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.

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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.

“One thing I will do for sure, when I arrive back at my place in Bangkok, is to ‘integrate’ the well-considered design you have here into my own space.”

That was what I told my Airbnb host and friend—Alessandro—when I was in Milan last winter.

His apartment at Via Pasquale Sottocorno 9—while certainly spacious, with multiple rooms—held something more compelling: the idea of creating an atmosphere that felt calm, present, and serene within it. The thoughtful placement of lamps, a well-crafted chair from the late 20th century, and, of course, postmodern artwork—deeply regarded within Milan’s cultural sphere.

With that thought in mind, it ignited a new perspective in me; whether in observing fleeting life in the city, or in watching films, I began to find myself drawn to the materials—the chairs, the tables, the buildings—to feel the space through the visual language of cinema, particularly from the 1960s.

And just as I once fell completely, almost irrationally, in love with clothing and fashion—this time, it is design.

In recent weeks, whenever a cultural moment arises, I find myself leaning toward names such as Tadao Ando, Charles-Édouard Jeanneret, Julius Shulman—and, certainly, cinema that represents ‘design’ during the mid-century period I so admire.

Ladies and gentlemen, one thing I can firmly say to you here is this—design is a part of life that is worth every minute spent cultivating into one’s cultural fluency.

If you wonder why—then we must first clarify this term…

“What is Design, actually?”

“A house is a machine for living in.” — Charles-Édouard ‘Le Corbusier’ Jeanneret

Design is one of those words people throw around as if it simply means decoration.

However, beyond this superficial interpretation, design is fundamentally about making things make sense.

At its core, design is the deliberate act of shaping form, function, and experience to solve a problem or express an intention. It sits at the intersection of logic and perception—part engineering, part psychology, part art.

When something is well-designed, you don’t notice it—you simply move through it effortlessly, because it aligns with how humans think, feel, and behave.

Now, the question is: why is design so tightly bound to architecture, interiors, and furniture?

If I were to answer from my personal worldview, it is because these disciplines deal directly with the human environment—the spaces we inhabit and the objects we constantly interact with.

• Architecture is not merely about constructing buildings; it is about orchestrating space, light, movement, and emotion on a structural scale.

• Interior design moves inward, shaping how those spaces function and feel—how a room guides behavior, comfort, and mood.

• Furniture design becomes even more intimate, focusing on the objects the body physically engages with—chairs, tables, surfaces—where ergonomics, material, and form converge.

These fields are inseparable from design because they cannot exist without intentional decisions about human use.

A chair that looks stunning but destroys your spine is bad design.

A building that impresses visually but confuses movement is bad design.

A room that is stylish but emotionally sterile is bad design.

In all these cases, the failure is not aesthetic—it is conceptual.

So the real answer is this:

Architecture, interiors, and furniture are simply its most tangible forms—where bad thinking becomes physically unavoidable, and good thinking becomes quietly indispensable.

This is why something remarkable occurred in the realm of design during the mid-century period—the idea of form and function converging into a kind of timeless harmony. One could argue it was the last moment when design, industry, and human life aligned without pretense.

After the chaos of war and the excess of ornament-heavy eras, designers stopped asking, “What looks impressive?” and began asking, “What actually works for living?”

That shift produced clarity.

Consider the Case Study Houses—especially the Stahl House by Pierre Koenig.

They were not just architectural statements, but prototypes for living: modular, efficient, open, and deeply connected to climate and landscape, as captured through the lens of Julius Shulman. While they appear cinematic, what you are truly seeing is logic made beautiful—glass walls not for spectacle, but to dissolve boundaries; open plans not for trend, but for flexibility.

At the object scale, Charles and Ray Eames approached design with similar intent. The Eames Lounge Chair and Ottoman was not created to be iconic—it became iconic because it resolved problems with elegance. Molded plywood, ergonomic precision, and the ability to be mass-produced without sacrificing human comfort.

Or take Dieter Rams at Braun—he reduced products until only purpose remained, inadvertently defining a visual language that companies still emulate today, including the work seen in early Apple under Steve Jobs.

To say that mid-century design still feels modern and relevant today is to misunderstand it. It was never chasing “modernity” to begin with—it was pursuing coherence between form, function, material, and human behavior.

What is perhaps more troubling is how often design is overlooked as a meaningful part of everyday life—and there is a reason for that.

Design, in its true form, demands awareness: noticing why something works, why it feels right, why something frustrates you even if you cannot immediately explain it. This requires a level of perception most people are neither trained—nor willing—to develop.

It is easier to accept things as they are than to question why a door handle confuses you, why a room feels oppressive, or why a product subtly irritates you every day. These acts require presence and attention—qualities that are increasingly eroded in an age shaped by algorithmic culture.

Then there is the cultural layer—consumerism as shaped by capitalism, particularly in hyper-vibrant cities that amplify this condition. Most people are conditioned to ask, “Do I like this?” rather than “Does this work well?” or “Why was this made this way?” That shift—from passive liking to active understanding—is the real barrier.

So it is not that people cannot understand design—it is that understanding design requires effort, attention, and a willingness to see beyond the surface.

And most people, if we are being honest, optimize for ease and comfort.

Yet, like other forms of art—or even clothing—the purpose of great design is grounded in people, in experience, and in the cultivation of perception. To develop fluency in appreciating it is not a futile pursuit.

It is, quite simply, a way to make life more serene—to be lived with greater clarity, and quiet enjoyment.

A quick note I must make—this is a personal perspective from someone who knows nothing, quite literally nothing, about design—or at least is far from fluent compared to clothing and fashion, which I’ve spent nearly half a decade immersed in.

But I think that’s precisely the point.

Because if you’ve read this far and are wondering how to begin cultivating your eye, your sense, and your taste in this realm—here are my direct experiences.

(All of this can be done with little to a very precise budget—far from requiring furniture or pieces that cost ten grand.)

And…I would begin with this:

Simple as it sounds, there is a reason for it. There is a high chance that the things surrounding your life—the city you are in, the places you go, the films you watch—are already attuned to your preferences.

They are part of your identity. And what better place to begin understanding design than from what is already close to you?

For instance, Mad Men—this all-time great from the golden era of television became, in my case, a kind of “study in motion.” It made me fall in love with design long before I understood why.

The interiors, the buildings, the artwork—they represent the era I am most drawn to: mid-century. Just like style, way of life, and the broader cultural landscape of that time, my design preference naturally gravitates there as a foundation.

The places that speak to me are those shaped by interiors of that era. The galleries that resonate are those presenting post-war art. And all of these spaces, without exception, leave behind cues—quiet lessons in design, waiting to be noticed.

So the real practice here is not to curate more—but to notice more, and to place greater intention on your everyday experience. Even if this feels difficult in a world that constantly pushes you to move, scroll, and consume.

My way of anchoring this—and one that has worked remarkably well—is to simply sit down with a book.

Within the realm of design, nothing is more quietly compelling than a coffee table book. As superficial as it may sound, these books are deeply visual and culturally dense—spanning fashion, lifestyle, and, of course, design.

From interiors to large-scale architecture, they allow you to sit still—with a coffee or a glass of wine—and move through them slowly. You begin to see details. And more importantly, you can return to them, again and again.

That act of returning is crucial. It stands in direct opposition to the algorithmic culture that constantly pushes newness without depth.

The only thing to keep in mind when approaching these books is this: slow down, and ask questions.

Why does this work?

What’s missing?

What would happen if this element were removed?

Then compare pages. Look for patterns across projects.

That is when your “eye” begins to evolve—from instinct into judgment.

It sharpens in the same way repeated exposure to a language sharpens your ear. You begin to notice proportion, restraint, material honesty, spatial rhythm—things most people remain blind to.

While this will not give you technical mastery, it does something just as important in the early stage:

It calibrates your internal compass—allowing you to recognize coherence.

Recently, a book like The World of Apartamento caught my attention. It turned out to be an investment in a very specific visual language—one that helped me understand what makes an interior feel alive, and how deeply it connects to the way we live.

Now, I find myself noticing things I once overlooked entirely—the way light hits a cracked wall and reflects into a room, the curvature of a chair designed with restraint, the presence of raw, brutalist pillars intersecting with everyday objects in a café that doubles as a roastery.

All of it forms a quiet coherence—a narrative.

And it is something I would not have seen, even on my twelfth visit to the same place, had I not begun cultivating this language of design.

Ladies and gentlemen, I suppose that is the true beauty of cultural fluency—

It allows you to understand the world more deeply.

Or, at the very least, the life you are already living.

Either from wearing it myself or seeing ‘the masses’ wear it.

Looking back at that thought, I feel quite ashamed to have had that judgment of this garment. Though I couldn’t help it, since the ‘image projection’ of the majority of people who wear jeans these days—especially men—has somewhat been labeled as ‘casual, slop and loose’ (for women, they tend to know well which cut and silhouette of jeans will serve their body, from fuller, flair to the current baggy trend).

The funny thing is—before I embarked on my sartorial journey, 7–8 years ago—even back when I was a student, my ‘ensemble’—the most favorite one without knowing why—was ‘white shirt with indigo denim and white sneakers’. Even if it’s the fact that the shirt was made of cheap polyester, the jeans were skinny and tight to every muscle molecule of my lower body (with a lower rise also)…

I still remember the feeling of wearing it:

“uncomfortable by body, but so ‘comfort’ emotionally.”

I didn’t know why—until this current phase of my life, when I began to ‘realize’ the truth behind clothes & culture—that they are always associated with each other, always.

Now that I’m back for a break from the globe-trotter phase—in Bangkok again… the place that I once resented and accused of its superficialness, overly casual nature, and ‘jeans’ everywhere—I confess to you that in the past week, I wore ‘jeans’ more than tailored ‘wool’ trousers that I once thought were the pinnacle of comfort and style.

With the only denim I have—the high-waisted, flared, green-cast indigo from Husbands—from cosmopolitan casual to tailoring-oriented ensemble, whether I wore it with a classic white T-shirt or with a jacket and striped shirt inside—the jean ‘anchors’ me to stay ‘attuned’ to modernity more than the double-pleated wool trousers I’m fond of.

The question that is worth ‘exploring’ is:

“Why is this happening?”

Not only for me, but for many like-minded individuals whom I know, who love style from a bygone era but do not stick to the exact past.

What makes ‘jeans’ and ‘modernity’ have such an unbreakable bond with each other?

Why is it the most empirically practiced way to ‘integrate’ elegance into the modern world?

And we shall start by ‘exploring’ this term ‘modern’ at its core.

“Modernity is the transient, the fleeting, the contingent; it is one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immovable.” - Charles Baudelaire

‘Modern’ usually refers to the era that emerges out of the collapse of medieval structures and crystallizes between the 16th and 18th centuries, gaining full force with the Enlightenment and industrialization.

But “modern” is more than a timeline—it is more of an archetype.

The modern individual is defined by a belief that the world is understandable, improvable, and ultimately controllable through human reason. This is the birth of the autonomous self: the idea that identity is self-constructed rather than inherited. It produces ambition, innovation, and scientific breakthroughs—but also anxiety, alienation, and the constant pressure to redefine oneself.

So the idea of modernity really fractured in the mid-20th century, when the same systems that promised advancement also produced instability, alienation, and contradiction.

Take Antonioni’s so-called trilogy—L’Avventura, La Notte, and L’Eclisse.

These films don’t just depict alienation; they expose the failure of the modern promise. His characters are materially comfortable, socially mobile, and “free” in the modern sense, yet they drift—unable to anchor meaning.

The same tension is applied to mid-20th-century philosophy by two prominent figures: Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus. One pushes the modern idea to its extreme—if there’s no predetermined essence, then you are entirely responsible for who you become. The other looks at this “modern” condition and essentially says: the universe doesn’t care about your search for meaning.

Things also happened in architecture, interior design, music, and culture as a whole—forces that began to challenge old-world power structures and ‘break through’ them with rigorous intensity, as seen in the counterculture movement.

So what followed from the 1960s was a loss of certainty, and it is here that the “contemporary” begins: a world still built on modern structures—capitalism, technology, individualism—but no longer confined to a single narrative of progress. Instead of moving forward with clarity, everything now coexists—styles, values, identities—without a dominant center.

And here comes the ‘game-changer’: people began dressing more ‘freely’ than ever—and were socially accepted to do so for the first time.

Ladies and gentlemen, what do you see from these iconic archives during the 1970s?

Sure, they represented the quality we cherish—elegance—without any doubt… either in the years these pictures were taken or in the current day and night.

The thing is, if we place all of them in 2026—whether in new-world metropolises like Bangkok, Dubai, Tokyo, or old-world European capitals like Milan, Paris, Vienna—even though modern masses do not dress like them anymore, they still ‘look and feel’ attuned to our era, even 50 years later.

On the contrary, if it were Cary Grant in the 1930s or Audrey Hepburn in the 1950s—their style and attire would certainly feel ‘out of place,’ and it would be difficult to call it ‘elegance’ within the contemporary atmosphere.

The real mechanism behind this phenomenon is this—they are the first generation dressing under the same philosophical conditions we still live in.

• No fixed dress code

• No obligation to signal class through clothing

• Comfort and individuality prioritized

• Mixing of formal and informal normalized

After the counterculture, these became the values by which people have approached clothing ever since.

And that is why, if the city you’re living in has no historical rooting associated with old-world glamour—like Bangkok, where I’m living now—no matter how light the fabric of your wool suit is, or how soft the calfskin of your oxfords are, you cannot achieve ‘attunement’ with the city and the modern masses.

Now, here comes our protagonist in this editorial—‘Jeans’.

Because… if there’s a garment that those icons of the 1970s ‘always’ incorporated into their ‘elegant ensemble’ as a part of it—it is this garment that serves as a ‘democratic anchor’ to make elegance alive.

This garment has been with us for more than a century—considering that Levi Strauss debuted it in 1873—specially made for miners and laborers. So by original intent, denim begins as pure function, completely outside the logic of fashion. Which means jeans carry no original connection to status, taste, or elegance—only utility.

However, there’s a significant connection between the idea of putting this blue-collar garment into civilian wear and the shift in the norm of dressing, as we’ve discussed above.

For decades during the early 20th century, workwear is workwear.

Civilian dress (especially in cities) remains coded, hierarchical, and formal. Then the mid-century starts eroding those boundaries: mass media spreads images, youth culture emerges, class mobility increases.

Denim begins to leak into civilian life—first as rebellion—think James Dean in a red Harrington, white tee, and indigo jeans in Rebel Without a Cause; the perfect representation of how the identity of youth and the clothes of jeans reflected each other).

So the real shift happens when denim stops being rebellious and becomes normal in the late 60s–70s (and it still is ever since).

It is the moment that society no longer requires clothing to visibly encode your role.

Once a former miner’s garment can be worn by artists, actors, elites, and everyday people alike, the old system—where clothing clearly communicated class and function—has effectively collapsed.

And from there, everything we discussed follows:

• Designers integrate denim → because the hierarchy is already broken

• Icons wear denim with tailoring → because mixing no longer violates rules

• Global cities adopt it → because it requires no shared cultural code to “read”

Denim works everywhere—from Milan to Tokyo to Bangkok—because it is the lowest common denominator of dress in a fragmented world.

But ladies and gentlemen, don’t mistake this for equality or simplicity.

Because the irony here is that:

While denim helped dissolve visible class distinctions in clothing… it then became one of the most sophisticated tools to reintroduce distinction subtly—through cut, wash, craft, and styling.

It’s obvious that jeans—because of their democratic nature—lead to the fact that the masses adopt them, and most of the time, the ‘silhouette’ and the aesthetic are far from pleasing… sometimes, the pair is low-waisted with too tight hips and a poor, excessive break at the hem. Or sometimes the shape is too avant-garde and leans into ‘fashion-forward’ with no restraint, like the current ‘baggy trend’ or exaggerated flares.

Don’t get me wrong, I do love the ‘flared’ silhouette; it’s very flattering, and very sophisticated to wear one if you know yourself—both physically and psychologically… so if you wonder ‘how to achieve elegance when wearing one’—here is my complete playbook.

#1 Getting to Know Your Body Shape

Elegance in denim begins not with the garment, but with the man—or woman—wearing it.

Since the garment itself, by nature—or at least when it was invented—has a certain structure, a rigidity of its own that serves differently than, let’s say, dress trousers. By understanding your body shape, you allow jeans to become an extension of your proportions rather than a contradiction of them.

Because most jeans have a ‘mid to high rise,’ do not expect them to feel like wearing pleated high-rise trousers—which is the great thing and beauty of it. Also, the proportion of jeans is usually cut to ‘hang’ on your lower body anatomy by nature; so even if it’s one that is cut in a straight leg, like the iconic Levi’s 501 with an 8-inch leg opening, it is still more ‘tapered’ to your body than most trousers would be.

That’s why knowing your own shape—how long your torso is compared to your lower part, how big or slim your legs are—really matters in deciding whether ‘denim’ will give you elegance or not.

When denim respects your architecture (or you respect denim as it is), the garment itself begins to look less like casual wear and more like a deliberate choice of a man or a woman wearing it.

#2 Always Be Mindful of ‘Garment Quality’

Denim, despite its rugged origins, is a fabric where quality speaks quietly, but unmistakably.

A superior pair of jeans reveals itself through the density and integrity of the cloth, often selvedge-woven (the red-stitched edge on the inside out-seam).

Also, you can notice the quality through the evenness of the twill, the richness of the indigo dye, and the precision of the stitching—chain-stitched hems, bar tacks placed with purpose, rivets that are functional rather than decorative afterthoughts.

Over time, a well-made pair develops a patina unique to its wearer, acquiring creases and fades that no factory can convincingly replicate. That quiet evolution is, in many ways, the essence of elegance.

(If you would like to explore more on ‘How to Spot Quality in Denim’—this article from Permanent Style helped me in the early days, and I do believe it will do the same for you.)

#3 Study the ‘Design’ Philosophy Behind

Every pair of jeans carries with it a lineage—either from workwear roots in the late 19th century, rebellious subcultures in the mid-20th, or modern reinterpretations you can see many designers return to again and again.

By understanding that narrative, you elevate how you wear them.

A classic five-pocket design, for example, originates from 19th-century utility garments, built for durability and function. Contemporary designers may refine this archetype with subtle adjustments: a cleaner pocket shape, a more refined rise, or a minimalist hardware approach.

When you appreciate these decisions, you begin to choose denim not merely for appearance, but for intent. For instance, my green-cast indigo, high-waisted flared denim from Husbands is a ‘Parisian’ interpretation of bringing the 1970s cultural scene into the garment—and can be worn with tailoring elegantly; through Japanese fine denim, minimal detailing, and an elongated silhouette—much like the French icons of that era.

Each brand has its own philosophy—Levi’s with its workwear rugged roots, Wrangler with cowboy cool; on the Japanese side, Fullcount with its Zimbabwe cotton that turns denim into something that feels almost like trousers, or Resolute, which pays homage to 1960s Levi’s, reflecting youth and rebellious cool through the precision of a Japanese lens.

The thing is, elegance lies in coherence—and aligning the story of the garment with the context in which you wear it is one of the easiest ways to achieve that.

#4 Incorporate with Other ‘Classics’

Denim achieves its highest expression when it converses with other timeless pieces.

With its informal nature, when incorporated with classics—cashmere crewnecks, long-sleeve silk shirts, tailored jackets, leather shoes, structured coats—garments that carry historical weight—you create a balance between the contemporary and the elegance of a bygone era, made into alignment.

The key is balance—allowing denim to soften the rigidity of tailored garments, while those classics, in turn, elevate the denim beyond its utilitarian origins.

Done well, the ensemble does not appear dressed up or down, but simply resolved—each element supporting the other in quiet agreement.

From the fact that, while I’m writing this piece, I am wearing a vintage Wrangler bootcut in deep indigo (that has already faded in its own unique way)—the feeling of doing so is much different from wearing jeans in the 2010s, before I was enlightened through my sartorial pilgrimage.

Since my ensemble here is a combination of white linen, black calfskin Cuban-heel Chelsea boots, and finished with a black-strap tank watch—the mood and tone are far from the typical ‘denim’ modern look, but lean toward a louche yet architectural silhouette that provokes the essence of Continental elegance in the 20th century—all without feeling or looking out of place in a modern, casual, tropical metropolis like Bangkok.

A perfect bridge between a world that required structure and a world that rejects it.

In newer, accelerated metropolises like Bangkok or Tokyo, codes of elegance in the old-world sense—through tailoring and couture—were never deeply rooted to begin with. These cities don’t have a long cultural memory telling people what a suit or a well-cut black dress “means,” so pure elegant garments can feel imposed, even artificial.

Denim somewhat solves that tension.

It carries no historical obligation in those contexts—it is globally neutral, socially flexible, and immediately legible. When you combine denim with tailoring, you soften the rigidity of the latter without discarding it entirely. The jacket stops looking like a uniform and starts functioning as a choice.

More importantly, denim allows tailoring to survive in a world that no longer respects formality as a default.

Once clothing stopped being a requirement and became a form of expression, pure tailoring lost its natural habitat. It needed something to destabilize it—to make it feel voluntary rather than enforced. Denim introduces informality, movement, and a sense of lived-in reality that tailoring alone often lacks today.

That’s why, in contemporary cities—especially those defined by speed, climate, and global influence—denim becomes the anchor. It grounds the outfit in the present, while tailoring adds intention and refinement. Without denim (or something like it), tailoring risks looking like a costume from a system people no longer believe in.

Basically, in our current grand culture, denim translates tailoring into a language that contemporary life can understand. It removes the demand for obedience while preserving the possibility of elegance.

And I would argue this clearly:

Which, in your own wardrobe, the garment so-called ‘denim’—a well-considered, well-crafted, well-cut one—truly deserves a place. It surprisingly allows elegance to remain believable under modern conditions.

The matter that you and I both know is the hope to regain ‘structure’ and ‘moment’ within an environment that is always ready to seize our attention at any time. Which results in fragmented action, cluttered routines, and the interruption of flow—whether it’s the moment you want to sit down (or stand up) to do the work, to break away from capitalism’s calling and sit still with yourself or with the people you love, or simply to engage in activities that enrich your skill, character, and depth in life (without needing to worry about a ping on Slack or a personal DM on WhatsApp about some urgent workplace issue).

However, it is also hard to resist that chaotic entropy, especially when the demands of money and productivity never sleep. Sure, if you’re in a specific place—for instance, a small coastal town in Italy, a city in Scandinavia, or a tropical island like Bali—you might be able to embrace life at a more controllable pace more easily than in a big metropolis. But if you are in the urban metropolis, then trust me—you are playing against all odds.

The thing is, while it’s obviously harder to achieve a state of composure, elegance, and a deliberate lifestyle in a metropolitan setting compared to a life on the quieter side of the world—it’s not impossible.

But once you know the ‘taste’ of it—the importance of cultivated elegance in the quality of living—you cannot help but be drawn to the image of being in control: control of the time you wake up, control of how you use your body, the way you eat, and the life you truly want to live—without needing to wait any longer. No matter the price you have to pay to attain that ‘Dolce Vita’ (in an actual sense) in the 2020s and beyond.

When you imagine the visual of ‘elegance’—what do you see?

• A man in tailored garments, sipping a Martini at a classic bar in a century-old hotel?

• A woman in a black dress with dark sunglasses, spending time on her own at a café?

• A world where restraint is cherished and completeness is achieved without excess?

Elegance is a term that is widely used these days—mostly as a marketing gimmick, for a certain image, a nostalgic act, or another form of vanity display. You can see it in ‘quiet luxury’-like brands that forgo the most important thing that made true quiet luxury brands a hit—‘substance’.

It can also be seen in black-and-white images of the 20th century that spread across Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube, then wrapped up in the ideology of the ‘Old Money Aesthetic’.

The thing is, elegance, when considered at its core, is much simpler than those visuals. If we consider the root of elegance, it actually comes from a Latin verb called eligere, which means “to select.” So to say that it wasn’t really about beauty at all, but about having good judgment and knowing how to pick the right things.

Historically, Cicero, the statesman of ancient Rome, used a related word, elegans, to describe someone with refined taste, especially in speech or writing. Over time, the word passed through French into English, and its meaning gradually shifted.

It began to include ideas of grace, beauty, and style, but it retained that deeper sense of careful choice. That’s why even today, when we call something elegant—like a design, an outfit, or even a mathematical solution—we usually mean it’s not just beautiful, but also simple, effective, and thoughtfully put together.

A lead back to the core of the term, which is “to select.”

However, I cannot disagree with many modern internet nostalgic archives from creators around the world who collect images and icons from the last century—from actors to musicians, to philosophers, to architecture, to designers…all names and faces that haven’t been missed this much—and there’s a reason for that.

Especially figures from the period so-called ‘the Mid-Century.’

I once wrote a piece on all the reasons why this period, in my humble opinion, is considered the last frontier of elegance.

Basically, it’s an era where this term was treated as a societal norm and a virtue that was still rewarded when cultivated. But as you might guess, when movements like the counterculture hit mankind during the late 1960s, the world was never the same—especially in terms of a strong push against anything that felt imposed or overly formal.

Elegance, which once signaled refinement, began to feel to some like conformity or even restriction. So the cultural ideal shifted—from polish and restraint toward authenticity and self-expression. People started valuing what felt real, raw, and individual over what appeared carefully composed. And as media sped up (television then, and the internet now), and society became more fragmented, there was no longer a single standard of taste for everyone to follow.

And that’s the rationale behind why Instagram or TikTok accounts that curate 20th-century images—whether old cinema, musicians, designers, or cultural icons—are, in some sense, a response to the modern world.

When culture moves so fast, and everything feels immediate, unfiltered, and sometimes chaotic, images from the mid-century—where style felt intentional, people looked composed, and there seemed to be a shared sense of taste—create a kind of contrast that feels almost surreal, yet still within reach; in other words, a nostalgia for a different pace and a different standard.

Renaissance Flâneur—as I can firmly say—is part of that counterforce, with one crucial idea in mind:

“How should a thoughtful person live well in modernity?”

One thing I decided from day one, as the founder of this publication, is that RF must not ‘cherish’ the past without relevance.

Milan has shown me it’s possible to do so.

By staying there, I noticed that even though it’s 2026 and people don’t dress or speak in the manner of the mid-century or earlier—it still holds a cultural weight of elegance. You can notice it in the century-old buildings, the names that stand for a heritage of bourgeois life, the architects that represent many generations, and the atmosphere of the city that quietly ‘whispers’:

“We are still here.”

Depth, a cultivated life, elegant manners, intentional dressing—they do not require you to travel back to a previous century, nor to rigidly stick to those norms and try to make them work exactly as they were in an era where casualness has become the new standard.

All you need is to translate those ways of life into what is happening around you—and these three principles are the answer to that.

Principle #1 - Form through Appearance

This is the beginning of everything—at least in my life trajectory.

If I hadn’t come to know the term ‘classic style’, if I hadn’t developed an obsession and intention toward what I wear and how I want to be while wearing it—I wouldn’t have been able to notice the possibility of a deliberately curated life.

By starting your day—or at least by being mindful of the clothes you wear—you begin to explore the ability to shape your emotional state through the ensemble you choose.

If it’s a Sunday, and you desire to do nothing except stay in your space, do some housework for an hour, and relax with your latest book or a great film—either alone or with someone you love—then wearing an untucked, rolled-sleeve shirt in flannel during winter or linen in summer, with straight-cut trousers and white slippers at home, will do you a favor in reminding yourself that this is a time of pause.

On the contrary, if it’s Monday—if it’s a day where you need to do whatever it takes to enter your most confident state of mind, whether for a crucial meeting or for a date you’re looking forward to—then you cannot go wrong with a tailored piece that makes you feel: “I’m at the best version I can be.” (Of course, with an awareness of the context around you.)

The thing is, I don’t want to frame this as ‘classic style’ as the only way. After years of exploring style and engaging with different cultures from city to city, I’ve come to realize that there are no strict boundaries to this.

I won’t argue that classic garments—those that have stood the test of time and proven themselves over centuries, like shirts, trousers, jackets, and leather footwear—can never go wrong, as I still rely on them every day. However, with greater cultural awareness and attunement to the society around you, it becomes possible to stay in sync with others without sacrificing who you are.

(We will explore this further in next week’s issue.)

In the end, form through appearance is about sculpting your identity—or reflecting it—to remind yourself that you have control in life, in your own language, through the way you dress daily; which is, in many ways, a lost art worth reviving.

Principle #2 - Mind through Narrative

One thing that ignites my eyes with passion every time is a man or woman who possesses substance beyond the surface.

Again, Milan has shown me how ‘alluring’ it is when an individual truly cultivates their mind with knowledge, wisdom, and ideas in their own unique way—whether through art, cinema, or literature…mediums that contain depth within them.

As I’ve already laid out in the latest editorial, our current era is one of the hardest in which to sit still and focus on what requires delayed gratification—what needs time to absorb, and what demands that you stay with an idea in contemplation. However, the one who is able to do so will be the one who thinks and lives differently from the masses.

This is not about snobbish behavior—far from it. It’s not to say that reading the late works of Italo Calvino or the philosophy of Niccolò Machiavelli is a ‘superior status’ to scrolling an Instagram feed (though it may be, in an empirical sense), but rather about a nourished mind—one that serves you far better in life by choosing to engage with mediums that challenge you, require discipline, demand critical thinking, and most importantly, allow you to slow down from the dynamic tempo of your surroundings.

It shifts the way you see things, the way you navigate your relationship with the modern world, and the way you speak with others—a life that shows proof of cultivation through your own words. Speaking of such, there are many forms of wisdom, and if you ask me where to start—cinema is what I would recommend.

True cinema is more than motion pictures that exist for mere entertainment—it is a way to experience the worldview of an individual, portrayed through hours of narrative. It is meant to give you a pure vision of the creator and allow you to immerse yourself in it—the response, the receptivity, is on your side; and that’s what makes it magical.

• Alain Resnais made you see the fragmented remnants of war through the tension of love between two wounded individuals

• Martin Scorsese made you feel the life of underworld figures, where nothing is entirely black nor fully white

• Alfred Hitchcock made you submit to whatever he wanted you to feel—glamour, obsession, suspicion—all carefully constructed through his lens

Cinema—especially during the mid-20th century—is where my mind first, and perhaps endlessly, expanded into various fields of knowledge: style, history, philosophy, art—they all began with this medium.

No matter which path you choose, make sure it serves as the cultivation of your inner world—even when it is not comfortable to do so.

Principle #3 - Culture through Exposure

For this, I have already laid it out fully in another piece—so here, I would like to focus on the impact of what happens when you begin to treat travel as cultural observation.

Humans learn through exposure to what surrounds them—every learned behavior begins with encountering something new: a perspective, an idea, a way of seeing. And nothing does this better than placing yourself in an environment that requires you to embrace novelty.

When you travel—when you live, even briefly, in a place you have never experienced before, meeting people of different backgrounds, languages, and ways of life—you gradually absorb these elements and crystallize them within yourself.

A simple reference: Milan taught me the way of luxury, and completely reshaped how I understood the term.

For a long time, I despised it, seeing it as a shallow expression of status. That perception shifted when I witnessed how it actually lived—an elegant signorina in a camel coat from Valentino Garavani, walking casually through her day, or a senior gentleman with slicked-back hair in a navy suit from Kiton, holding a newspaper and sipping espresso at a café on a Sunday morning.

Those images transformed my understanding entirely. I carried that perspective back with me to Bangkok—where the city remains the same, filled with intensity, material energy, and sensory overload—but I now understand that the issue is not the material itself, but the inner quality of the individual and their relationship with what they own.

Had I not been exposed to that way of life in Milan—how luxury truly operates there—I would not have been able to see it as I do now. And this is only one shift. There are many more: culinary traditions, the making of Italian dishes, aperitivo culture, the way of seeing art from classical to postmodern…

All of it happens through seeing travel as a way to absorb culture.

These three principles—I can guarantee by my own hand—serve as anchors for living a deliberate life in our current era. It is about looking to the past, observing more than reacting, and thinking more deeply about ideas as part of everyday life.

And wherever you are reading this, wherever you live in the world—this trio is applicable to you, just as it has been to me.

“Culture is no longer organized primarily by human editors, critics, teachers, or institutions—but by algorithms deciding relevance and visibility.” — Ted Striphas

Before I begin, take a moment and look around.

What do you see?

There is no single answer. Some of you may see an empty room filled with objects, like mine. Others may see people passing by if you’re sitting in a café somewhere in the city.

But let me change the question:

When you pick up your phone—or any connected device—what do you see?

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the reality we are now living in. Not merely physical time and space, but a constant loop—an endless stream of information, a steady bombardment of stimuli, and continuous exposure to the curated lives of individuals across the globe.

This is what we might call algorithmic culture—a landscape where your attention is continuously shaped by machines.

Platforms like TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube are not neutral windows into reality. They are systems engineered to decide what deserves your attention next.

Every swipe, pause, like, and second of watch time becomes data. The system studies your behavior and feeds you more of what keeps you engaged. So while it feels like casual scrolling, what is actually happening is far more precise: a machine is learning how to hold your attention.

Over time, that process begins to influence what you notice, what you care about, and eventually, what you become interested in.

If you step back, three forces quietly shape this entire experience:

• Constant exposure

• Comparison

• Casual consumption

First, there is constant exposure—the stream that never ends.

In older forms of media—books, television, radio, even newspapers—there were natural stopping points. You finished the page. The episode ended. The broadcast stopped.

Today, there is no such boundary.

You scroll, and something appears. Then something else. Then something else again. You never quite know what comes next—it might be dull, or it might be captivating. That uncertainty is precisely what keeps you engaged.

As a result, attention stops being something you deliberately direct and becomes something that reacts to whatever appears in front of you.

Then there is comparison, far more powerful than most people realize.

Humans have always compared themselves to others—it is part of how we understand our place in the social world. But historically, that comparison was limited: friends, family, colleagues.

Now, your mind is exposed to the most successful, attractive, wealthy, and productive individuals across the entire planet. And algorithms amplify these extremes because they capture attention.

On platforms like Instagram, what rises to the surface is rarely ordinary life—it is the highlight reel of human existence.

When you consume that repeatedly, your mind begins measuring your life against those exaggerated standards. This creates emotional responses—envy, admiration, ambition, insecurity—and those emotions keep you engaged.

Which, in turn, gives the system exactly what it needs to continue.

Finally, there is casual consumption.

Modern content requires almost no effort. No preparation. No patience. No commitment. You glance at something for a few seconds and move on.

Historically, developing a genuine interest required effort—reading deeply, practicing consistently, studying over time. Now, within minutes, you can encounter dozens of topics: psychology, business, philosophy, fitness.

This accessibility is, in some ways, progress.

But it produces a subtle side effect: people develop many shallow curiosities, but very few deep interests.

Put these three forces together—constant exposure, comparison, and casual consumption—and you create one of the most powerful feedback loops the human mind has ever encountered.

• The stream keeps your attention moving.

• Comparison injects emotion.

• Ease removes resistance.

Meanwhile, the algorithm observes every reaction and refines what it shows you next.

And here is the uncomfortable part:

Most people believe their interests are entirely their own—that they independently discovered what they like, what they care about, what they want to pursue.

But in a world shaped by algorithmic feeds, interests often emerge from repetition.

You see something again and again.

It becomes familiar.

Familiarity becomes curiosity.

Curiosity becomes identity.

Now, none of this means you have lost your freedom. You can still choose what to focus on. But it does mean that the environment surrounding your attention has fundamentally changed.

You are living inside a system designed to present stimuli, trigger comparison, and make engagement effortless.

So the real question is not whether algorithmic culture exists.

It clearly does.

The real question is much harder:

That is the question worth examining.

“People know what they do; frequently they know why they do what they do; but what they don’t know is what what they do does.” — Michel Foucault

At first glance, that line may seem to contradict the humanist spirit we value at Renaissance Flâneur.

But it points to something difficult—and true.

From the very beginning of life, we learn by imitation. We observe, we repeat, we adjust. We learn what is right or wrong through feedback. We understand our abilities through the responses we receive from the world around us.

In other words, we are shaped before we are self-directed.

• A language you did not invent

• A culture you did not choose

• Values you did not design

• Information you did not discover independently

Even your ability to think is built upon inherited structures—a frame you did not choose.

Yet, there was once a quiet advantage built into this condition.

Before the internet, there was still space to think.

Not because people were more conscious—they were not. Most were just as passive, just as shaped by their environment as people are today.

But the environment itself made something possible:

depth existed by default.

Information was limited. Slower. And most importantly, incomplete.

There were gaps.

• Long stretches where nothing new arrived

• No feed, no constant updates, no endless scroll

• You encountered something—and then, there was silence

And in that silence, whether one intended it or not, the mind had to process. To reflect. To sit with what it had absorbed.

Now, try to imagine that same process under constant informational pressure.

It does not happen naturally anymore.

And yet, even as noise increased throughout the past century—with radio, television, and mass media—there were still individuals who preserved depth.

Figures like Albert Einstein and Nikola Tesla did not think deeply because their era was quiet.

They thought deeply because they structured their lives to allow depth.

They created distance. They protected attention. They practiced, whether consciously or not, a form of resistance to distraction.

That distinction matters.

Because it means the problem is not exposure itself—but the absence of boundaries.

And so, while you cannot remove the influence of the external world—you never could—the responsibility shifts elsewhere.

Your mind is still yours.

Your discernment still matters.

The task is no longer to avoid influence, but to decide which influences are allowed to remain.

This is not easy. And it is no longer automatic.

In earlier centuries, focus and depth were often the byproducts of one’s environment. Today, the environment works against them.

Platforms are designed to fragment your attention—to keep you moving, reacting, consuming. If you want clarity, if you want depth, you cannot passively arrive there.

You have to choose it.

That means deciding what you pay attention to.

Designing how you live.

And, at times, moving against the direction of the crowd.

And yes—there is discomfort in that.

You are, in effect, stepping outside a system built to entertain and stimulate you without pause.

But this is not a call to austerity.

It is not a rejection of beauty, or sociability, or the pleasures of modern life.

Nor is it the hollow discipline promoted by hustle culture, where life is reduced to output and performance.

What this requires is something quieter, more deliberate, more refined:

• A way of living that preserves elegance while resisting excess.

• A form of discipline that does not strip life of its texture, but restores its depth.

In the classical sense, it is nothing less than an art de vivre—practiced not loudly, but precisely.

First, it begins with a shift in posture: From participant to observer.

Let me offer something personal.

Before I spent an extended period in Milan, I had a particular relationship with my hometown—Bangkok.

I rejected it.

From where I stood then, Bangkok felt chaotic, status-driven, lacking in cultural depth or refinement. It operated on a frequency that felt misaligned with my own—and I wanted distance from it.

But distance, as it turns out, changes perception.

In Milan, I became a stranger.

I could not fully understand the language. I did not share the same cultural instincts. Even in places like Porta Venezia, I moved through the city without the ease of belonging.

And that was a gift.

Because I was no longer automatically involved, I began to observe.

I noticed how people dressed—not just what they wore, but how it aligned with context.

I saw how architecture shaped the rhythm of daily life.

I paid attention to how luxury functioned—not as display, but as integration into the environment.

For the first time, I was not reacting to a place.

I was studying it.

And that shift—from reaction to observation—changed something fundamental.

When I returned to Bangkok, the city itself had not changed.

But my way of seeing had.

It was still fast. Still status-driven. Still saturated with comparison and noise.

But I no longer resisted it.

I understood it.

There was no frustration, no impulse to reject—only a clearer recognition:

Every city expresses a certain logic.

And the role of a thoughtful person is not to escape that logic entirely, but to ask:

Why does it function this way?

And how do I remain intact within it?

This, perhaps, is the first real step in reclaiming control within modernity.

Not entirely withdrawal.

But intentive observation.

From there, a second quality begins to emerge: The cultivation of taste.

If algorithms show you what captures mass attention, then stepping away from that cycle creates space for something else—something quieter, more deliberate.

You begin to develop preferences that are not dictated by immediacy.

And yes, this often takes form in certain images:

• A quiet morning in a café with a book.

• Clothing that reflects both context and personal restraint.

• An evening conversation that unfolds slowly, without urgency.

But these are not the substance.

They are only expressions.

What lies beneath is more demanding.

It is the discipline to choose what you consume, rather than passively receiving it.

The ability to sit with boredom, without immediately escaping it.

The willingness to think—slowly, deliberately—rather than constantly reacting.

In a world designed to fragment attention, this becomes a form of quiet resistance.

Not loud. Not performative.

But precise.

And while it may appear subtle from the outside, it is, in truth, a radical shift:

From being shaped by your environment—to beginning, carefully, to shape yourself within it.

“For the perfect flâneur, for the passionate spectator, it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude…” — Charles Baudelaire

The flâneur, as Baudelaire described him, moved through a rapidly modernizing world without being consumed by it.

• He was not wandering for appearance.

• He was not performing distance.

• He was present—fully aware—yet internally composed.

• He saw everything: the crowd, the movement, the stimulation.

But he did not surrender to it.

That distinction matters more now than ever.

Because your environment today—through platforms like Instagram and TikTok—is not entirely different in nature, only in intensity.

Where the 19th-century city overwhelmed the senses, the modern feed does so continuously.

But the real difference is this:

Most people no longer observe.

They are absorbed.

They scroll, react, compare, and internalize—often without noticing it happening.

The flâneur represents the opposite stance.

Not withdrawal.

Not superiority.

But distance with awareness.

Or more precisely: Detachment without alienation.

Across cities—Milan, Rimini, Vienna, and Bangkok—I began to understand something quietly consistent: To live as a flâneur is not to escape modernity. It is to remain intact within it.

Once you stop resisting the modern world as if it were an error—and begin to see it as an environment—you can finally engage it with clarity.

You observe its patterns.

You understand its incentives.

And, most importantly, you stop reacting to it automatically.

That is where control begins.

So if there is one thing to leave you with, it is this:

But that does not remove the responsibility.

If anything, it makes it more necessary.

To live well—to approach anything resembling an art de vivre—requires a simple but demanding shift:

• To stop reacting to noise, and to begin thinking in your own voice again.

• To decide, deliberately, what is worth your attention.

• To shape, rather than inherit, your way of living.

That is the work.

And that is why the flâneur—the figure who neither withdraws from modernity nor dissolves into it—is not outdated, but essential.