors affect me no longer — it feels like swimming in a closed pond. Domestically capped. No hope of breaking through. No way of becoming the person I want to be from inside it.

The lens the city forces me to adopt is that of a player in a never-ending game that was somewhat rigged from the start.

However, earlier this year, between January and March — the late winter of Europe — I was in Milan. I visited Vienna. A day trip to Rimini. Portofino. And my mind, somehow, operated differently. I began to see the world, and to hold a different relationship with the environment around me, in a way I never had before.

I still remember the first moment I dropped my luggage at an apartment on Via Pasquale Sottocorno. Putting on my black tailored Prada jacket, a cashmere Renoma scarf, a camel overcoat — and walking into the heart of the city, through San Babila to Via Montenapoleone.

The more I walked that same route, week by week, the more something shifted. By the time I flew back to Bangkok in March, I was able to see this metropolis differently for the first time.

Suddenly the walk along Bangkok affluent area like Langsuan Road or Central Embassy — a place that contained every archetype I used to feel inferior to — no longer produced that feeling.

I began to see clearly the concrete objectivity behind status anxiety. To see through the illusion of luxury and consumption, which suddenly seemed insignificant in magnitude compared to Montenapoleone.

The entire six weeks in the heart of Lombardy—even in a role far removed from the typical “local habitat”—was far from the experience of a typical tourist or a fleeting visitor, content to soak up the romance, indulge in the finer things, and leave without ever seeing the place’s raw nature.

It was a period of cultural immersion, experienced through the eyes of an observer at its finest.

Then almost half a year passed.

And with my mind, my body, and my spirit placed back inside the very same apartment, the same destinations, the same tempo of life I have known for over two decades — the very same programming has installed itself into me again.

The same old perspective. Player rather than observer.

That is what is currently inside me.

Which leads to this dispatch. On how a city — I may argue — dictates one’s life trajectory more than any other factor ever will.

And if you are able to fully accept that, and then do something about it, a pathway toward a great life may be closer than it was before.

“The deepest problems of modern life derive from the claim of the individual to preserve the autonomy and individuality of his existence in the face of overwhelming social forces, of historical heritage, of external culture, and of the technique of life.” — Georg Simmel, The Metropolis and Mental Life (1903)

We often talk as if the human mind exists independently of its surroundings — as though personality, motivation, and identity were properties we simply carry around inside our heads.

Modern psychology and neuroscience paint a different picture.

These cues shape what our attention notices. Which emotions become easier to access. Which memories are activated. And which version of ourselves becomes most available.

Over time, the brain learns what a particular environment demands — and becomes increasingly efficient at producing the mindset that helped us navigate it before.

This is why returning to a childhood home can evoke emotions you have not felt in years. Why people slip back into old family roles during the holidays. And why moving to a new city can feel like becoming a different person.

Cities are powerful because they are not neutral collections of buildings. They are dense ecosystems of repeated psychological signals.

Every city rewards certain behaviours, values, and identities more than others. New York implicitly rewards relentless ambition, networking, competition, visible success. Florence rewards craftsmanship, public life, leisure, artistic expression, community.

And because humans are profoundly social creatures, our brains continuously compare us with the people around us — to determine whether we belong, whether we are succeeding, and what goals we ought to pursue.

This process is largely automatic. You do not wake up deciding to compare yourself. Your brain does it because, throughout human evolution, understanding your position within a group was closely tied to survival.

The modern city amplifies this ancient mechanism by surrounding us with constant, highly visible signals of wealth, beauty, status, and success.

At the same time, the brain relies heavily on context-dependent learning. Experiences are not stored as isolated facts, but as networks linked to places, routines, people, and sensory cues.

Walking the same streets, hearing the same language, entering the same neighbourhood — any of these can reactivate patterns of thinking that developed there years earlier.

This is why someone who has overcome an insecurity may suddenly feel like their younger self after returning to a familiar environment. It is not that they have forgotten their growth. It is that the environment has activated an older network of memories, expectations, and emotional responses.

Which is precisely my own case. The post-Milan observer identity, replaced by the player identity — wired back into my psyche like a pre-Milan version of myself.

This is why changing environments so often feels psychologically transformative. The change is not magic. Nor is it merely novelty. It is the result of interrupting deeply learned associations, and exposing the mind to a different set of daily reinforcements.

When the surrounding culture, pace, architecture, and social expectations align closely with a person’s values, the brain gradually invests more energy in those values — because they are continually rewarded.

But when an environment repeatedly reinforces ways of thinking that conflict with a person’s aspirations, maintaining an alternative mindset requires constant conscious effort. And over months and years, that effort becomes exhausting.

In many ways, choosing where to live is choosing the ecosystem that will most consistently shape the person you are becoming—a truth that popular culture often captures in its purest form.

I. La La Land (2016) — the city that legitimises your dream

Los Angeles, in this film, is often read as merely the setting. Psychologically, it is an identity amplifier.

Damien Chazelle’s picture — auteur cinema that went mass successfully, in both commercial and artistic terms — tells the story of dreamers. One of them is Mia (Emma Stone): an aspiring actress who spends years in Los Angeles working as a barista, following her dream relentlessly.

If you have seen the film, you know Mia does become an actress. But not because Los Angeles magically grants talent.

She becomes someone who continues to pursue acting, because everything around her says: people like you exist here.

The auditions. The theatres. The conversations. The failures. The successes.

The city normalises the dream.

Had she remained in Boulder City, Nevada — where acting was viewed as unrealistic — her identity would have had to defend itself constantly. Los Angeles reduces that friction.

II. The Devil Wears Prada (2006) — the city rewrites your standards

Set in the high-fashion scene of New York, in publishing’s early digital era of the 2000s, the film stands for a melancholic romance and harsh beauty of working life that now survives only as nostalgia.

Andrea (Anne Hathaway) arrives knowing nothing about fashion, and caring less. Then she is wired by New York’s elite ecosystem.

At first, everyone around her seems superficial. Then something fascinating happens.

Without consciously deciding to change, she begins dressing differently. Speaking differently. Prioritising differently. Noticing details she previously ignored. Valuing success differently.

No one sits her down and brainwashes her. Miranda Priestly is a catalyst, not a cause.

The environment does the work.

Though in the end it costs her a relationship — and the thrift-shop eye she came in with. She can no longer see style the way she once did.

III. Midnight in Paris (2011) — the city changes how reality is experienced

Probably Woody Allen’s most successful piece of the new millennium, and one I surrendered to entirely — the nostalgic ideology, the romanticisation. Gil (Owen Wilson) is a creative who longs for the beauty of a bygone era, and Paris lets him feel it again. With or without the time travel.

The city slows him down.

He walks. He notices architecture. Books. Conversations. Art. His attention shifts from career anxiety toward aesthetic appreciation.

The city does not merely give him new experiences. It changes what his mind pays attention to.

But the important lesson of the film is its ending.

Gil realises that every era romanticises another era. The insight is not that Paris is objectively perfect. It is that perception is always shaped by context — and that idealising another place, or another time, can itself become a trap if you stop examining it.

Across all three stories, the city is not a backdrop. It is an invisible character, shaping the protagonist’s identity.

Every city carries its own values, incentives, and social signals. Over months and years, those signals quietly become part of how we think.

In that sense, choosing where to live is like choosing the psychological ecosystem that will most consistently reinforce the person you’re becoming.

And even if the universe has destined you to be far from it, I believe it’s still a worthwhile pursuit—perhaps even a duty to your own soul—to find your way to the places your mind longs for.

The idea of the life lottery — as ridiculous as it sounds — is a reality that dictates many trajectories, from the first breath to the last. Socioeconomics. Network. City. Country. All of them affect your life at some point.

Consider a life born into a middle class in a strong-currency country, with high wages and a high quality of life. That person has more freedom to travel, to eat, to sleep, than someone born into a middle class in a weak-currency country with underdeveloped domestic infrastructure. The happiness and the opportunity that each life has to offer are simply not equal by nature.

Equality, as romantic as it sounds, is an ideal state that is difficult to reach.

And yet — “one must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

Those words from the French philosopher stand for a wisdom I hold onto. Having read both his breakthrough fiction, L’Étranger, and his philosophical statement in Le Mythe de Sisyphe, what I take from them is this:

No matter where you were born — if the situation is not what you desire, even by the universe’s random judgement in placing you there — you can always do something about it.

The 2026 world has made this more possible than ever.

Not entirely easy, I admit.

But achievable.

The fact that you, reading this now — we have never met, and are likely separated by thousands of miles — are connected to me through this piece, is itself the evidence. The internet has made geography matter less.

(It still plays a part. Especially in the uglier truth of perception bias around race and ethnicity. But I will leave that here, since delving into it properly would take an entire editorial of its own.)

What I mean is that an individual can now connect globally, and contribute value within the system, in a way that was not previously available. Work that can be done across continents. Conversations that ignite across time zones. Worldviews and perspectives cultivated with fewer gatekeepers — as anyone watching what is currently happening on Substack can see.

So: to work, to explore, to meet new people, and to make a move toward the city that resonates more closely with your own frequency — this has never been easier.

It does not need to be a permanent move.

But if your current environment has begun to consume your soul and numb your perspective — and if you are already aware that it has — then a month or two in an entirely new city, a new continent, a new culture, may be the essential thing. The interruption that breaks you out of the unconscious feedback loop the current place has been running on you.

The definition of a great life varies with how one defines the term. Here at Renaissance Flâneur, it is the purposeful mode of living: the deliberate life, held on one’s own terms, with self-awareness and elegance in moving through time.

The city, as we have covered, plays an enormous role in this.

And in my case — if you were wondering — the time for another European voyage is coming.

I teased this earlier, in the section on Midnight in Paris. There is a reason I wrote that I resonated with, and surrendered to, the nostalgic ideology and romanticisation of the protagonist.

My last time there was only a week. But the emotional appeal of walking along the Seine at midnight during a rainstorm, under an umbrella bought that afternoon, remains ingrained in my memory and in my senses.

It is an eternally romantic city for me. And with some local insight now gathered, I hope to explore the beauty of it, the harsh reality of it, and the actual life of Paris — what the city really is, rather than what it is imagined to be.

Perhaps the coming late-autumn voyage will be another reminder of the city that synchronises with mine.

And perhaps it will take the too-involved player mind out of me once again — and allow me to return, and see Bangkok, this love-and-hate tropical metropolis, as an observer.

Perhaps it is the fact that the spot sits on the 56th floor, among the thirty tallest buildings in town — offering the full, wide landscape of Bangkok, especially at dusk. You see the LED lights everywhere. From the vibrance of Ratchaprasong, full of traffic jams and malls, to the end of the horizon that vividly gives you the feeling of the city that never sleeps.

Cocktails are probably the other thing that brings me back again and again. As a bar recognised by Tatler, the classics I love — Americano, Negroni, Martini, Whisky Highball — have never disappointed me.

Though lately, since every concierge, waitress, and bartender remembers my face and the dinner attire I wear for the place, I have taken to asking the bartenders to make something unique, something that fits my mood. My last drink was a Bangkok Sling. Normally it would be the Singapore Sling, which uses pineapple juice. This one used guava, with a spiced garnish, to make it Bangkok in his own interpretation.

That is the charm of cocktails, I suppose. The art of making a drink to tend someone’s soul, in whatever mood they arrive in.

But the true highlight — the reason I am addicted to this place, and to many great cocktail bars across Bangkok — is the ambiguity of it.

The experiences vary.

From witnessing a shouting match that almost turned into a fistfight, at the very level of five-star hotel prestige. To the economist who also adored Martinis and James Bond, and ended up in conversation with me until midnight. To the elegant lady in a black dress who walked over and asked me to take a photograph of her, and who later became a companion hard to forget — an orchestra performance one night, an afternoon museum walk another.

Which has led me to a realisation.

A big city. Especially Bangkok, where lights, neon, and the sound of automobiles and motorcycles run at all hours. Even with millions of lives living in the very same city, to find someone to simply sit down with — to have an inspiring conversation, to connect at a substantial level beyond a shallow exchange on social media — is rare.

And putting myself alone at the bar allows me to deal with it.

Not perfectly, for sure. Some nights, it gets even emptier than before.

But many times it has given me unforgettable evenings. And a small hope that real-life connection — without mutual followers, without the algorithm’s introduction — is still possible. Even if it becomes harder and harder to find.

So: the evening, in modern evening attire.

Think of a midnight-blue worsted wool dinner jacket with a satin shawl lapel — the kind Cary Grant wore in To Catch a Thief, or Sean Connery in Dr. No. But forgo the bow tie. Forgo the galon-striped trousers. Keep only the jacket, as a reminder of the ritual, of the sophistication of wearing one to a place that still deserves it.

Even if no one else is wearing it anymore.

And then the place itself. The 56th floor, carrying that prestigious Manhattan name. The gold shimmer of the Art Deco interior.

I think it is a charm that nothing else replaces. Especially if you go alone — and see what the universe might hand you.

Something, or someone, to observe. Or to engage with.

“I used to wonder what kind of an armchair costs $2,500. Now I understand.”

That was a quote from my friend, who invited me to the showcase of vintage furniture and objects called Open (House) Vol. 1, presented by the curator and manufacturer Archives Design.

While my eyes and mind were far from functioning at 100% — since I had to direct a campaign at the airport at 4 a.m., and had not gotten any sleep — by the time I arrived at the showroom at 11 a.m., my brain was in less than an ideal state.

However, every piece there energised and fascinated me, just like when a boy sees an exotic car, or a girl sees a beautiful dress.

The highlight was certainly the Chandigarh works by Pierre Jeanneret — which have recently ridden a wave of hype among Bangkok’s upper-class, design-conscious crowd. Though, for me, they do not quite speak to my own taste.

The others were from iconic names that any design-oriented person would recognise — Isamu Noguchi, Poul Henningsen, Le Corbusier. And I would say the prices of those pieces are very tempting. High enough to make them worthwhile as collectible vintage pieces, but not so overhyped or inflated as to become questionable. Of course, Pierre Jeanneret remains the exception. I still think the prices are relatively high compared to decades ago.

(Though it seems that almost every piece by the Frenchman has already been sold, based on what my friend told me.)

Then I finally asked her the thing I had been tempted to ask her — or anyone in this sector — for a very long time.

The context is that there is an ongoing debate, both online and in real life, that I have encountered from two sides.

One side says that anyone who does not buy a vintage or officially licensed piece — like an Eames Lounge Chair from Herman Miller, or Mies van der Rohe’s Barcelona Chair from Knoll — is “just a pretentious broke person violating the designer’s copyright.”

The other side says:

“One of the core ideas behind furniture — or any well-designed object — from Eames, Wegner, and many other twentieth-century designers, was to make good design accessible to more people. Not just to a privileged few.”

“And a replica, if it is well-crafted and true to the original designer’s intentions, can be a direct homage to the core philosophy of mid-century design.”

The answer my friend gave me… I promised to keep between us.

But if I have to share my own take, it would be this:

I like to think of it from the perspective of reproduction clothing in the workwear and vintage denim market.

Think of the Levi’s 501 during the golden era of denim in the 1960s. It inspired many purist Japanese denim makers to craft their own jeans as a tribute — recreating the authentic silhouette and details of Levi’s from that era. Something that Levi’s itself can no longer do. Or simply chooses not to.

But the difference between the reproduction of vintage clothing and the replica of iconic furniture probably lies in one harsh truth:

You can still buy a brand-new piece from the exact licensed manufacturer.

So by choosing not to do so, you are clearly not staying true to the commercial rights of the original design.

That remains an argument that cannot be denied.

In the end, I do not think I have the right to judge someone for buying a replica of an LC4 Chaise Longue. They might genuinely admire the purist expression of modernism made famous by Le Corbusier — yet they are in their early twenties, living in a developing country, and do not come from a wealthy family with money to spare.

I do not own any replica pieces myself. Not yet.

Just like with clothing, when it comes to furniture of such iconic status, I would rather buy pre-owned. Though in cases like the Chandigarh series by Pierre Jeanneret — where there is no longer an official manufacturer, and the vintage market has pushed prices so high — ownership is reserved for only those who earn handsomely.

Imagine a group from the effortless mid-century jet set.

Having a simple lunch — one that is not so simple when you consider the wine, the food spread across the table. Seeing their style. Their gesture. Beyond the leisurely activities and the aesthetic — which you can absorb through the photographs of Slim Aarons, and which may seem a little extravagant, even hedonistic at points — here lies the undeniable virtue: Effortless charm.

As Aarons himself stated, his philosophy was to photograph:

“Attractive people, Doing Attractive Things, in Attractive Places.”

So — what makes the people in Aarons’s images seem so attractive with the least apparent effort possible?

When you consider the idea of attractiveness in the current day, most of what you can see revolves around money and physical attractiveness. Sure — they are concrete assets that certainly elevate one’s status within the social echelon.

But here is the issue.

There are plenty of well-fit, well-groomed men — wearing shirts from Zegna, trousers from Loewe, with an Audemars Piguet Royal Oak on their wrist and perhaps Loro Piana Summer Walks on their feet — but who lack the charm and the aura of attractiveness that the old-world leisure class of the twentieth century possessed.

And, ladies and gentlemen, my intention here is far from romanticising the elite and privileged lifestyle of the few who lived as if superior to others.

No — far from it.

What matters is the larger question:

What really makes someone so attractive in the effortless manner?

If money, luxury objects, and physical optimisation for the algorithmic era are not the answer — and if the answer somehow lies within the aristocrats and socialites Aarons captured — then there must be something beyond the superficial asset.

Something that perhaps lies in the older idea of character cultivation — and in the inner qualities that money alone cannot afford to acquire.

Something has shifted in what our culture rewards.

Everything must now be evaluated according to usefulness, efficiency, optimization, and measurable outcomes. The highest virtues of the current moment are productivity, scalability, innovation, disruption, and growth. Time is treated as a resource to be optimized.

• Relationships become networks.

• Knowledge becomes content.

• Attention becomes currency.

Even the self becomes a project — to be improved through better habits, better data, better routines, better performance metrics.

Success is measured less by what one preserves than by what one builds, scales, or disrupts.

This is the utilitarian ethos. It shapes not only the tech billionaires beyond Silicon Valley — it now shapes every knowledge worker, every metropolitan professional, across the globe.

And here is the consequence:

But it was not always this way.

Consider Europe around the year 1700.

There were no multinational corporations. No stock exchanges. No modern infrastructure — no railways, no electricity, no industrial capitalism as we now understand it.

The urban class that emerged over the following two centuries — the merchants, bankers, industrialists, engineers, lawyers, and entrepreneurs — literally built the modern world. They built banks, railways, factories, ports, insurance companies. They built universities, newspapers, museums, and entire cities.

They were, in the most literal sense, the builders of civilization.

Now here is the part that matters for our discussion.

The first generation of these builders was often ruthless. A merchant, a factory owner, a banker, a railway investor, an industrial entrepreneur. That person built the fortune through what we would today call aggressive utilitarian behaviour.

Then the second generation received a better education. Moved into a more prestigious neighbourhood. Bought art. Purchased a country estate. Developed political connections.

The third generation grew up surrounded by servants, cultural refinement, private institutions, and influential family friends.

By the fourth or fifth generation, the original commercial struggle had disappeared from family memory. What began as raw ambition now felt ancient. The family no longer appeared entrepreneurial in any energetic sense.

It appeared…

Established.

Effortless.

Socially secure.

This is often what people today call old money. And here is the paradox worth noticing:

While the term now presents itself as the opposite of the utilitarian mentality — preferring understatement to display, leisure to visible ambition, inherited taste to commercial excitement, social confidence to self-promotion — much of what we call old money was originally created by exactly the kind of aggressive ambition it later learned to hide.

The ancestor made the fortune by being economically disruptive.

The descendants preserved the fortune by appearing socially timeless.

What matters here is the transformation itself.

Over time, these families transformed commercial success into cultural legitimacy. They bought country houses. Collected art. Funded libraries. Established universities. Entered politics. Sponsored orchestras. And gradually shifted from builders of wealth to guardians of culture.

They stopped behaving like ambitious entrepreneurs and started behaving like custodians of civilisation.

Their descendants inherited not only money, but confidence, cultural habits, and the assumption that they belonged in elite circles.

That is the quiet ease we recognise in the photographs of Slim Aarons.

Now — the reason this history matters is not because the current wealth-creating class should aspire to become the next old money.

That is not the argument.

The argument is this:

Today’s world is faster, more fluid, and centred on information rather than infrastructure. Success is measured through innovation, disruption, scaling, and rapid adaptation — instead of through permanence, continuity, or the slow work of becoming a certain kind of person.

Even after becoming immensely successful, many of today’s high achievers continue to define themselves through work, innovation, and the next breakthrough. Their identity remains tied to building, disrupting, solving problems, and constantly moving forward.

The company matters more than the estate. The product roadmap more than the family library. The next investment more than the inherited tradition.

This is not a moral failing on their part. It is the ethos of the age. But it does explain why cultivated character is now so rare — and why, when we encounter it, it feels almost anachronistic.

Yet the cultivation of those older virtues — literature, cinema, art, architecture, design, and the ideology of elegance in life — are, in my opinion, the very things that made the people in Slim Aarons’s images so attractive in the first place.

Not the generational money.

Not the objects or the places.

But the inner characters that had been accumulated and cultivated inside them — until it appeared as their nature.

And in this age — where everything has turned into optimisation for metrics, productivity for productivity’s sake, and speed above all else…

Those characters of an old-world individual have never been more needed.

And, perhaps, never more quietly rewarded.

“Knowledge is capable of being its own end.” — John Henry Newman, The Idea of a University, Discourse V, 1852

In a world where almost everyone is chasing the same metrics, the people who stand out are often those who are not governed by them.

Someone with genuine taste filters out noise instead of following every trend.

Someone with a coherent worldview remains steady while public opinion constantly shifts.

Someone with inner character does not need to perform confidence — because confidence has become part of who they are.

Such people possess something increasingly rare: an internal centre of gravity. They are not constantly pulled by the demands of algorithms, markets, or social approval.

This is why the qualities we associate with the old-world individual — cultivation, restraint, elegance, curiosity, composure, intellectual breadth, quiet confidence — feel surprisingly modern despite their age.

They are no longer common. And scarcity creates value.

In an economy that rewards speed, the person capable of deep attention becomes exceptional.

In a culture that rewards visibility, the person who does not seek attention often commands it.

In a society that measures almost everything, the most important human qualities remain the ones that resist measurement.

The future may belong to technology. But distinction will increasingly belong to those who remember what technology cannot replace. Competence will always matter — but as competence becomes more widely available through software and artificial intelligence, character, taste, judgment, and wisdom become the stronger differentiators.

Given all of this — given what the contemporary world has forgotten about what makes a life interesting, beyond mere consumption and status accumulation, beyond digits on a financial portfolio or hours logged into Slack — I would like to offer a case study.

A case study of how a cultivated character can turn one individual into a figure of distinctive presence — with elegance, ease, and effortless charm.

This might be an extreme case — but it is worth revisiting this gentleman of Hollywood: Cary Grant. (I have dedicated a full piece to this man’s remarkable life — here.)

Imagine being born as an insecure, poor child with abandonment issues in early-1900s Britain — then, two decades later, landing in New York City. The Land of Opportunity, at least at that time.

That is the beginning of Archibald Leach.

With his unique ability — not in acting, but in becoming, through sheer relentless aspiration for a better identity — he studied the people of high society he met along the way.

From Douglas Fairbanks Sr., whom he first met during a transatlantic cruise to the United States, to observing the gentlemen of Fifth Avenue in Manhattan — how they talked, how they walked, how they spoke, how they dressed.

Throughout the 1920s, Archibald Leach learned everything. He read the great books. He filled himself with the character of the cultivated class — a character that was usually passed along through generations of families he had not been born into.

So when Hollywood discovered him — and as the studios loved to do in that period, by changing his name into something more sophisticated — Cary Grant was born.

And from that moment on, the world had one of its greatest icons. Of the gentleman. Of the actor. Of the individual figure who proved how much greatness one can achieve.

What amazes me, when I look back at his early type-casting, is that he was usually cast as an Anglo-upper-class character on film.

Which is no wonder, considering he was able to navigate Hollywood parties, date socialites, and perform — both on screen and off — so effortlessly.

The man had just spent a whole decade cultivating the inner qualities he had not inherited.

He was not supposed to know that much about clothing — though his father, apparently, had given him some good advice on leather shoes and suits. He was not supposed to have that particular Transatlantic accent. Nor those gestures. Nor that distinct knowledge on specific subjects.

None of it belonged to his birthright.

And that is why I am an advocate of this position:

Inner qualities — character, point of view, personal taste, cultural intelligence, social etiquette — know no boundaries. They are far from limited to the elite.

Which means: you, me, and millions of others across the globe can achieve the state we recognise in Cary Grant, or in the industrial heiresses of Slim Aarons’s photographs.

In the end — the most alluring quality is the ability to exist without the need to be noticed. And without the sense of eagerness that gives one away.

This is the state we recognise in the most elegant person in any room.

Elegance and ease cannot be separated. And the idea of reaching the state of “I do not have to prove anything to anyone” is the key to entering it.

Which completes the circle of the question we opened with:

What makes some people effortlessly attractive?

Even when we have seen no logo on their clothes, on their car, or on their watches.

To be elegant is to be willing for the hard life.

Not in the usual sense — but in a way that contradicts what contemporary society rewards.

It is no longer an obligation. It is no longer an expectation. It is not immediately rewarded through engagement metrics.

It takes a long time to begin to notice within yourself.

And a long time before others begin to notice it in you.

But it is a path that, once you have decided to walk it, you cannot simply return from.

This morning was different from most.

Normally I would drive to a local park where the hanging bar, the dip bar, and the 3-kilometre runway are used for training. But this morning, I was driving past the usual spot. Along the highway to the airport — with less traffic than usual. Of course, it was 4 a.m., and the city was surely silent. Only trucks, taxis, and the restless nocturnal creatures shared the road with me.

The idea was this.

Lately I have been thinking about the thing I wished I had done as a teenager. Watching Miami Vice. Seeing Don Johnson as Sonny Crockett in a black Ferrari Daytona — which I later learned was a replica built on a Corvette chassis. There is a special allure to that scenery. The idea of you, a car, and an empty road. Cruising along without any worry.

Decades later, I thought to myself:

The spot I ended up at, by 5.00 a.m., was the upper roofless parking area of an airport. I was the only person there, obviously.

The sun began to rise. The sky had turned blue and brighter over time. In my hand was a cup of iced black coffee, picked up from a 24-hour drive-through along the highway I had cruised. I stood there, beside my car, sipping the coffee — tasting the deep aroma of the northern-Thai beans — with the air of freedom flowing in and out of me.

I spotted two planes in the hour I stood there.

One arriving.

One departing.

The airport is a place I have always enjoyed. Whether picking up a friend, departing on my own, or, like this morning, simply being there — watching planes take off and land. The symbolism of it is likely the idea I adore:

The endless possibilities of how one life can be lived. The places one can go. The experiences that await in the unknown future.

No wonder the idea of the airport still lingers whenever I think of it — the romantic visual of the Golden Age of aviation, the glamour of air travel, airport style in the 1980s and 1990s, the jet-age destinations.

But the romance of solitude in the parking lot soon came to an end.

The tropical rain of Bangkok began its run, as the city awoke. And — with my shirt in pure silk from Ermenegildo Zegna, my trousers in linen, and suede fisherman sandals on my feet — this ensemble was far from friendly with water.

I opened the car door, started the engine, placed the remaining quarter of my coffee in the cup holder, and drove back to where I had come from.

Before the Friday roads began to get hectic.

Before the typical tempo of the city disrupted my agenda.

And once again — this suit is going to be one that fails to function as a suit, just like the first one. A tan-cream cotton seersucker, single-breasted.

I do not know why I love the idea of making a tailored bespoke piece — one that reflects the taste and worldview of my own, in the form of a suit — and having it be rebellious. Existing outside the expectation that society places on the function of it. But that, perhaps, is the thrill.

Imagine a navy suit that fails to be a navy suit. One that you cannot wear to the business meeting, the boardroom, the professional setting — unless you are the chairman, working in the tech sector, or holding enough leverage in the room that your decision affects the whole agenda.

This double-breasted suit, made of Solbiati Art du Lin: the jacket is unstructured, unlined, 6x1 configuration, low buttoning stance. The trousers are full-cut, wide leg opening, double reverse pleated, cuffed hem. Known, in effect, as a flowing with the wind suit. Beautifully drapes, without any rigidity. A suit to be lived in.

Very Richard Gere in his breakthrough film — American Gigolo (1980).

But why am I so obsessed with the suit?

To be honest, even I — who consider myself a man deeply devoted to sartorial matters, a connoisseur, in and out of the industry — I rarely wear a full suit anymore. Perhaps it is the fact that I am living in Bangkok now. But even in Milan earlier this year, I also preferred odd jacket and odd trousers.

So why do I keep dreaming of, imagining, and desiring the experience —

Of selecting fabric.

Of talking with the clothier.

Of choosing the details of the garment.

Of the feeling of a measuring tape around my body —

Knowing that the piece will be mine, and mine alone?

And then there is the recent Ralph Lauren Purple Label & Polo Spring/Summer 2027 menswear collection — the talk of the town, and the thing that stormed my social media feed. I found myself thinking out loud: “God, these models look so good.”

Even after the hundred or so times that Ralph Lauren — both as a brand and as an individual — has portrayed this aesthetic.

The dinner jacket worn with cream trousers. A tailored jacket paired with shorts and fisherman sandals. Even the slim-fit Polo-line pinstripe suits that I know, for sure, only look good on a specific type of body.

That runway show reminded me of why I fell in love with tailoring in the first place.

They are a reminder of where I have come from — and of how I can become the person I want to be.

It reminds me of the first time I bought a very poor-quality off-the-rack navy suit for $100, and felt like Sean Connery in From Russia With Love — even though the fit was completely off.

The first time I went to a local tailor and commissioned a linen, high-waisted, double forward-pleated pair of trousers — even though the resulting silhouette was a disaster, and I basically wasted the $250. Because once my knowledge and taste had developed enough to realise what my ideal silhouette actually looked like, I could not bear to look at the mirror.

And I guess — this is the reason.

Even though practically, culturally, and realistically, the modern world dictates that suits no longer need to be worn in daily life. Even though commissioning one — which certainly costs some money — will likely mean the piece hangs in the closet more than it is worn.

Though I always try to come up with creative ways to wear it out as often as possible.

It is like a guilty pleasure, I think.

One that logically is not enough to justify.

But that serves as an emotional anchor. As identity reinforcement. Something that happens to be worn — even though it is worn less often than a pair of vintage Brooks Brothers wool trousers I bought for $15, which turned out to be the garment I wear almost daily.

When we hear the term, what comes to mind is the image of skyscrapers, cars running on the road in their hectic jam, millions of lives held together by two opposing pressures — the hope of a better life and the basic mechanics of survival. Both, at the same time.

Ask anyone who was born in such an environment, or has lived in it for a very long time, and they will likely admit to a quiet draining. A hidden desire to escape. At the very least, the wish to take a break — to a small town along a mountain creek, or a coastal boulevard.

Yet for those far from the noise of car horns, far from the countless mega-buildings raised in the International Style; the metropolis still appears as a sign of the advancement of humanity. The progression of mankind.

Which is not far from the truth. The metropolis is, in many ways, a direct by-product of the past two centuries of industrial revolution. But the price most people pay for it — is soul siphoning.

The phrase may sound exaggerated. But the phenomenon — of millions of people coexisting in dense proximity, and yet the loneliness crisis that has arisen alongside that density, and the never-ending pursuit of capitalist accumulation that defines modern metropolitan life — is not far from the experience of a soul being drained by the essence of the big city. New York. London. Tokyo. Whatever name you give it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have no intention to revolt against the nature of the human condition — in this case, the form of capitalist economy, and the many modern phenomena that have grown out of the psychology of mankind. At the largest scale, it is what it is.

But for the metropolitan reader who is done with endlessly drifting through the city without joy, unable to find beauty in it — I think this piece will give you something worth carrying:

A way of living in the big city differently than others. And of finding the hidden beauty within it.

What is “Modernity”?

The word is widely used today — as the term that describes the present moment, the current years, the era one is living in. But when you look deeply into how it actually came about, it reveals a surprising character. One I expect most of you are already familiar with.

The word modern comes from the Latin modernus, meaning “just now” or “of the present age”. It was already being used in late antiquity to distinguish the present from the ancient past. But what historians call modernity really begins between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries — with the Scientific Revolution, the Enlightenment, industrialisation, and the rise of the modern city.

“Enlightenment is man’s emergence from his self-incurred immaturity. Immaturity is the inability to use one’s own understanding without the guidance of another.” — Immanuel Kant, What is Enlightenment?, 1784

So to say: the deepest meaning of modernity is not technology. It is a new way of seeing reality.

Premodern societies generally looked backward for authority — to tradition, to religion, to ancestors, to established institutions like the monarchy. Modern societies increasingly look forward. They assume that the future can be different from the past. That knowledge can grow. That institutions can be redesigned. That individuals can question inherited truths.

In that sense, a person from eighteenth-century Paris and a person from twenty-first-century New York already share the same psychological world — even if their technologies are vastly different.

The most charming, and the most difficult, character of the modern is the rise of the individual.

In traditional societies, identity was largely given. You were born into a family, a religion, a social rank, and a place. In the modern world, identity becomes something to be constructed.

The question changes — from “What is my place?” to “Who am I?”

Yet while this shift creates freedom, anxiety also emerges in its shadow.

Many of the psychological struggles people associate with the twenty-first century — economic uncertainty, the crisis of purpose, the spike in loneliness — are all rooted in older questions. Questions of meaning, of authenticity, of self-expression, of alienation. None of these questions are new.

This, then, is the paradox of city life. One that has been going on for three hundred years.

And one that has not yet been solved.

“The deepest problems of modern life derive from the claim of the individual to preserve the autonomy and individuality of his existence in the face of overwhelming social forces, of historical heritage, of external culture, and of the technique of life.” — Georg Simmel, The Metropolis and Mental Life, 1903

Metropolis — as famously rendered in the iconic 1927 film by the Austrian-born German director Fritz Lang — was a silent meditation on social-class differentiation. The elite versus the labour. The upper echelon versus the lower one. The very same story one can see in every major city, in the past century or even now.

The metropolis is a direct by-product of civilization entering the modern era. It concentrates capital, knowledge, labour, political power, innovation, and media — all within a single big city.

Without the metropolis, there is no industrial revolution in the form we know it. No mass journalism. No Silicon Valley. No Wall Street. No rapidly shifting creative industries.

That said, there are seductive qualities to being metropolitan.

I do not personally know you, but I take it we have all heard, or experienced, the idea of “I’m going to make it in New York” — or in any major city of your country. The idea where people from all across the provinces aim, in some form, to move into the metropolis. To set the intention of making something significant there.

While the small village — the peaceful place many were born into — told them:

“This is who you are.”

The whisper from the metropolis tells them:

“Who do you want to become?”

It promises opportunity, reinvention, excitement, and the feeling that one is standing close to where the future is being made.

It also offers an endless stream of novelty. New cafés. New exhibitions. New technologies. New conversations. New fashions. New experiences. It is almost impossible to feel that one has exhausted everything a metropolis has to offer.

But this seduction comes with the paradox I have teased earlier.

Infinite choice can become overwhelming. Constant movement can make it difficult to slow down. Anonymity gives you freedom — and can also leave you feeling invisible. Ambition surrounds you — and creates relentless competition.

The metropolis amplifies every aspect of human life. While it can make you feel more inspired, more connected, more ambitious — it also makes you more anxious, more isolated, more restless.

Perhaps that is why the metropolis has become one of the defining symbols of modernity itself — an endless source of cultural material for writers, filmmakers, and artists to observe, to study, and to express through their own forms. Cinema, in particular.

No matter the city — New York, Tokyo, London, Bangkok, or Dubai — they all project the same message:

The future is happening here.

And people are drawn to that message because, deep down, humans are attracted not just to comfort, but to possibility.

The metropolis’s true offer to us is the feeling that our life could become larger than it is today.

And also its greatest illusion.

Because while a metropolis can transform your circumstances, it cannot, by itself, answer the deeper human questions of meaning, belonging, or contentment.

Those have to come from somewhere else.

And this — is where the figure of the flâneur becomes important.

The flâneur emerged in nineteenth-century Paris precisely because the modern metropolis was becoming faster, busier, and increasingly driven by commerce. And while most people experienced the city as workers, consumers, or commuters — moving with a purpose — the flâneur did something radically different.

He wandered without destination. He observed without trying to possess. He turned the city into something to contemplate rather than something to conquer.

In other words: the flâneur slowed modernity down.

In a world obsessed with productivity, he chose attention. In a city driven by consumption, he practiced observation. In a society that measured people by what they did, he valued seeing over doing. He was not rejecting the metropolis — he was refusing to let its pace dictate his consciousness.

The flâneur concept remains applicable today, although the environment has changed.

The metropolis still rewards speed, efficiency, productivity, and constant movement. Most people unconsciously adopt that rhythm. But the city also contains quieter dimensions — ones that are easy to overlook.

My own practice begins with living the day at a different cadence than most people around me.

Not for the productivity-guru reason of waking at four in the morning to gain a competitive advantage. But to allow myself to gain autonomy over my own tempo — and to see the city move around me from a different angle.

The early morning drive to an old-town café with a balcony, to catch the golden morning sunlight. To see monks doing their alms-gathering walk. To sit still in a quiet city park in the late afternoon and read a good book. The walk along a quiet alley, where unexpected places, people, and events can be encountered without intention.

In essence: I have shifted from consuming the city to paying attention to it.

So, ladies and gentlemen — perhaps the real opposite of the metropolis is not the countryside.

It is mindlessness.

And the simple act of establishing a daily or weekly ritual — to walk, to drive, to move without destination, to put attention on what is actually there around you, beyond the abstract mass of millions in a square, beyond the abstract mass of big buildings — to the actual texture of a particular city, in its specific form —

I do think this alone can serve as a reminder that you can live in the metropolis without surrendering entirely to its rhythm.

The city may move at high speed.

But your mind does not have to.

Mostly well known for the golden shimmering of temples, the long walls of the Grand Palace, and a bright tropical sun — that is the visual of this city through the lens of travellers and cultural mass perception. But most of the time, including the morning at the beginning of this weekday, the place has always held a different tempo.

Seamless roads. Effortless parking. Walking along to a café that resembles a patisserie in Paris. At my usual spot: the balcony that allows me to absorb the moment and come to the thought —

“This is a life that few would experience.”

There is a chance you might read that thought as a snobbish voice. Trust me, it is the opposite.

Even for me, sometimes.

Because the urge to take photos, to check emails, to check social media, to see whatever the world is up to — is there all the time. Even with the quiet morning. Even with monks doing their alms-gathering walk. Even with the noise of the city that has yet to come. At the most peaceful vantage point, it is still happening.

I do not have the answer to it. Not yet, and perhaps not for a long while.

What I do have is this morning. The espresso, gone slightly cool by now. The temple monastery across the road, catching the early light against its tiered roof. A motorcycle that passes and then is gone. The sound of a metal shutter being lifted, somewhere down the street.

And the small, persistent recognition — sitting here on this balcony, on this Tuesday — that the answer to the question I have just asked myself is being given, quietly, by the morning itself.

Sit longer. Notice more. Resist the next thing for a little longer than the day before.

The question of why presence is so difficult does not need to be solved in one morning. It only needs to be held, gently, while the morning continues to happen.

Which, in the end, is what the balcony is for.

“Guilt. I felt very guilty doing this.”

That was the first form of thought that occurred whenever I tried to break out from the dynamic of endless work-stream that drives me all the time. I have come to realise that the creative-professional kind of career is both a gift and, in its own way, a curse. On the gifted side, you automatically notice that the value of your work is detached from sheer volume — as long as the idea is sharp and the execution justifies the idea, the work is done right.

But the same essence comes with the fact that your brain is the engine of everything. And it is likely to run all the time, from the moment you wake up.

The thing is, when I finish one objective my brain has set out to solve, another problem is already waiting in the unconscious — and, as you can guess, in the modern world of hyper-stimulation and constant connection, it becomes a never-ending spiral of ideas to tackle. Some of them productive. Most of them miscellaneous, leading nowhere but to another spike of Dopamine.

The solution I have found, however, is environment.

I had heard before that changing environment plays a huge difference in one’s state of mind. I had always assumed this meant geographic change — moving from city to city, the way I have done across a single year of travel. What I had never noticed was that it also applies to the very same room.

My apartment is fifty-six square metres. Four rooms.

The living room is the one I rarely entered.

Imagine an evening. Dusk arrived. Most of the time — if I was not working till that hour — I would doing the flâneur ritual; dress in my evening attire, take a transport to a niche bar, see people, or call a friend and end up in his place.

But when I began to dive into the world of design — learning the classic pieces of Eames and Saarinen, even the gadget world of Bang & Olufsen — I started putting many of these vintage pieces into the very empty living room. Orchestrating them, slowly, into a sanctuary that serves only one function…

At first, the guilty feeling will still happen. You will experience the frustration of asking: Is there not a better thing to be doing than this? Shouldn’t I go out? Shouldn’t I work more?

But trust me — within a curated space, one filled with objects that are well-designed, well-crafted, well-functioning; art pieces that evoke something in your soul; perhaps a drink as companion, a good book, or even nothing in your hand — just sitting still, observing your own thought, seeing what emerges without immediately jumping to do something else…

To actually pause between the long, long day. It is the hardest practice. And it is more essential than ever.

Especially in a world where the space and the time to do so are becoming less and less.

Previously, I used to believe that this city did not match the level of sophistication of the heritage capitals of Europe — at least within my own preferences and my advocacy for the classic register.

If you cannot quite imagine the level of difference, I will tell you this: whenever you put on a tailored jacket here — yes, the kind with proper lapels, construction, and structured fabric — no matter how casual the rest of your ensemble may be, you will automatically be dressing above the norm.

The perception is perfectly understandable.

Bangkok is an oriental culture, not a continental one — and it is no wonder that jackets, dress shoes, and leather footwear are far from the typical sights of day-to-day life. For most of Bangkok’s history — and the city has only existed in its present form for roughly a century and a half — the Western aesthetic ideal has been operative only for about the last hundred years.

The style you might see in the archives of 1800s London, or 1900s Paris, was certainly not what the civilians of Bangkok were wearing — not even during the mid-century. (Social parties and business were usually the only contexts in which someone in 1960s Bangkok would put on a suit or evening wear.)

However, my recent approach to dressing here — and likely in Paris this coming autumn — has begun to overcome that asynchronous dressing language: between the modern and the old world, between the oriental and the continental.

Which has led me to the single component rarely talked about, or deeply discussed, in any fashion publication or by any style writer:

Silhouette — and how it connects with identity, with cultural register, and with the ability to achieve elegance regardless of how different the clothes you are wearing may be from what the people in your city, in the current era, are wearing.

It is, in short, the term that gives you access to a genuine personal approach to style.

“Why do people care so much about style?”

Or, more plainly: why give so much thought to clothes when their only physical function is to regulate body temperature?

I do not know whether you, reading this, still hold that question — but if you do, or if you cannot fully articulate why investing mental energy on putting on clothes daily matters, then I hope this piece will clarify it.

I will begin with an analogy.

If the only purpose of clothing were temperature regulation, then by that logic architecture should not matter — because a concrete box keeps the rain out just as well as a cathedral. Music should not matter, because spoken words already communicate information. Art should not matter, because a blank wall serves the same structural function as a painted one.

Before you say a single word, people already learn something about you from how you present yourself. Whether that is fair or unfair is a separate debate, but it is undeniably true. The way one dresses always communicates values, personality, attention to detail, cultural affiliation, profession, mood, and even ambition. Think of a military uniform, a judge’s robe, a doctor’s coat, a monk’s garment — none of these exist solely to regulate body temperature. They exist to transmit information.

Now, what is interesting is that many people who claim not to care about style actually have a style of their own.

The person who announces “I do not care about clothes” and then wears the same grey T-shirt every day is also communicating something — practicality, efficiency, indifference to fashion, or a focus on other priorities.

And yes, that is still a style.

What many people really object to is not style itself, but vanity, consumerism, and the obsession with status that sometimes surrounds fashion. Which is a fair criticism.

But style and vanity are not the same thing.

Function gets the job done. Style is what transforms function into meaning. And human beings have always cared about meaning far more than they admit.

Speaking of style — here is the interesting part.

While the internet bombards you with terminology like great style, classic style, old-money style — and then shows you images containing certain aesthetics that resemble those terms — the substance behind it is far beyond the actual clothes themselves.

It begins with your values, your worldview, your ambitions, your taste, your standards, and the way you interpret life. The clothes are simply one of many ways those internal qualities become visible.

That is why truly stylish people often have consistency across everything they do. The way they dress, the way they speak, the way they work, the way they design something, the way they drive, the way they decorate a room, the way they solve a problem — even the way they make decisions — all seem connected by the same underlying philosophy.

What most people call style online is often just aesthetic imitation: copying the outer symbols of a lifestyle without embodying the beliefs that created it.

Someone can buy every piece associated with “old money style” and still not feel convincing — because they are wearing the appearance of a worldview rather than expressing their own. On the other hand, someone with a strong sense of self can wear very simple clothes and still come across as highly stylish, because there is coherence between who they are and how they present themselves.

The empirical evidence is in the people the public has labelled style icons. Recently, two names have stormed the internet and their images appear everywhere you look: John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy.

People usually analyse the minimalist coats, the sunglasses, the tailoring, the clean silhouettes — romanticising the aesthetic of the 1990s. But what they are really responding to is the mythology surrounding them. They represented youth, beauty, romance, privilege, tragedy, and a kind of effortless American aristocracy. The clothing became iconic because it appeared to be the natural extension of who they were. The style and the story were inseparable.

The same applies to Cary Grant, to Audrey Hepburn — the clothes worked because they seemed to belong to a character already fully formed.

That is why I do not see personal style as a fashion concept, or as an immense passion for fashion knowledge — otherwise, those names above would not be cherished as icons of style — but more as the consistent external expression of an internal identity, of which clothing is part.

In that sense, style is not really about dressing well. It is about becoming so clear about who you are and what you stand for that everything around you begins to reflect it naturally. The clothes then stop being the foundation of style and become merely one of its many visible consequences.

And perhaps this is the only secret to having a great style of your own:

To live a life so fully, so deeply, and so cultivated daily that it becomes unmistakably yours.

This is not to say that external influence does not come into play. In the end, environment, the details around you, and the information you expose yourself to all play a crucial role in shaping who you are — but you need to curate it. To choose what to expose yourself to. To bring real consciousness to what you absorb. To cultivate, in short, your own taste. (I have written separately on how to cultivate taste; here.)

Now — here is the big question I have left unanswered since the beginning:

How do you express your personal style, wearing the garments you advocate, without alienating yourself from modern culture, from your sub-tribe — and still achieve elegance?

This is the moment where silhouette enters our interest.

Personal style, as the term suggests, leans heavily on the individual side rather than the collective. Within the larger category of style, personal style serves as the specific way of doing a certain thing. In our matter, it is the specific way of dressing.

For a discerning mind — one who has begun to cultivate taste in clothes, or at least desires to put real intention into wearing them daily — the realm opens: from types of garment to colour, to material, to higher levels of fashion knowledge.

The thing is, not every garment applies elegantly to the contemporary era we are living in.

Speaking as a man who adores tailoring more than anything else, I can firmly say that the tailored jacket is one of the central pieces of this asynchrony in the present day. While you can get away with it in many capitals of Europe, or in other cities that have ingrained the tailoring language for centuries, many parts of the world do not support the fluency of tailoring.

You may have your own taste in a specific way of dressing, or a certain garment, that is out of sync with the modern — something the masses no longer wear on a daily basis.

Now, silhouette, as I have teased many times in this piece, comes into play as the changing element.

I want you to imagine standing in front of a bright light.

The simple definition of the term is this: the outline, or the overall shape, of a person, object, or figure as seen against a contrasting background. Applied to style, it is the overall shape created by the relationship between your body and your clothing.

For instance — a jacket can give the variety of shapes: boxy, V, straight. Trousers are the same — slim, straight, wide, flared. Basically: they change your outline, even though your exact body is the same.

And that is why the very same garments, by different designers, give you a different emotion.

Classically, in the menswear scene — or in the traditional feminine wardrobe of the 1950s — one tradition shaped by Savile Row and another by Paris haute couture, both created the V-shape: a structured, distinct silhouette associated with authority, athleticism, and stability.

Later, the designer Hubert de Givenchy cast a spell on Audrey Hepburn, giving her elegance through the column — a long, uninterrupted vertical line.

Or, later still, the famous 1980s fluid drape pioneered by Giorgio Armani and Yohji Yamamoto, which gave the same type of garment — the suit — a new character: a relaxed silhouette, letting fabric do the work in an almost excessive way, creating an effect that was creative, at ease, artistically expressive.

Now, here is the deeper part.

Most people think silhouette is a technical fashion concept.

I believe it is actually a psychological one.

Because silhouette determines how a person occupies space — and that influences how they are perceived. And that serves as the perfect bridge between personal affection and cultural relevance.

Many assume that if they love a particular garment, period, or aesthetic, they must preserve it exactly as it originally existed. But clothing does not exist in isolation. It exists within a cultural and visual environment. Every era develops its own sense of proportion, movement, formality, and visual language.

What made a garment feel natural in 1950 may feel theatrical in 2026 — not because the garment became worse (in many cases, far from it), but because the surrounding culture has changed. Because the dressing language of society no longer speaks in that manner.

This is where silhouette becomes powerful. It allows someone to preserve the emotional qualities that attracted them to a style in the first place, while adapting its visual form to contemporary life.

Rather than asking “How do I make this garment work today?” the more useful question becomes:

“What qualities does this garment represent, and what silhouette would express those qualities naturally in the modern world?”

In that sense, silhouette is a translation tool. One that allows affection for a specific aesthetic to remain alive in the day and night of the current era.

Take my own affection for classic menswear as an example.

I love the world of tailored jackets, pleated trousers, leather footwear, and the elegance associated with traditional menswear. But over time, I realised that what I loved was not necessarily the exact appearance of a 1956 English gentleman — more so the qualities. Confidence. Sophistication. Maturity. Ease. Masculinity. Presence.

The core problem was that the original silhouette of much traditional English tailoring was designed for a society that no longer exists. The highly structured drape suit, the heavy brogued oxford, the rigid business formality — all belonged to a different cultural ecosystem. When transplanted unchanged into modern life, they can sometimes feel more like historical re-enactment than personal style.

By contrast, the fluid tailoring of 1990s Armani retained many of the same values I admired — elegance, confidence, refinement, masculine ease — but expressed them through a silhouette that felt more compatible with contemporary sensibilities.

The same applies in womenswear.

While the admiration for Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly, and Jackie Kennedy Onassis can still be seen across any Pinterest board or Instagram feed, very few women today dress as exact reproductions of the 1960s.

A contemporary woman wearing a beautifully cut oversized blazer, straight-leg trousers, and minimalist flats — garments quite different from those of the mid-century — may actually capture more of Audrey Hepburn’s spirit than someone wearing a perfect vintage replica.

The real task, then, lies in the act of extracting the values hidden inside the garments and specific styles you have affection for, and asking:

“If I want to integrate these values into my own life and my own style — what would their silhouette look like today?”

The best way — and this is what I have cultivated for myself — is to let yourself be exposed to media that goes beyond the norm. Specifically: beyond what the algorithm feeds you. To open yourself to both old and new, to still images and moving frames. You will begin to see the variety of silhouettes that reflect the culture of each era, and the identity of each figure.

In my case, it traces back to old Hollywood, then to the European New Wave of the mid-century, and now I have begun to study many of the blockbusters of the late century — surprisingly, even Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven gave me a lesson on silhouette that shifted the way I approach tailoring.

Once you become clear on the qualities you aspire to, films, photography, architecture, art, advertisements, historical figures, contemporary creatives, and even objects outside of fashion will begin to give you recurring visual patterns — patterns you will begin to adopt into your daily approach to dressing.

You may notice that the people, places, and images that consistently captivate you all share similar proportions, shapes, rhythms, or ways of occupying space. Perhaps they have long vertical lines. Fluid movement. Relaxed structure. Strong geometric forms.

That is where silhouette enters the picture.

And when you look at the term through this lens, it becomes the common thread that transforms abstract values into visible form.

In my case, it is the person who admires the confidence of Cary Grant, the ease of 1990s Armani, the elegance of Italian architecture, and the restraint of mid-century design — and who has eventually discovered that all of those influences point toward the same silhouette: relaxed, elongated, understated, yet controlled.

At that point, finding clothes becomes much easier — because you are no longer searching for random pieces. Instead, you are searching for garments that contribute to a larger visual idea.

Discovering your silhouette is really the process of discovering your aesthetic identity.

And one thing you can be sure of: it is not invented in a fitting room. It is uncovered through a conversation between your inner values and the visual culture that speaks most deeply to you.

When that happens, the clothes become the final translation of something you first recognised through years of observing the world around you.

All of which, inevitably, makes every act of putting on clothes more romantic — an experience to look forward to, daily.

The ability to immediately book a resort, grab a leather weekender, and put on a good pair of suede leather sandals — with the imagery of sunlight, sea breeze, and the serene ambience of Thailand’s low season — is the kind of thing that should feel close to perfect.

But no matter how glamorous it seemed, no matter which song I tried to attune to the mood across the 300 kilometre ride, I felt nothing for the full three hours.

At first, nothing interrupted me.

I treated the drive the way one treats most modern transportation — the act of moving from point A to point B as conveniently as possible. But the longer I sat with the mid-week escapade itself, the more I began to notice the root of it.

The car I was driving was a Honda.

Honestly, there is nothing wrong with the Japanese manufacturer. They have produced plenty of admirable cars, from the economic to the exotic. But the problem lies in the economic — the Honda I had inherited from my family is that type.

Reliable.

Sensible.

Without any sensory life of its own.

With that realization, the impulse that had been lying quietly within me for some time surfaced clearly: the idea of acquiring a new automobile, one that actually gives soul, experience, and justifies the longing for elegance I seek in every other aspect of life.

That led me back to a very particular era — the 1990s.

Elegance, in my humble opinion, still reigns supreme in the mid-century. The manifestation in automobiles from those days — from economy to icon — wrapped design, material, and the spirit of mechanics in the most graceful way possible. But as a man who grew up in the 90s and 2000s, the car culture of that decade stands as the Golden Age for me. Companies still built cars because engineers cared about the driving feel itself. Not beautiful but impractical, not astonishing but emotionally hollow — beautiful and engaged. Astonishing and alive.

The clearest example, to me, is the BMW 5 Series E39.

There is a reason why this sport executive saloon from the late 90s to early 2000s is widely considered the most complete 5 Series by many enthusiasts, whether they are Bimmer fans or not.

The E39 combined everything the brand historically stood for in one coherent object — restrained and timeless design, near-perfect chassis balance, hydraulic steering full of tactile feedback, naturally aspirated inline-6 or V8 engines with mechanical character, autobahn-level stability, executive refinement, and enough analog simplicity to still feel intimate and alive decades later.

It was not the fastest car BMW ever made, nor the most luxurious, nor the most technologically advanced. But it achieved a rare harmony between sportiness, elegance, comfort, engineering integrity, and emotional involvement.

A human sensory experience still sitting at the centre of the design philosophy — rather than software ecosystems and algorithmic convenience.

Or rather: the charm of the analog era, beginning to fade day by day.

What surprised me, sitting with all of this on the way back from the coast, was how an object — a mere car, a mere mid-week drive — could play such a quiet role in revealing what one actually values. Not what one says one values but ‘what one cannot help but feel the absence of.’

While the world has moved in a particular direction; there are those who stand still with themselves anyway, think carefully about life, put a discerning mind to the question of substance, and question the price of turning ordinary existence into hyper-utility, performance-for-vanity, and comfort-as-the-only-good.

Whichever side one is on, or whatever one concludes — at least one has taken some hold on the paradigm that otherwise contains the will of the individual.

And in many cases, it can start from an object.

A single one.

The one you always come back to, always feel a specific energy from, and eventually notice has begun to become part of who you are.

Back when the festival began in 1946, the intention was pure: “to create a political-free stage for films that existed without intention to involve a specific social agenda” — a founding principle that, ironically, somewhat contradicts the landscape Cannes has occupied in the past few years itself.

In those old days, the festival contained a unique combination of characters. Due to its famous jet-set destination, the Riviera glamour, and the rise of the French New Wave who disrupted the cinematic world from Hollywood during the Post-WWII era — Cannes stood as the place where filmmakers were stars. No less than the iconic actors and actresses.

The name Federico Fellini, and his La Dolce Vita which received the Palme d’Or in 1960, had an equally memorable presence as Marcello Mastroianni. Luchino Visconti’s The Leopard stands as the significant epic drama that left a mark on the stage with the Palme d’Or in 1963 — shared and equal stardom with Alain Delon himself.

Nowadays, Cannes has somewhat turned into a commercial stage for aesthetic and vanity. The media puts its attention on individuals who have nothing to do directly with the film that received its premiere, or its award, rather than the actual people who worked on the piece. You can see the faces of pop-culture figures as brand ambassadors for so-called ‘luxury’ brands on any social media feed more than directors who proudly present their work at the festival itself.

Such is the nature of ‘art’ — it needs monetary capital to survive within capitalism. So the phenomenon of various sponsorships from apparel, cosmetics, and luxury goods, held as the main interest in the media, is justified — at least, it makes the festival ‘appealing’ and gets attention, so that the magnates can fund the tradition.

Only — back then, all the glamour existed to support cinema as the protagonist.

Now, cinema is just the rationale for the glamour to storm into each personalized algorithm.

In the 1960s, the old photographs of Cannes suggested the ‘fantasy’ itself.

• Brigitte Bardot on the beach.

• Grace Kelly surrounded by photographers.

• Alain Delon and his demeanor that captivated every eyesight.

But still—they were just the gateway to cinema.

Now, with a person like Bella Hadid — or any digital-age celebrity you can name — who can generate more global impressions in ten minutes on the Cannes red carpet than many competition films receive during their entire release cycle, no wonder the main spotlight has shifted to vanity instead of substance.

Cannes, just like many old-world traditions, has become a mirror of the broader civilizational shift itself. A reflection that modern mass culture no longer rewards a format that requires depth, attentiveness, and artistic flair — but turns instead to instant virality, recognizability, and the things of monetization.

If the mainstream has stormed out the core essence of what Cannes really is — or at least the main substance of the festival itself, which is cinema by filmmakers from all around the world — then the job of the modern cultivated is to look through the surface beauty behind couture pieces, attention-demanding gestures, and loud makeup. Into what stories the directors have to present this year.

With some essential reason in my work, I needed to become fluent in it in order to accomplish the duty itself — and that has led me to ‘Taschen’, the publication that devotes itself to the world of ‘lesser-known’ art and makes it exposed to the public.

Even at first sight, it might seem like a typical coffee table book that serves more on the side of vanity than substantial message inside — but the one (or two) that I have read are far from it. Both contained iconic images of the Kaufmann House, featuring the name Neutra, and the other is none other than the Stahl House, with the name Koenig.

These two allowed me to understand and get used to the other language of ‘Mid-Century’ — the design world, from the ideology behind the architecture, to the very components of furniture, colour, and the dwelling experience one would have.

However, there was another thing that made me notice — the elegance of the professional class in the last century.

Ladies and gentlemen, take a look at these icons:

When you look at them — what do you see?

At Renaissance Flâneur, there have been plenty of times when I used the images of actors and actresses — icons who symbolised the ideal elegance of a bygone era — as the ‘appendix’ completing each editorial. But these figures I have named above, though their ‘faces’ and overall appearance are far from the gifted genetics that embody the ideal masculine and feminine, possess no less elegance than the eternal grace of Claudia Cardinale, or the composure of Gary Cooper.

The impression they leave is one of ‘competency’, ‘professionalism’, and the sense that ‘this man, or this woman, will get their job done in an excellent manner’.

Why is the image of people who put intention into what they wear — to do the work — so significant, and so influential on the ‘perception’ we have of them?

And what are the qualities that modern day has — somewhat — forgotten to retain from those icons?

One thing I can reassure you of is this: it is more than just wearing tailoring, or high-quality clothes. (Though that affects it in some way.)

It is more about the fact that Identity, Appearance, and Elegance are inseparable. And contemporary life has somewhere discarded that along the way of civilizational progression.

Look around you — what do you see from the current form of appearance on the people walking past, sitting still?

Though that certainly depends on the ‘place’ where you are right now, one thing that they likely have in common is ‘casualness’ — and by this word, I do not solely mean the behaviour of putting on the most comfortable top, bottoms, and footwear. I mean it as the paradigm of life.

• When you consider that there are no restricted rules on how to dress when attending the classical theatre — which extends into the restraint of behaviour when one is within the performance itself…

• When you realise that the scenery at the airport, and on the airplane, is now full of symbols that hail ‘comfort among all else’ — even when, many times, that ‘symbol’ is disturbing to others…

• When you experience the ideology of ‘Casual Friday’ at the modern office — the act of slowing down, and turning the Friday into a weekly ritual of “let’s keep things a little more smooth”…

When all of these are considered a ‘norm’, then there is no doubt why the presence you have seen from Nast, Paley, and the many above can no longer be ‘normally’ observed these days.

The thing is — what has led us to this moment is the accumulation of societal revolution over many past decades.

In the early and mid-20th century, professionals were expected to project seriousness, discipline, hierarchy, and self-command. Their clothing, posture, speech, and restraint communicated that they belonged to a world of standards and judgement.

But since the 1980s, and further into the current millennium — as mass consumer culture, corporate bureaucracy, television, and eventually the internet reshaped society — institutions began rewarding people not for gravitas, but for relatability, adaptability, and emotional smoothness.

And this is where the ‘problem’ of the modern life lies.

Not that people stopped wearing tailoring itself, or became more relaxed in posture — but that we gradually stopped valuing the psychological qualities that formality was meant to reinforce.

The result?

Many institutions no longer project authority or seriousness in the way they once did.

When everything becomes casual, the distinctions between important and trivial begin to collapse — leaders speak like influencers, workplaces feel socially performative, and expertise starts competing with popularity.

So the issue here is not directly with casual clothing itself, but that a culture built entirely around comfort and informality often loses elegance, self-discipline, and the sense that some things should feel elevated, intentional, and worthy of respect.

The irony is — the easiest way to integrate those virtues into your life once again is through ‘clothing’ itself.

No matter how shallow, how superficial, how ‘fleeting’ it sounds — that “clothes matter more than fabric that regulates body temperature; they affect directly the perception within yourself and toward others” — that is the undeniable truth.

When you consider the idea we have covered so far — the ‘intentionality’ that reflects discipline, competency, and, ideally, elegance, once seen on the old figures — a huge portion of that ‘allure’ was created through their style.

Take David Ogilvy, the legendary advertising man of Madison Avenue, whose agency to this day still stands for ‘the best’ — the best in creativity, in efficiency, in ‘professionalism’. (At least, this is a perspective from an outsider of the industry.)

Look at how the man presented himself. A suit made of English flannel and the pipe that signals intellectual flair — garments that signal:

“I’m the embodiment of the sophistication you’ve seen from the British upper class. So does the work I do, and the agency I present, reflect that.”

Another case is Florence Knoll — a very underrated name in the realm of the design world. Basically, she is the woman who created the modern workspace — eliminating silos, opening space, and integrating the ‘essence of life’ into the workplace. These days, her surname stands for the thoughtfully designed manufacturer that holds iconic pieces from masters like Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, Eero Saarinen, and Marcel Breuer — alongside her own designs.

Considering that her years as an executive of a major enterprise — as a lady — were far from common, I do believe that the way she presented herself was deliberate. Not rigid, nor a masculine wrap thrown over her silhouette, but a grounded femininity influenced by the Dior New Look decade — only restrained, whispering. Enough for her to hold both her creative side, and the commanding side, of a lady who had to take her husband’s company into the future.

Now, I won’t tell you to put on a blazer every time you step out of the front door, or walk into the office. In the end, what people wear as a norm in the mid-century, compared to now, are vastly different. And elegance — cannot be achieved from one side alone. It must allow one to exist with ease, both within oneself, and in the way that ease reaches the others around.

So context matters.

I don’t know which sector of the work-field, or which city, you are currently in right now — so there is no universal metric on what to wear to ‘feel’ intentional, selective, and to signal competence both to the self and to others.

In the end, that is the combination of your personal taste (if you are wondering what the true meaning of it is, and how to find yours — check out this piece) and your surrounding.

But the big idea is this:

Basically — “How will I meet the world?”

And trust me, when you do answer that, every time you are dressing — your daily life will become more enjoyable. Both in the internal state of mind, and in the external feedback loop.

One thing we can all agree on now is that intentional presentation changes both your internal state, and the way the world responds to you. Because we, as human, are deeply shaped by atmosphere, ritual, texture, rhythm, and visual order.

When a person moves through life carelessly, their mental state often becomes careless. But when someone introduces deliberate form into everyday life — through clothing, posture, grooming, objects, or routines — ordinary existence begins to feel more structured, more grounded, more meaningful.

This means that a well-fitted coat, polished shoes, restrained colours, a thoughtfully arranged room, or simply carrying yourself with composure, can subtly change the way you think and behave. You will inevitably become more present, more selective, less psychologically scattered.

And externally, people respond to that coherence instinctively.

Someone who appears intentional and composed is often perceived as more competent, more trustworthy, more emotionally stable — before they even speak.

That is because human beings constantly read internal order through external order.

Modern culture tends to dismiss these things as superficial. But historically, refinement was always a way of resisting chaos. A way of saying that even in an exhausting and fragmented world, you will still choose to meet life with dignity, attention, and form.

Like the presence we can all sense from the figures of the bygone era — they have proved that being elegant has nothing to do with biological appearance. It is created through fabric, inner calibration, external gesture, and the willingness to stand for oneself at a standard so high that it automatically shifts the room into a singular concoction of energy.

Composure with Ease.

Looking beyond the hype that social media has stormed it with, and the flamboyant fashion appeal, it turned out that ‘the film spoke with me’ more than many I’ve witnessed — perhaps more than the first one in 2006.

A little context on the film: it is basically based on a novel written by the assistant of the fashion magnate ‘Anna Wintour’ — on the ‘experience’ of what it actually feels like to work for her.

So the first film of the franchise was like a ‘worldview’ of a junior white-collar standing in the same room as the title — overwhelming, thrilling, depressing. But the second one is different. It’s less about the hardship of work, and more about the hardship of the ‘creative industry’ in the technocracy era.

From the changed media landscape — where the voice of authority and the role of shaper of society are no longer in the hands of a few establishments, but in the ‘hands’ of people through social media — to the very current disruption of an A.I. that has flipped over the creative sector like humans have never seen before.

Seriously, many of the panel ads that I’ve seen these days in Bangkok turn out to be made with ‘AI generative motion’. So if even the commerce world has already adopted this — even at the first stage of revolution — no wonder the role of the ‘creative individual’ has been called into question by the people with monetary capital: ‘are they still worth it for my capital to invest in, or not?’

And there is the problem with this phenomenon:

It just makes life ‘soulless’.

The current evidence you can witness now is ‘writing’.

While I hate to say this — because I love the power of ‘—’ (the em-dash), which allows the reader to follow the tempo I intend to create, or the hook of “It’s not… It’s…” (very sharp, used by the character Don Draper in Mad Men in his signature pitches a lot) — the modern internet writing has come to follow these patterns too much, and has made ‘all editorial’ somewhat look — and worse, feel — all the same.

There is no perspective. No ideation of the creator.

While I am far from against technology, to ‘delegate’ all of the creative output to it is the fastest way to strip the essence of ‘life’ from humanity.

This might be a little spoiler for the sequel of The Devil Wears Prada — but the conclusion of the film, where the main tension is the disruption of new money, new paradigm of power, new perspective on the creative industry, is not so different from the Renaissance period, where the Medici family did artists a favour by providing resources; or where Universal Pictures is giving everything ‘Christopher Nolan’ desires to make his newest title The Odyssey, even though it has already cost them $250 million. (For an auteur-based cinema in the 2020s, that is the boldest move a production company can make.)

The absolute truth we can all agree on is that art will never detach from monetary power.

So the question is: ‘What will happen when the people who withhold that power do not see it as worthy for them anymore?’

And I can tease you that — it will not be in the good scenery.

First, I do believe that to understand the true cause of the current phenomenon of ‘Technocracy’, we have to see how we actually got here in the first place.

"It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity." — Albert Einstein

Back in the early days of the internet on a macro scale, during the 1990s, people created things on this channel because they could. It was messy, uneven, often amateur — but it was human. Value wasn’t fully defined yet, and more importantly, it wasn’t fully measured.

That changed the moment platforms figured out how to track behaviour at scale.

Once clicks, likes, shares, and watch time became visible, those metrics started shaping the work itself. Decisions began to favour whatever produced the highest measurable return — not the interpreted meaning that required the deep intellectual engagement within the human mind anymore.

That’s where a kind of practical technocracy took over — when systems reward what can be counted.

Well… that naturally aligns with the logic of Utilitarianism, doesn’t it?

Maximise outcomes, quantify success, optimise relentlessly.

But here’s the flaw: the most meaningful aspects of human experience don’t translate cleanly into metrics. Depth, originality, emotional resonance — these don’t scale neatly into dashboards. So they start losing ground, not because they are less important, but because they are harder to quantify.

Then social media industrialised this process.

Platforms like Instagram and TikTok didn’t just give people tools to create — they built environments where visibility is governed by algorithms. And algorithms don’t care about meaning; they care about retention and spread.

So creativity adapts.

It becomes faster, more digestible, more familiar.

Taking risks in creating a new format, a new idea, a new way of doing certain things gets punished — because it doesn’t perform predictably.

Over time, art, or creative endeavour as a whole, gets reshaped into something optimised for circulation rather than expression. That’s why everything starts to feel similar on your screen these days.

The harsh truth is that money follows a logic of ‘capital flows toward things that scale.’

A piece of software can be copied endlessly and distributed globally at almost no cost. A painting can’t. A fashion collection requires materials, labour, timing, physical presence.

Tech companies like Apple or Google dominate not because they are culturally superior, but because they fit the economic machine perfectly. They produce exponential returns. Art, by contrast, is stubbornly inefficient. It resists replication. And in a system obsessed with growth curves, inefficiency gets sidelined.

Then comes the final seal, so called ‘AI’.

The power that allows vast amounts of past human creativity to be taken and turned into something that can be reproduced instantly, endlessly, and cheaply.

The result is a flood. Images, music, writing — produced at a scale no human system can compete with. And when supply becomes effectively infinite, the baseline value of any single piece drops.

When the dominant systems of value — economic and algorithmic — are built to prioritise efficiency, predictability, and scale, art doesn’t naturally fit those criteria. So it gets pushed to the margins, or reshaped to comply.

So the uncomfortable truth is this:

That belief is the real distortion.

Not the decline of art itself — but more the narrowing of what we allow ourselves to value.

Advertising is the cleanest real-world proof of that shift.

In the 1960s, the era romanticised in Mad Men, advertisers operated in uncertainty. They couldn’t track every reaction, so they leaned on instinct, cultural awareness, and bold ideas.

And yet, that lack of measurement was what gave creativity room to breathe. Campaigns could be strange, risky, even polarising — because success wasn’t immediately reducible to numbers, and human judgement still had authority.

Fast forward to the present, shaped by platforms like Instagram and TikTok, and the entire system flips.

Now every action is tracked, every outcome quantified, every decision justified through data. Advertising becomes less about persuasion as an art, and more about optimisation as a system.

You don’t trust a bold idea — you test ten variations and scale the one that performs best.

You don’t build a message slowly — you front-load attention using celebrities, because attention itself has become the most measurable and tradable asset.

The result is efficient, predictable, and profitable communication — but also flatter, more repetitive, and less culturally meaningful.

Now, the consequence — the ‘negative effect’ — is that when people live inside systems where value is constantly measured, they begin to internalise that logic.

They start treating their own lives the way advertisers treat campaigns — optimising for visibility, approval, and performance. Risk declines, because failure is immediately visible. Originality declines, because it doesn’t reliably outperform proven patterns.

When Utilitarianism is operationalised through technology, you get systems that are extraordinarily good at maximising measurable outcomes, and simultaneously blind to anything that can’t be easily quantified.

A world where everything functions, everything performs, everything is optimised… and yet much of it feels interchangeable, somewhat irrelevant beyond the material — because the very process that maximises efficiency also filters out the kind of unpredictability that gives things meaning in the first place.

However, I would argue that the thing so called ‘art’, or the creative — the creative act of a human — still matters. Because it is likely the missing puzzle in modern life, the answer to ‘why we got everything more than ever, but somehow feel emptier than ever?’

What’s really going on is that we need some way to define ourselves that doesn’t come from external systems — and in today’s world, those systems are increasingly built on measurable, utilitarian logic rooted in Utilitarianism — not from ‘ART’, or whatever form of creation that is individually humane.

And when that happens, life quietly shifts — experiences become tools for outcomes, creativity becomes content, and self-worth becomes tied to numbers.

That’s where the sense of emptiness creeps in. Not as dramatic despair, but as a kind of flattening — where everything functions, but very little feels meaningful. And ‘art’ is one form of expression that exists outside measurement — something you are not optimising, not performing, just articulating something internal.

One that is no longer reinforced by the system, but becomes a personal choice rather than a default mode of living.

This is where the identity of the Flâneur comes in — as the antidote. On how to appreciate, and live fully, in modern life — without rejecting the reality of what it is.

While I have mentioned this French word — Flâneur — many times, including in my first ever editorial, the principle behind it lies as the direct antidote to the current landscape of Utilitarianism.

Actually, something similar once happened during the rise of the Romantic era in the early 19th century — where artists and thinkers began to advocate for the importance of individuality, imagination, and the appreciation of nature in society and culture. As a direct response to the pure scientific rationalism of the Age of Enlightenment, and to the Industrial Revolution that turned society into a bio-machine.

The Flâneur — just like a figure of historical record — was an identity created to counter the ‘modern world’ at its finest. What is important is that right now, it is no longer just about dressing well in a well-cut coat, walking in Paris, or writing poems like Charles Baudelaire. It is about applying his main definition of the term:

“A mirror as vast as the crowd itself; a kaleidoscope gifted with consciousness, responding to each one of its movements, and reproducing the multiplicity of life and the flickering grace of all the elements of life.”

Essentially: someone who moves through modern society without completely surrendering their perception to it. They do not reject the city, technology, capitalism, or modernity itself; they simply refuse to let those systems fully dictate how they see the world, or define their identity.

Because if the main problem of current days and nights is that people stop asking whether something feels meaningful, beautiful, or personally resonant — and instead ask whether it performs well, gains approval, or produces utility — then…

The Flâneur resists that pressure by reclaiming attention and observation for their own sake.

By walking, noticing, reflecting, appreciating beauty, lingering in ambiguity, allowing experiences to exist without immediately monetising or posting them. Sure, these are small acts. But psychologically, they matter — because they restore a relationship to life that is not entirely mediated by systems of measurement.

And the interesting part is that this is not escapism, nor nostalgia. It serves as an act of maintaining an inner space that remains human, even while living inside highly optimised structures.

In that sense, the Flâneur is less a lifestyle, and more a discipline of perception — the ability to remain conscious, attentive, and internally grounded in a world constantly trying to convert human experience into data, performance, and consumption.

From my direct experience, there are three main things that — once I had fully integrated them with my own tempo and life cadence — allowed me to become detached without carelessness, grounded in reality but also able to embrace the beauty of life in many ways.

Observation. Taste. Expression.

Let me explain one by one.

#1 — On Reclaiming Unstructured Observation

Walking without destination. Sitting in public spaces without constant stimulation. Noticing architecture, conversations, moods, textures, weather, people — basically anything happening around you.

Not as content. But as direct experience.

While that sounds simple, psychologically it is difficult — because people have become uncomfortable with moments that produce no measurable return.

My own practice is to ‘commit’ to myself a daily routine of ‘walking’ into the city — either a place I am familiar with, or one whose street names I do not even know yet. And trust me, I have done this both in a city ‘perfect’ for strolling, like Milan or Rimini, and in a megalopolis like Bangkok — where walking gets you nowhere, and transportation is essential. They can all be done.

#2 — On Developing Private Taste, instead of Algorithmic Taste

Most people now discover what they should like through recommendation systems, trends, engagement loops, and social consensus.

You need to intentionally interrupt that process.

Read books nobody is discussing. Listen to music without checking popularity. Explore cities without optimising routes for efficiency. And form opinions before seeing the comment section.

And… this is not contrarianism for its own sake. Think of it more as an attempt to preserve independent perception in environments engineered toward behavioural convergence.

(I have fully elaborated on this topic in this editorial, if you want to explore more.)

#3 — On Protecting Forms of Expression that are not tied to Validation

Writing privately. Taking photographs that are never uploaded. Sketching, journaling, designing, collecting thoughts — these become important, because they create a relationship with self-expression outside of audience feedback.

Once all creativity becomes public-facing, identity quietly becomes performative.

You, instead, maintain some interiority — some space where experience is processed, rather than displayed.

In my case, I have another pile of writing — more raw, more ‘personal’ than what you read here on Renaissance Flâneur. I like to think of them as the material that fills and waits for a surgical articulation, eventually turning into this weekly editorial.

Now, what is congruent among all three is this: a protecting of forms of attention, perception, and identity that modern systems constantly try to compress into measurable outputs. A deliberate choice to leave parts of life economically and algorithmically unoptimised.

However, this does not mean an irresponsibility toward productivity.

The Flâneur still understands reality. Still works, survives, and functions within society. But they resist turning every hour into optimisation. They understand that constantly maximising efficiency often destroys sensitivity, reflection, and depth.

And sometimes — the most important experiences in life emerge from what measurable systems would classify as “unproductive”: wandering, reflection, conversation, silence, boredom, curiosity. Those are the states where perception deepens, and actually returns into a depth that cultivates an intelligence which gains more value in an age where everyone is seeing, expressing, and thinking the same.

While the entropy of this society — leaning toward utility above all else — will only continue to increase, there is always a path you can choose. One that does not let you be consumed by it, without leaning toward nihilism or hedonism. One you take as a distinctive position: deliberate, and free from it.

And that path — which many great figures have explored, and which I have experienced myself — is being a modern Flâneur.

A terminology that is less about style, and more about sovereignty over perception — the practice of remaining internally alive, in a culture increasingly organised around speed, measurement, and external validation.

Even now, while I’m writing this, the song humming in the background is Cano-canoë by Mme. Mick Micheyl; and yet I can remember everything I experienced from Italy — from Milan to Rimini — all clearly. One impression still lingering in my mind, influencing my character and my taste no matter where I go.

Whenever people think of Italy, undeniably, ‘food’, ‘coffee’, and maybe ‘aperitivo’ are probably the visuals that occur in their mind. And I must say — there is certainly a charm to the country, wherever the city is.

However, in my eyesight — when it comes to Italy — there is so much more than the culinary culture, or even the aesthetic of fashion and art.

“A civilization that chose lived texture over abstract coherence.”

That is what I believe acts as the connective web across all the visuals of Roman cuisine, Milanese fashion, Florentine art, and Neapolitan street life.

All of it created the spell and charm so called ‘La Dolce Vita’ — and ironically used by Fellini as a satirical expression of a decadent society in his iconic film, reflecting the shallowness of an endless pursuit of hedonism within Roman high society. Which, these days, many on social media still use as the same kind of buzzword for the same purpose: to tap into the romanticism of the aesthetic without knowing the ‘Why’ behind the sweet life that they cherish from Italian culture.

Again, I was not Italian-born, and I am far from having lived in the place for more than a year — and that is perhaps why I can see exactly what makes the idea of ‘Made in Italy’ — everything from street, architecture, design, drink, clothing, art — so alluring, so beautiful to immerse oneself in.

The thing is — there is a way to appreciate and integrate with Italian beauty without leaning into spectacle, or clinging to surface.

And it all starts by looking back to the period so called….

The Renaissance.

“Where the spirit does not work with the hand, there is no art.” — Leonardo da Vinci

It is no coincidence that whenever the term Renaissance is spoken, the first country or city that most would think of is “Florence, Italy.”

Before that period, much of European thought — heavily shaped by the Catholic Church — was oriented around abstraction. Truth was something universal, distant, often detached from lived experience. But in places like Florence, that orientation broke.

Suddenly, knowledge wasn’t something you derived from doctrine, but more of an engagement that connected directly with the world.

You see it in figures like Leonardo da Vinci, who didn’t just think about the human body — he dissected it, drew it, studied it obsessively. Or Michelangelo, who treated marble not as raw material, but as something containing form that had to be revealed through precision and force.

Even architecture shifted.

Filippo Brunelleschi’s buildings — from the great designer of the same period — were no longer based on abstract symbolism. The man engineered them through observation, proportion, and experimentation. Thus the Santa Maria del Fiore was built, and became one of the great symbols of Florence to this day.

Ladies and gentlemen, what emerges from all of this is a pattern dictated as: “truth is not declared, it is made.”

That’s the real foundation.

The Renaissance — beyond the romantic humanistic revolution — was about turning craft into a form of intelligence. Painting became a way to understand anatomy and space. Sculpture became a study of tension and movement. Even philosophy, through figures like Giovanni Pico della Mirandola — author of Oration on the Dignity of Man — stopped treating humans as fixed ideas and started seeing them as beings shaped through action and expression.

Now, here’s the interesting part.

Italy at the time wasn’t even a single nation, so there was no central ideology dictating direction. Instead, there was rivalry, patronage, and constant experimentation.

Families like the Medici didn’t fund art because of some national mission — they did it for influence, prestige, and power. But the result was explosive creativity. Each place developed its own language, its own standards, its own interpretation of excellence. Reflected through the ‘tone of various cultural landscapes’ that vary vastly from North to South, from Milan to Naples.

That fragmentation is the key of enrichment.

Because what it produced was depth — a refusal to flatten reality into a single system.

This is why Italy often appears contradictory from the outside.

It produces extraordinary beauty, yet struggles with large-scale organization. It values tradition, yet constantly reinvents form. It resists standardization, even when standardization would make things easier.

But that’s a beautiful trade-off.

Because that is what allows the culture to prioritize lived experience over abstract optimization, human scale over systemic efficiency, and embodied knowledge over theoretical clarity.

All of which can be seen in style, cinema, art, and life.

When this ‘Made in Italy’ mindset — this insistence on lived texture over abstract systems — moves into style, it completely rewrites what clothing is supposed to do. In most industrial cultures, clothing becomes a system: standardized sizing, seasonal trends dictated from above, efficiency in production. Making the act of putting garments onto the body more utilitarian than anything else.

But that’s not Italy.

Whether through tailoring houses like Rubinacci from Naples, Brioni from Rome, and A. Caraceni from Milan — each representing an identity rooted in the micro-subculture of the city it originates from — or through high fashion labels like Giorgio Armani, Max Mara, Brunello Cucinelli, and Valentino Garavani, they have turned the idea of style into something else entirely. More of a dialogue between the body, the fabric, and the environment.

And this is where the label ‘Made in Italy’ behind a fabric means something. Not just a high industrial standard or a superior material that the country is known for, but more because the garment is shaped through touch, adjustment, and sensitivity. That’s why Italian style feels alive, instead of imposed. It doesn’t dominate the wearer; it collaborates with them.

And globally, this redefined luxury.

True elegance stopped meaning rigid perfection, and started meaning ease, movement, and a kind of unconscious precision.

When that same mindset of lived experience and rich texture enters cinema, it dismantles the very idea of storytelling as a clean, engineered structure.

Directors like Federico Fellini and Michelangelo Antonioni rejected the assumption that stories need resolution, clarity, or even coherence in the traditional sense. In films like La Dolce Vita or L’Avventura, what you get is not a plot that moves forward efficiently, but a sequence of experiences — fragments of life, ambiguity, silence, disconnection — wrapped in the melancholic beauty of cinematography and iconic faces.

This influenced global cinema in a profound way.

It opened the door for filmmakers everywhere to treat film not as narrative machinery, but as a medium of perception. You see its echoes in modern art-house cinema, in slow cinema, in directors who prioritize mood over plot.

What Italy did — especially during post-WWII — was expose the artificiality of tightly structured storytelling and replace it with something far closer to how life is actually lived: messy, unresolved, and deeply subjective.

And in art, this influence runs even deeper, because it begins at the level of how reality itself is understood.

From the Renaissance onward, Italian art refused to treat beauty as an abstract ideal. Through figures like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, art became a form of investigation — a way of understanding anatomy, space, tension, and proportion through direct engagement.

That shift changed Western perception entirely.

It established the idea that truth could be pursued through making, through material, through the eye and the hand — not just through philosophy or doctrine.

And that legacy still continues.

Whether in classical painting in Venice, modern design in Milan, or contemporary visual culture as a whole, the Italian influence insists that form and meaning cannot be separated — that beauty is not decoration, but a way of knowing.

Everything we’ve been talking about — Renaissance craft, tailoring, fragmented city-states, distrust of abstraction — it all converges into one line:

In other words: La Dolce Vita.

There is no coincidence why, after Post-WWII, Italy did not go the route of rigid reconstruction — efficiency, industrial identity, clean systems — like Germany.

Instead:

• Cafés filled again

• Streets became stages

• Fashion, film, and social life blurred together

Especially in Rome.

However — beyond the picture-glamour of late nights, beautiful people, effortless elegance — it has something to do with more than just indulgence or pleasure.

What Federico Fellini captured in La Dolce Vita — or, the actual ideology behind the term — was far from a lifestyle to admire. It was a deeper cultural instinct made visible: the idea that life is not something to be tightly structured, solved, or reduced into clean narratives, but something to be experienced as it unfolds, in all its ambiguity and contradiction.

This is where everything we’ve discussed converges.

The same mindset that shaped Renaissance art — where truth was pursued through making rather than abstract theory; the same instinct behind Italian tailoring and fashion design — where garments are shaped through the body rather than imposed by rigid templates; and the same logic in Italian cinema — where meaning emerges through moments rather than plot — all of it leads naturally to this way of living.

La Dolce Vita is simply what happens when a culture fully commits to lived experience over imposed order.

Instead of forcing life into rigid structures, it allowed life to re-emerge socially, aesthetically, and emotionally.

Allowing the immersion of life, where the society leaves room for people to move through moments without clear resolution — searching, drifting, experiencing.

Allowing life to remain complex, unresolved, and sensorial, rather than forcing it into clarity too quickly.

What Italy reveals, more honestly than most cultures, is that when you choose to live through experience rather than control, you gain depth — but you lose certainty.

La Dolce Vita is that trade-off, fully exposed. And yet, still seductive.

That’s why Fellini’s film of the same name can somehow trick the watcher into longing for the era and the life portrayed through Marcello Rubini, no matter how drifting and empty it is.

That’s why Luxury — for all its driving of desire and hunger for status — is still ‘romanticized’ in Milan, and hailed there as its own stage, for decades.

And that’s why the idea of ‘Made in Italy’ objects means something more than just craft and construction. It is a texture of life that you can sense — just by recognizing that this object, this art, this idea, this entity, came from ‘Italy’.

Most people mistake Italian beauty for ease. It is, in fact, the residue of discipline they no longer see. What Italy reveals—more honestly than most—is that a life shaped through experience rather than control produces beauty, but never certainty.

The mistake is not in admiring La Dolce Vita.

The mistake is believing it was ever effortless—or even entirely sweet.

“These days, what people really do seek is having—or looking like having—a good taste.”

This is the idea that struck me in the past week when I spoke with one of my lifelong friends—someone I’ve known since childhood.

It seems that the idea of algorithmic culture is not just my personal interpretation after all—the effect appears to extend into something broader than disruptive attention and bombarded information, but also into the idea that:

It’s made personal taste matter more than ever.

You can instantly test that assumption of mine in a very simple manner—open your IG, then scroll through the Discover section for a few minutes, and you will see what I mean.

Instagram, like many major social media platforms, is driven by algorithms with the objective of “making users stay as long as possible”—and nothing is more effective at doing that than this timeless rule of media: “Give people what they want.”

What you see through the feed is feedback that IG traces back to your behavior, curated into something “similar” to it. The result is that you begin to develop an ideology, a visual sense, an AESTHETIC—which gradually takes shape into your “taste.” (One that, more often than not, people will also reconfirm by curating their own social accounts through visuals and words.)

Because these platforms don’t just reflect what you like; they quietly train it—feeding you patterns, narrowing your options, and rewarding certain choices over others. You end up feeling like you’re expressing individuality while actually selecting from a refined menu that millions of others are also drawing from.

While the preferences and curation you get from these platforms are not fake, they are also not fully independent.

The reality is—the more polished and consistent your taste appears, the more likely it is that it aligns perfectly with what the algorithm already knows how to amplify.

So the question is—is it possible to develop an actually “great taste” for yourself without relying on the algorithm? And is it even something that matters, in depth and essence, to life in the first place?

Ladies and gentlemen, if that is what you’re curious about, then allow me to introduce you to the ideology of “Taste”—especially in the new millennium, and why it matters more than ever.

“Taste = the ability to select, sequence, and contextualize signals in a way that feels meaningful to others.”

However, in the algorithmic era—where reality exists less in the physical world and increasingly in the digital—the idea of these “signals” has been diluted into something more performative than grounded in real presence.

And the empirical case requires no further search than the IG profile—especially among Generation Z. Lately, I’ve found myself somewhat sympathetic toward them. (since if we’re speaking in chronological terms, I am still part of this generation—albeit at its very early edge).

What you can observe when scrolling through Gen Z profiles—though this varies depending on the culture they were raised in—is a pattern: some present themselves through images blended with “art,” others through trendy iPhone portraits set against exotic locations. But regardless of the form, they all serve a common purpose:

Signaling meaning to others—to demonstrate, express, and declare to the world:

This is Who I Am.

Very human, indeed.

Yet, as I hinted earlier in the illusion of taste in the current era, there is a strong possibility that what is presented as “taste” on social media is merely a beautiful surface without substance beneath it.

For instance, consider a pattern I’ve observed within certain Gen Z social circles I’m familiar with. (If you struggle to picture it, I would describe it as a clear example of fabricated taste at its finest.)

Driven by materialist cultural forces, it manifests as a pursuit of the “good life” through appearances—objects, places, and activities that signal success in a capitalist framework—without deeper awareness or appreciation of what those things actually represent.

• They cannot truly appreciate the wine featured in a fine-dining post

• They do not engage with the cultural depth of the cities or places they proudly use as backdrops for their portraits

Of course, I am not suggesting that anyone who posts their meals or travels is inherently shallow or fabricating taste.

But if you pay close attention, you can often sense the difference—through the visuals and the feeling of a profile—whether there is substance behind the style or not.

Now, the central point I want to make is this: the idea of “taste” has always gone beyond vanity or self-presentation. While it often manifests that way—and understandably so—there is a deeper rationale beneath it. No one wants to stand out awkwardly like a purple cow, yet at the same time, everyone desires a sense of individuality and belonging.

Taste—especially a refined one—offers exactly that.

There’s a French term that holds an iconic status and serves as a kind of noble quality ingrained in Parisian culture—“Le Savoir-Faire,” or “know-how” in English. What it means by “know-how” is not something tied to a specific skill, but rather a way of navigating life itself.

While I have not yet experienced long-term living or deep cultural immersion in Paris, from what I sensed during a brief week of visiting (along with plenty of Nouvelle Vague cinema), the idea of “selecting, sequencing, and contextualizing signals in a way that feels meaningful to others” is something they truly embody. In other words, they cultivate what we call “taste” as a central part of their culture.

Take something as simple as hosting an apéritif.

It looks effortless, but nothing is random. There aren’t ten dishes competing for attention—just a few elements chosen with intention, served in a natural rhythm, and shaped around the mood of the people at the table. The ham comes from a trusted butcher. The wine matches the dish. The cheese is seasonal. Every element reinforces a quiet message: “This moment matters, and I shaped it for you.”

The same logic appears in how people dress.

What looks casual is actually controlled restraint—neutral tones, clean lines, one subtle focal point. Nothing tries too hard, yet everything communicates something. Someone walks through Le Marais wearing jeans, a blazer, neutral shoes. It appears accidental, but that is precisely the intention. Their style is about being understood without explanation.

Even sitting at a café follows this pattern.

It’s not about rushing in for caffeine; it’s about choosing a moment, slowing it down, and engaging with the environment as if it carries meaning. Order, sit, sip slowly, observe. No rushing, no phone obsession. In contrast, cities like New York City often treat coffee as fuel for productivity. In Paris, coffee is life itself.

What’s really happening is a form of disciplined awareness, where one carefully selects what matters, arranges it deliberately, and places it in the right context so it feels meaningful to others. That is why “taste,” in the sense of le savoir-faire, becomes so central in French culture.

Because it is about filtering reality and presenting only what is worth attention.

And the uncomfortable truth is this: most people do not lack taste—they lack the patience, exposure, and discipline to refine it. Which leads to the absence of a currency known as “cultural capital.”

“Taste classifies, and it classifies the classifier…” — Pierre Bourdieu

When people fail to develop the ability to select, sequence, and contextualize what they present to the world, they lose more than refinement—they lose access to something deeper: cultural capital. Not in the superficial sense of knowing “fancy” things, but in the ability to participate fluently in environments where meaning is constructed through subtle signals.

And in spaces where status is determined by those signals, “taste”—as a producer of cultural capital—can carry more weight than monetary capital expressed through surface-level objects and experiences.

Without it, one becomes effectively invisible in spaces that operate on these codes.

Which also means being confined to environments where value must be explicit, loud, or transactional—because there is no access to the quieter currency of perception, nuance, and timing.

This is why old-world heritage cities and modern global metropolises feel so different—they operate on entirely different currencies.

In cities like Paris or Rome, status is built on cultural capital—the kind described by Pierre Bourdieu—an ability to filter, interpret, and express meaning through subtle, coherent signals. The less one tries to impress, the more credible one appears.

In contrast, metropolises like New York City, Bangkok, or Dubai run on attention capital, where visibility itself becomes the primary measure of value. There, it is not about being deeply understood, but instantly recognized—meaning louder, clearer, and more repeatable signals tend to win.

However, ladies and gentlemen, I would offer this statement:

It shapes how you perceive the world, how you filter what matters, and how you organize your choices into something coherent. Internally, it gives you clarity—you are no longer overwhelmed by noise or pulled in every direction. You develop precision in attention, an instinct for what to engage with and what to ignore.

Externally, it shapes how others experience you—even in environments that do not explicitly value refinement.

In some places, it translates directly into status.

In others, it works more subtly, shaping trust, credibility, and opportunity over time.

In an attention-driven culture, it allows you to resonate without becoming noise.

In a culture built on cultural capital, it allows you to move with fluency and depth.

This combination is what creates iconic figures and timeless allure—as seen in the mid-century. Wherever they went, they knew how to navigate. Clear perception, disciplined choice, and contextual awareness—these remain valuable in any environment, whether immediately recognized or not.

Which leads to the final idea we must clarify:

“If taste is more than vanity, then how do we truly cultivate it in the age of the algorithm—one that depends less on it, and remains genuinely distinct?”

In the life you’ve been given—this current existence—you only have one chance. Whether you believe in an afterlife or rebirth or not, you only live once, and it would be a shame not to live up to it.

At least, that’s the idea I’ve held onto since moving past my teenage years. And the consequence of doing so is that you will become…different.

The good news is—that’s the first step in cultivating your own taste.

While it is almost impossible to completely avoid the algorithm today, you are still able to curate your life through other components beyond it.

One thing I want to make clear before going further is this: no matter how distinct your taste becomes, it is a noble pursuit to balance that distinctiveness with fluidity in your social world.

Because that is what elegance is, isn’t it?

Putting others at ease through self-assurance, respect, and grace—without needing anything from them.

An empirical example I can offer is the way of dressing—something I once explored in an editorial written during my time in Milan last winter.

For a long time, I never questioned or fully understood the stylistic language of Bangkok. I used to dismiss it, believing the city had no taste, no space for elegance—no place for the kind of style I admired: jackets, leather footwear, wool as a daily uniform. It wasn’t until I brought that style to Milan that I finally felt a sense of attunement—style in harmony with its environment.

And that led to a realization:

“Of course tailoring works in Milan. It is a city shaped by centuries of fashion, design, and craftsmanship—a cultural capital where such expression belongs.”

But what about Bangkok? What is the stylistic language of this metropolis?

Now, I’ve come to understand it—and, in a sense, finally achieve elegance in my own way. Not by imposing a foreign aesthetic, but by blending my personal taste with the casualness, dynamism, and fashion-forward energy of the city.

So, if there is one essential step I can offer in developing your own taste, it is this: introspection.

Yes, it sounds cliché—almost self-help in tone—but in reality, most of what shapes my choices—how I dress, the films I watch, the music I listen to, even the creation of Renaissance Flâneur itself—comes from self-awareness.

Which leads to a question I’ll leave with you:

Bring that question into your daily life, into everything you choose to do—and you will begin to filter what truly matters from what does not.

Or more simply: what remains?

That is where real taste begins.

Now, here is the method of cultivation I’ve found most reliable: engage deeply with things that demand attention, time, and effort—things that are not easily consumed.

Platforms like Pinterest or Instagram offer pre-curated conclusions. They train you to replicate what has already been validated. But authentic taste develops through direct encounters—with reality, with constraint, and with friction.

For me, engaging with challenging material—whether difficult books, slow cinema, or any craft that requires judgment and editing—is essential. Because that is where you learn to decide what matters.

• Films from European directors of the 1960s, such as Federico Fellini, Michelangelo Antonioni, Alain Resnais, and Jean-Luc Godard—they immerse you in narrative depth, human complexity, and a certain existential elegance that lingers far beyond the screen.

• Tailoring—especially sartorial craft or even haute couture—demands an understanding of history, technique, and aesthetic judgment that shapes both the wearer and the creator.

• Gastronomy allows you to understand culture beyond flavor—into rhythm, lifestyle, and the way people inhabit time.

• Books from thinkers such as Italo Calvino, Friedrich Nietzsche, Niccolò Machiavelli, and Ernest Hemingway—while their lives were far from perfect—offer direct access to thought, experience, and perspective that refine one’s own.

All of these transform passive preference into genuine discernment.

You no longer think in terms of “what looks good” or “what should I choose,” because your perception has been trained to recognize proportion, timing, and context instinctively.

Which brings us back to what the French mean by le savoir-faire: not knowledge you can easily explain, but an embodied ability to act appropriately in the moment.

Instead of reacting or copying, you begin to move with precision—you enter a room and adjust naturally, you speak and reveal just enough, you choose and arrange things with coherence, without overthinking.

In other words, taste stops being something you have and becomes something you do—fluidly, and contextually.

That is when your real taste emerges.

What distinguishes a person with taste is not what they own or display, but what they perceive. They see the selection behind what appears, the context that gives it meaning, and the coherence that holds it together. Where others see surfaces, they see decisions—what was chosen, what was rejected, and why it fits.

And once you begin to see this, you cannot return to seeing things the same way again.

For a mere teenager back then, that experience — the night spent alone, sipping a drink discreetly and watching the scene of ‘culture’ that I, at that time, had not articulated so well why I was drawn to it so much…

But the more I experience life, the more I absorb media — the more I can see the intersection between these… films, books, and shows. Whether Mad Men when I was 22, or classic 007 starring the man ‘Sean Connery’ at 23 years old — now half a decade has passed, and all the media I adored always led down the same ‘road’ that leads to the mid-century period.

As once elaborated in this editorial of mine — the era represented the last era of virtue that the 2020s seem to have discarded or somewhat ‘forgotten’. The idea of holding elegance as the ‘standard’, not optional; the interaction with grace and manner during encounters and conversations; or even the atmosphere that still allowed people to sit, think, and stay with themselves without being diluted by the bombardment of algorithms all the time.

However — among all the forgotten rituals and entities that once gloried during the mid-century, there’s one scenario that still breathes and holds its little corner for me — and likely you — to be able to tap into the essence of that era:

‘The Bar’

I still remember the first time I walked into the place so-called ‘Crimson Room’ when I was 20. I dressed in a poorly fitted oversized plain beige jacket, black slim-fit low-waist slacks, and dark brown horsebit loafers — to be honest, I would rate my ‘style’ very low — but in terms of the ‘courage’ to finally actualize the vision I had envisioned for so long, from a bar scene in New York in White Collar or Pierce Brosnan in a 1980s power suit as shown in Remington Steele — that was the ‘moment’ to remember.

Back then, my perception of ‘nightlife’ and ‘drinking’ culture was like most teenagers living in the new millennium — an outrageous, wild, and intense alcohol consumption with loud R&B music setting a vibrant atmosphere — but that night made me realize, or eventually tap into, another version of nightlife.

One that cherishes composure, intention, understated elegance, and a deliberate way of living.

A very few places where elegant attire and old-world virtue are still ‘accepted’ to be integrated with modernity — and certainly a place where nightlife, either in a big metropolis or a small town on any continent, will always have one.

The thing is — behind the tons of liquor on a shelf, the warm-lit interior — what’s the appeal of this ‘culture’? Why is it considered a transportation to a bygone era, without the need for a time machine?

There are images you can imagine whenever the word ‘nightlife’ occurs in your mind… the straight, long line of people awaiting entry into the most ‘trending’ club of the season; the loud outdoor spaces full of individuals holding glasses of beer and ‘enjoying’ their time as dusk arrives, with the idea of ‘consuming’ as many drinks as possible.

In which, most of the time, is an act of escapism. Either from the reality they’re facing or from incidents that are disturbing their minds.

Truth is, in terms of legality and morality — there’s nothing wrong with those. In the end, that is how ‘taverns’ during the medieval period to nightclubs in these days came to exist in the first place as a ‘business’ — since it’s the way humans naturally lean toward temporarily ‘releasing’ the tension of their lives.

However, the problem with it is this:

When most people talk about nightlife, they picture energy, freedom, and connection — but when you actually stand in the middle of it in the new millennium, something feels slightly off, like the whole thing is running on autopilot.

Ladies and gentlemen, again, it’s not that people are doing anything wrong; they’re just trying to unwind, to feel something, to escape the weight of their own thoughts. But instead of real release, it often turns into performance — people dressing, moving, even reacting in ways that feel subtly rehearsed, as if they’re more aware of how they’re being seen than what they’re actually experiencing.

The music is loud, the lights are designed to impress, the drinks flow endlessly — yet genuine connection feels rare, almost impossible to create. It’s as if the environment is engineered to simulate intensity rather than allow something real to emerge. And maybe that’s the unsettling part — you can sense that beneath all the stimulation, many people aren’t fully there; they’re negotiating with their own emptiness, trying to override it rather than face it.

So the whole scene of modern nightlife works, capitalistically — it’s lively, crowded, profitable — but it lacks a certain human depth, the kind that makes an experience feel meaningful rather than just momentarily distracting.

Now, allow me to introduce you to ‘bar culture’, the vision of mine that served as a time machine to the last frontier of elegance, where nightlife could still be a place for ‘genuine connection’, with an atmosphere that allowed it to happen.

First, trust me that I am very aware that the visual of a man in a grey flannel suit in Mad Men, having 2–3 martinis, or Marcello Mastroianni in La Dolce Vita opening a bottle of champagne at a 1960s Roman social club, is not all glamour and purity in that sense. There is still the idea of escapism, the dynamic of social leverage and status games—the things that make ‘a human a human’.

But one obvious thing is that in those days—men and women were willing to hold onto consciousness and willing to adopt a subtle, understated way of releasing tension; all of which was reflected through the series of conversations, the varieties of cocktails, and elegance in attire—a reflection of quiet discipline.

Conversation — The Intimacy through Substance

Dialogue during the evening wasn’t filler to pass time, but more of the event itself. People spoke with a kind of deliberate presence, where wit, restraint, and timing mattered as much as what was actually said. As you see it echoed in shows like Mad Men, where a single exchange could reveal more than an entire modern night out. There was intimacy in that—not because people overshared, but because they withheld just enough to make every word count, and were not afraid to go deep into the details of a conversation once it began.

Cocktail — The Drink that Reflects Taste

Ordering a drink was a subtle declaration of taste, rhythm, even personality. I once elaborated on this in an editorial—but in a basic sense, there is the art of the cocktail, the depth behind each whisky, the composition behind each bottle of wine; one that required a discerning individual to curate and cultivate their taste, to master the way of ordering in each evening. It was a controlled accent to the atmosphere and companionship—both enhancing and reflecting the mood of the moment.

Elegance — The Symbol of Consciousness

The way people dressed, carried themselves, entered a room—back then, it was a signal that they understood the social fabric they were part of. Think of the composed presence of Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman—two embodiments of mature grace at its peak form. The idea of elegance was about being in control of oneself in front of others.

Put together, these elements created a kind of evening culture where nothing was loud, but everything had weight—where tension, taste, and awareness turned even the simplest interaction into something that felt, unmistakably, human.

And all of those three—you can ‘actually’ find embodied in the place so-called ‘bar’.

There’s nothing that beats the bizarre experience of stepping into this kind of place for the first time—for me, as a mere teenager back then, ‘overwhelming’ is the term that defines that memory.

• Where to sit?

• What to order?

• How should I behave?

Many questions occurred—yet, when things began to stabilize, when it was the next time, and another, and another—I then realized for sure that ‘this is one of the best ways to spend the evening’.

It was far from a crowded atmosphere, far from hedonistic indulgence—though there were times I still saw those in such places—but very occasionally. This also depends on the ‘choice of bar’ you go to. Because… if it’s a mass spot, it’s hard for it not to be full of people (and the increasing chance of facing a chaotic mode).

However, that scenario can turn into a beauty of the Flâneur at its finest.

Imagine yourself composed through internal character and external appearance; complete in yourself, nothing shouting—and then simply finding a comfortable place at a bar, ordering a drink that lasts long enough to savor over an hour, and watching ‘modern’ life as it unfolds… without attachment.

Seeing it, observing it, questioning it—these are the joys themselves.

The beauty is that a place so-called ‘bar’ can serve many purposes—whether that flâneur act, lingering conversations with company, or deep introspection within the sphere of jazz or your favourite genres of music.

Again, the choice of bar truly matters—and the practice I can share is to “explore the very city” you’re in, since each one carries its own tempo and language.

In my case, there is a clear differentiation between bars in Milan and Bangkok—in other words, an old-world city and a new-world metropolis. When I was in Milan last winter, the mood of the place carried a consistent energy: intimacy, warmth, elegance, and a sense of passion—whether in the drinks or the people. Here in Bangkok now, it’s about experiencing the perspective of the metropolis—whether on a high floor of a grand skyscraper or discreetly tucked into a hidden street of the old town… but both operate on a similar philosophy: indulgence, extravagance, and vibrancy.

Now, the question remains—how do you integrate this idea of ‘bar culture’ into your own life without ending up as an alcoholic?

Trust me, that was the question I had before setting foot in Milan.

While I had heard the term ‘aperitivo’ or ‘aperitif’ before, I never truly understood it… “What is the idea of this period, in terms of having a drink in the early evening before a proper dinner?”

Until I walked along Porta Venezia, San Babila, and other districts in Milan—and finally came to understand this culture, which surprisingly aligns with the ‘Flâneur Bar Culture’ we have discussed.

The term “aperitivo” comes from the Latin aperire—to open. Biologically, it opens the appetite of the digestive system. And what better time to do so than after work, in the evening, in an open social setting? Seen this way, aperitivo hours become a kind of ‘break mechanism’ within modern work life—psychologically signaling that “today’s work period is done, and it can wait until tomorrow.”

Unfortunately, that kind of privilege, while still active in Western Europe, is not fully integrated in other parts of the world—especially major metropolises like the US, Tokyo, Bangkok, Singapore, and others. There’s a high chance that if you’re a knowledge worker with a full-time employment contract, while you’re sipping your Negroni, a Slack notification or a direct WhatsApp call will interrupt the moment.

Ladies and gentlemen, what I propose is this:

Again, if there’s a single culture that has fully survived and is still applicable from the mid-century to this very day—it is the elegance of having a drink at a bar.

In the end, this is a symbol of deliberate living, one that resists modern conditions. Where you choose to maintain elegance in a place that demands it; where you regain your personal time, or at least choose to spend it in conversational fulfillment with those you care about—and hopefully, where you are able to sit still and observe the people, the city, and yourself—even if it’s just for a few hours in a week.