My “view from the office” as I write this column is an expanse of iced- over ocean and snow-covered peaks, on the edge of the Arctic Circle. I’m aboard a polar explorer ship named Le Commandant Charcot, operated by French luxury cruise line Ponant, navigating the frosty waters off Greenland. Now, I absolutely hate the word ‘awesome’ when used to describe everyday things, like a tasty burger or a good movie. But the landscape here? Reader, it is legitimately, authentically, inarguably awesome.
The wildlife is impressive, too. On our first day out, I saw a couple of whales. Yesterday, I was awoken a little after 5am by the excited voice of our captain, Étienne Garcia, booming out of the speaker in my cabin, announcing that a polar bear had been spotted off the starboard bow of the vessel. I threw on my Heattech longjohns, Cleverley boots and Columbia fleece, grabbed my camera, and bolted for the deck. There she was, bounding across the ice. It was an incredible sight to begin the day with. (The bear, not my odd get-up.)
At the start of our journey, Captain Garcia—a spry Frenchman resembling a less sybaritic Serge Gainsbourg—had explained that seeing a polar bear from the deck of the ship was a wonderful thing, a rare treat few have the good fortune to experience. Encountering one of the beasts during a trek on the ice, meanwhile, is a far less attractive proposition.
Polar bears are the largest and deadliest bears on Earth. While their cousin, the American grizzly, will attack a person if it feels threatened or is worried for its cubs (you’ve seen The Revenant, right?), polar bears are strictly carnivorous—100 per cent meat diet, they don’t even want a side of fries—and view homo sapiens as a legitimate food source. They will not hesitate to make a meal of you. They’re fast, running up to 40 kilometres per hour, and will as happily stalk, kill and eat a human as a seal.
The local Inuit people return the favour, hunting polar bears for food and their water-resistant pelts. “The meat is good,” an Inuit guide told me. “It’s sweet.” A few hours after our ship’s bear encounter, I found myself seated atop one of the tasty yet fearsome animal’s skin on a dog sled, riding across the frozen sea to look at a glacier.
Her hull is rated Polar Class 2—bested only by hard-as-nails Russian atomic icebreakers—making Le Commandant Charcot one of the few vessels rugged enough to penetrate the ice in this beautiful but forbidding part of the world. In fact, she’s the only purpose-built passenger ship that can reach places like the east Greenland coast where I enjoyed my bearskin sled ride and glacial sightseeing. “We are the only one,” Captain Garcia said. “To have this kind of experience, there are no others.” Want to cruise to the North Pole while dining on Michelin- standard cuisine? This is the sloop for you, friend.
Belying her tough exterior, the ship is tastefully designed and extremely luxurious. One might expect as much, with Ponant being owned by France’s multi-billionaire Pinault family, proprietors of Kering, the parent company of Gucci, Saint Laurent, Brioni, Bottega Veneta and numerous other iconic labels.
The menu at the more formal of the ship’s two restaurants is the work of acclaimed chef Alain Ducasse, and the wine list boasts beaucoup bottles from Romanée-Conti, Petrus, Chateau Angelus and Cheval Blanc, among other vigneron big guns. The house pour Champagne is Henriot; the standard whisky, Talisker 10-year- old; my vodka martinis are made with Grey Goose.
The décor—all tasteful slates, taupe leather and matte Nordic wood panelling—is by architects Wilmotte & Associés and hospitality interiors specialists, Studio Jean-Philippe Nuel. The ship accommodates a maximum of 270 guests, with around 200 staff serving them, and on my journey the ratio is better than 1:1. In all, it’s the most genteel way of seeing the Arctic Circle.
Late last year I found myself in another circle altogether, one designed by Pritzker Prize-winning Japanese architect Tadao Ando. It was the 10th edition of an ongoing project called MPavilion. This initiative, funded by wildly successful Australian fashion entrepreneur Naomi Milgrom, sees leading architects from around the world invited to create a temporary pavilion that will be constructed in Queen Victoria Park in central Melbourne, serving as a meeting place and event space for a six-month period, before being moved elsewhere.
Most philanthropists direct their money to medicine, education, ecology, politics or the arts. The built environment tends to be overlooked. When I asked her why she so enthusiastically and generously supported this unique programme, costing her eponymous foundation millions each year, Milgrom said, “It’s a celebration of architecture. Not only of the built form, but of the idea that architecture can inform the way we live and that we can have that debate about how we can use architecture and design to do things better at the intersection of people, buildings and nature.”
Ando’s pavilion—his first structure in Australia—was so well received that last month, it was announced that it has been given a second lease of life. It will now remain in place for an additional six months (perhaps staying permanently, rumour has it). Before the zen-brutalist structure’s unveiling, Ando told me, “It evokes Japan’s traditional walled gardens. Inside there is a space to reflect, interact and appreciate that which is contained within, be it nature, art or people.”
The building may be cast in Ando’s signature grey concrete, but it is far from cold. This is the Osaka-based architect’s magic: his austere aesthetic serves to frame the surrounding greenery beautifully, while features like ponds or pools mirror the sky and trees. “One of the reasons I chose the architects that I have,” Milgrom said, “is because of their celebration of nature.”
“For MPavilion, the spatial sequence of circles and squares create spatial sequences of light and dark,” Ando explained. “These change throughout the day and the seasons as the sun moves through the sky. The surfaces that the light touches also change—walls reveal arresting patterns of shadows, while the water from the reflecting pool may cast dappled patterns on a previously plain surface.”
Ando told me he is proudest of his buildings when they manage to overcome a significant structural challenge, as the MPavilion did by successfully integrating a 17-metre central slit in one of its walls. The natural background seen through the gap is an ever-changing visual tableau: “The result is a moment in architecture that reflects our joy of living,” Ando said.
When it comes down to it, as grand as they may be, the magnificent boat I’m now aboard and Ando’s Melbournian building are merely lenses through which to view the beauty of nature. They are frames for the greatest work of art of all—the world around us. Which is circular, by the way, much as barmy Flat Earthers may wish to convince us otherwise.
Kids talk about “rizz”—you wanna know who’s got “rizz”, fo’ shizz? David Robert Joseph Beckham OBE, that’s who. I interviewed him one-on-one about 20 years ago and still cite his as the best meet’n’greeting I’ve ever experienced. Man’s got the perfect handshake—not too firm, not too soft, perfect number of
pumps (three), eye contact, says your name, makes you feel like the only person on Earth, just for that fleeting moment. Rizzzzz, baby.
In November, I attended a series of events and spirited discussions at Marina Bay Sands, celebrating the unveiling of the integrated resort’s sleek new brand identity and plush Paiza suites. Longtime MBS ambassador Becks was in the house, looking resplendent in an aptly sand-coloured Boss suit while taking part in a talk onstage at the Sands Theatre.
Influencers from around the region lined the front row, immaculately attired in monochrome designer garments, their photographic assistants capturing shots of these manicured gentlemen and sculpted ladies pouting and preening, with Becks positioned strategically in the background.
Influencing is all about the individual—well, apart from the need for a professional photographer partner (selfies simply won’t cut it for the top-tier KOL). But during his interview, Beckham again and again referenced the importance of teamwork in making the dream work.
“At Manchester United, Sir Alex Ferguson always used to bring good players in but he would never go and get the greatest player in the world, because it was about the team. It was about who’s going to fit in at Manchester United—that’s what it’s all about.”
Beckham said he’d made similar remarks during inspirational addresses to people who work at MBS. “I’ve always said (to them), it’s all about the team. Because, you know, sometimes I’ve gone into games and not had my best performance but I know my teammate is there to protect me and look after me and support me.”
In business, Beckham reckoned, it’s the same situation. “It’s not always going to be the perfect day, there’s going to be challenges,” he said. However, if you can rely on the team around you, you’ll still hit (or perhaps more accurately, score) your goals. To wit, the former English captain and six-time Premier League titleholder with Man U said he truly admires everything the team at MBS has achieved.
“It’s incredible what Marina Bay Sands has done,” he said. “I’m very proud to have been part of this for 11 years, and I hope it continues and continues because I love Singapore, I love being around this building… for many reasons, but one of the biggest reasons is the people that work here.”
Beyond the personnel, Becks said the other major attraction at MBS, for him, is the culinary offering. One restaurant in particular tickles his fancy. “I would have to say I’m a big foodie and I think the food here in Singapore in general is incredible but obviously in this building I love, I LOVE chef Tetsuya—so I always go to Waku Ghin, that’s one of my favourites, and I hope I get to visit there before I leave.”
Your columnist shares Goldenballs’ affection for Chef Tetsuya. Showing my age here—I’m exactly the same vintage as Beckham, in fact—but my multi-course degustation dining deflowering took place nearly 30 years ago, at the first restaurant Tetsuya opened, situated in a humble terrace house (what Singaporeans might call a shophouse) in the then-scrappy Sydney neighbourhood of Rozelle.
It was a meal I’ll never forget. For some reason, a mid-course palate-cleanser of tomato sorbet particularly sticks in my mind—like Proust’s madeleine, only cold and tangy. (Handy hint: When asked, “If you were a flavour of ice-cream, which one would it be?” My man, tomato sorbet is an excellent answer. Because you’re unique, refreshing, unexpected, and not to everyone’s tastes, right?)
Can’t disagree with Becks that Waku Ghin is one of the best restaurants in this city, though with dinner there easily costing a grand-plus for two pax, it’s not somewhere a mild-mannered reporter like yours truly can afford to patronise terribly regularly. I do, however, frequently stop by for a cocktail at the bar. The mixology there is meticulous—note, dear reader, that this is where Jigger & Pony main man Aki Eguchi first made his mark in Singapore and though Aki long ago moved on, the cocktails remain impeccably crafted.
They’re also very reasonably priced, on par or less than the drinks at most of Singapore’s inclusions on Asia’s 50 Best Bars (a list upon which Waku Ghin bizarrely does not feature). My favourite tipple, which has been on the menu since Aki’s day, is the Ghin Martini. I love it not only for the dad joke pun but for its purity—and the exotic, lip-smacking secret ingredient.
The cocktail is made with frozen Beefeater 24 gin and Mancino vermouth, stirred not shaken, and poured into a chilled martini glass. Nothing terribly extraordinary there. But what sets this deceptively simple drink apart is its garnish: instead of an olive, Waku Ghin uses a truffled dwarf peach. About the size of a large olive and roughly the same texture and appearance, the flavour of this little morsel is truly something else.
Yet it proves that it’s not necessarily the booze going into a cocktail that makes it a bit special. Garnish is normally an afterthought but with a hospitality pro like Tetsuya, it can be the crowning glory—if not very literally the cherry on top. “One thing that remains consistent across all my restaurants is the respect we have for high quality and fresh produce,” he told me.
Like his friend Mister Beckham, Tetsuya places inestimable value on the individuals he brings onto his team. “The most important attribute I look out for in new hires is the love for people and food,” he said. “Skills can be taught and knowledge can be imparted, but the innate love for people is the driving force for us to serve and improve.”
It’s team spirit that is key to a successful restaurant—or any business, really. “We want our guests to return time and again, knowing that we can deliver to their expectations,” Tetsuya said. “And achieving this consistency requires dedication, time, focus, and the combined efforts of the entire team.” Clearly, David Beckham recognises a kindred spirit—with similar goooooooals.
It is September, the month magazines typically turn their attention to the subject of style. Esquire Singapore may be far less conformist than many of this city-state’s publications, but delivering a fashion-centric September issue is one rule we’re glad to adhere to.
For much of my 20 years as a journalist and editor, I’ve covered fashion, among other subjects of vital socioeconomic importance.
Up until the pandemic, I would often spend much of each January and June at Pitti Uomo and the fashion weeks in London, Paris and Milan. Though I mostly focus on menswear, on several occasions, I had the privilege of attending the women’s couture presentations in Paris.
Being lucky enough to see Raf Simons’s spring 2013 Christian Dior couture show remains one of my most memorable fashion moments. Then a newbie to couture, Raf brought a crisp futurism to this classic discipline, creating structured gowns and mellifluous frocks that were ‘pretty’ and glamorous yet modern, and immaculately tailored suits that lent couture an almost everyday practicality.
(DIOR MEN'S SUMMER 2024)
The 2015 documentary Dior and I, which explored the frenzied eight-week creative process behind Raf’s first couture collection as artistic director for Dior, brought into sharp focus not only his passionate perfectionism but the incredible skill of the artisans toiling in Dior’s Avenue Montaigne ateliers. As much as the designer’s vision, it is these craftspeople’s painstaking execution of minute details that gives a couture garment its magic—contributing to a price tag that can stretch well into six figures.
It was details that distinguished the experience when I recently became one of the first customers of the Dior spa on Belmond’s Eastern & Oriental Express train, travelling through the jungles of Malaysia. Operating some of the world’s most elegant hotels, as well as several gracious sleeper trains and boats, Belmond was acquired several years ago by Dior-allied LVMH, making this collaboration very much a family affair.
Positioned between the dining and bar cars, the spa comprises two treatment rooms clad in rich tropical wood panelling carrying Dior’s canework motif, which figured prominently in Kim Jones’ spring 2024 Dior Men’s collection. Feature walls and bedspreads are dressed in Dior’s Toile de Jouy print, a graphic used across an array of apparel and accessories by the house’s current women’s artistic director, Maria Grazia Chiuri. The rooms look gorgeous, but where the Dior spa really impressed was in its attention to certain points that many five-star spas fumble.
(LUDOVIC BALAY)
Whatever plush fleecy textile was used to cover the massage table, it felt like lying on a cloud, and somehow, the face cradle miraculously avoided giving me the throbbing forehead-ache that most do. The music steered clear of meditative chants, nature sounds and panpipe cliché, instead opting for the type of laidback sounds you’d hear in a chic Parisian bar. (At several points, I wished I’d had Shazam handy. And a martini.)
Protecting my modesty, a zephyr-like cotton sheet of incalculable thread count was draped across me. It carried an embroidered quote from Monsieur Dior: “Au fond d’un cœur sommeille toujours un rêve,” which translates as “Deep inside a heart, there always lies a dream”—apt, as this spa experience was indeed dreamy. The massage itself was very nice, I might add. The vibrations as we rattled down the tracks added a certain je ne sais quoi.
(LUDOVIC BALAY)
I’d never been on a luxury sleeper train before, and it proved a terribly stylish way to travel. There’s an ineffable elegance to journeying at a pace far slower than an aircraft, relaxing and enjoying lush palm-treed scenery with a cocktail in one hand, a paperback of Paul Theroux’s Great Railway Bazaar in the other. “If a train is large and comfortable you don’t even need a destination; a corner seat is enough, and you can be one of those travellers who stay in motion, straddling the tracks, and never arrive or feel they ought to,” Theroux writes. Can confirm.
It was also pleasant to be in the company of travellers who’d made an effort to dress in key with the sophisticated surroundings. Prompting this, passengers on the Eastern & Oriental Express are issued with dress code guidance pre-departure, noting that the “atmosphere aboard is one of relaxed refinement,” suggesting that gentlemen should wear a sports coat or blazer for dinner, and to please avoid jeans or sneakers during meal times (where acclaimed chef André Chiang’s cuisine is served). Nearly everyone aboard stepped up sartorially, with a couple of gents going so far as to don a tuxedo one evening, adding to the sense of occasion and Agatha Christie-esque atmosphere.
(FRANKIE LIN)
Relaunched this year after a pandemic hiatus and a periodic spruce-up of its Art Deco interiors, the Eastern & Oriental Express currently navigates several different itineraries across Malaysia, and will soon also explore Thailand. Belmond operates classic trains in South America, Europe and Great Britain, but the man responsible for running the company’s mobile hospitality offering has a particular fondness for our local route, shunting from Woodlands to Penang and back.
“People always ask me which is my favourite train, and it’s like choosing between children—you’re not really allowed to say,” Gary Franklin, the vice president for Belmond trains and cruises, tells me. “But spending time on that train, sitting in the observation car, watching the Asian countryside go by, is amazing.”
Belmond’s philosophy centres on savouring both the destination and the journey, travelling in style, and much like the Dior atelier, having skilled personnel in place to ensure all the fiddly details are “just so”. “Luxury is evolving, it’s less about formality and more about genuine care. The art of hospitality is about creating an atmosphere where guests feel that everything is taken care of and that they are special,” Franklin believes.
“It’s about making guests feel comfortable, well looked after, and relaxed, creating an environment where people feel like they’re at home—but better,” he explains. “It’s not just about the tangible things like the quality of the food or the type of champagne served, though those are important, of course. It’s more about the people who make you feel at ease, the generosity and care that go beyond what’s expected.” In couture or hospitality, it’s the personal touch that makes all the difference. That, and a sense of style. Human qualities AI has fortunately not yet learnt to imitate.
As I write this, Taylor Swift will be boarding one of her private aircraft and jetting off for Paris, bringing to an end the months of foolishness that culminated in her six sell-out Singapore stadium shows. Out of love for my daughters, I spent hours in front of the laptop unsuccessfully attempting to purchase tickets to those concerts. 'Twas a fool's errand. Matched only in silliness by the task of schlepping to the stadium this past weekend and standing in the midday sun for 90 minutes to secure the consolation prize of outrageously overpriced Swiftie merch.
While we missed Tay-Tay, earlier this year, my eldest and I were fortunate enough to catch the opening night of another artistic showcase. One possessing somewhat greater cultural merit than Ms Swift’s 3.5-hour performances of polished pop. (At least, that’s what I thought. My teenage daughter may beg to differ.) Held as part of Singapore Art Week, Translations: Afro-Asian Poetics was an exhibition staged by local non-profit The Institutum across several venues at Gillman Barracks. The exhibit collected the works of 100 noted artists of Asian or African background, including Ai Wei Wei, Yinka Shonibare CBE and Nick Cave (the American sculptor, performance artist, fashion designer and academic, not the moody Australian troubadour).
The exhibition’s curator, Zoe Whitley, director of the Chisenhale Gallery in East London, said it intended to highlight "the solidarity and synergies between cultures of the Asian and African diasporas." In conversation the day before the opening, Whitley told me beyond that goal, she hoped the art on the show would confound preconceptions of African or Asian art and defy more granular, national-level stereotypes. "People should come with an open mind," she advised.
"A lot of the artists in the exhibition have the lived experience of—certainly with institutional invitations— being asked to do something because they’re Korean, because they’re Malaysian, because they’re South African," or what have you, she said. Whitley felt the works she’d curated would surprise visitors carrying pre-conceived notions of what Asian or African art might look like. "The fact that by just looking at it, you wouldn't necessarily be able to identify which artwork came from which part of the world is kind of the point," she said.
"In thinking about what’s projected onto us, it’s important for us to not necessarily be tethered by expectations," she explained. "None of the artists in this exhibition are reducing themselves or their possibilities. You wouldn’t look at Bronwyn Katz, for example, and think, oh, that's quintessentially South African art. Every artist (featured in the exhibition) is thinking in new and exciting ways," she said.
"With this exhibition, what is crucial is the diasporic experience," Whitley noted. "That sense of what it means to spread, to migrate, to be from one place and to make a home somewhere else." She felt this common background of being a migrant or the descendant of migrants—an origin story shared by every one of us in Singapore—was what bound these works by artists of disparate racial, national, spiritual and cultural backgrounds.
"Once you've come from somewhere else, what does that mean for creating a new culture?" she pondered. When you’ve settled in a new country, "What does it mean to be Chinese? What does it mean to be Korean? What does it mean to be Ghanaian or Nigerian or African American?" Whitley asked. "So many of the artists, those who I know personally in this exhibition, have had that sense of not being X enough in one place, or being too X in another"—a foreigner in both the land of their origins and their adopted home.
As the surname suggests, winemaker Max Schubert’s family were of German background. Regardless, he didn't hesitate from enlisting with the Australian army and shipping off to fight the Nazis during WWII. After serving with distinction, Schubert resumed work at Penfolds Wines, where he'd started as a messenger boy in 1931. Appointed chief winemaker in 1948, aged just 33, Schubert journeyed back to Europe to see how things were done at legendary Bordeaux estates such as Château Lafite Rothschild and Château Margaux.
He returned to Australia with a vision for making a wine that would stand up against anything produced in the Old World; a robust red that would get better and better with age. Initially working in secret, Schubert created a bold yet nuanced shiraz he dubbed "Grange Hermitage". Some 70 years later, Grange is among the world's most respected and sought-after wines, described by uber-critic Robert Parker as "a leading candidate for the richest, most concentrated dry table wine on planet Earth."
Several years ago, I sat at dinner next to a representative of a historic, highly respected French winery. They whispered in my ear as a glass of Grange was served, "Ah, mais non, we have nothing that can beat this." I recently related this story to Penfolds' senior winemaker Steph Dutton. I asked how she felt about being the guardian of what is probably Australia’s foremost luxury export.
"You feel excited and proud," she said. "And nervous. Australians have a huge affection for Penfolds. And obviously, they're incredibly proud about Penfolds Grange representing 'Brand Australia' to the rest of the world." As the market for Grange spans the globe, Dutton said, "Export markets are always going to be important to us as a brand. So making sure that we benchmark against the world's best of the best—that keeps us operating to a higher standard."
As a vigneron, you're always thinking about legacy. About leaving something for the next generation, preserving the brand's reputation for the long-term, Dutton said. "There’s this lovely reminder that as winemakers, every single time you put something to bottle, it will probably outlive you, with our flagships anyway: Grange, Bin 707, and so forth," she said, namechecking Penfolds' top-tier shiraz and cabernet sauvignon, respectively.
Bottles of Schubert’s inaugural 1951 vintage Grange are still being consumed. One was sold at auction in December 2021 for a record AUD157,624 (SGD138,630), the highest price ever paid for an Australian wine. This longevity means Penfolds' best wines preserve triumphs and failures for decades to come. "If there's something that's not right, you're probably going to have to face up to that literally for the rest of your life," as Dutton put it. "That is a good double-check we use when we're doing our work: if we're not proud of something, let's figure out what we need to change."
That's not to say Penfolds is mired in tradition. Don't forget that the very creation of Grange was an act of rebellion, and many of the house's signature bin-numbered labels began life as risky winemaking experiments. "Our winemakers do a really good job of respecting the work of their predecessors and looking at what tradition counts for," Dutton said. But she reckons the company’s design and marketing departments keep the traditionalists on their toes with moves like bringing Japanese street-style icon, A Bathing Ape founder Nigo, aboard for creative collabs. "They do a really good job of making sure that we’re always nudged forward." Looking to the future? Nothing foolish about that.
I first met Robert Spangle, a photographer who goes by the IG handle Thousand Yard Style, at the dandyism lollapalooza known as Pitti Uomo, around a decade ago. That period was peak #menswear: Instagram was relatively new, and Pitti had transformed from a bone-dry trade fair to a well-lubricated orgy of peacockery, with the world’s tailoring aficionados desperately trying to sartorially outgun one another and capture the attention of street photographers such as Tommy Ton, Scott Schuman, and indeed, our man Spangle. (Fallout Boy, if you remember it. Yeah, it was a terrible band, but it had this song that went “This ain’t a scene, it’s a goddamn arms race”, which just about summed it up.)
You’d see Spangle at the Fortezza (the 14th Century Florentine structure where Pitti is held), way off in the distance as his thousand-metre moniker suggests, crouching like a sniper with a long lens, capturing stylish fits, the wearers unawares—giving his imagery , spontaneous vibe lacking in many of the other street style snappers’ posed pics.
A lot of Spangle’s fellow lensmen of that epoch have gone on to create coffee table books documenting stylish metropolitan people looking stylish in a metropolitan setting. Cool, fine. Spangle took a different course for his debut publication, however.
“I’ve been working in fashion for a long time, and one of my theories is that style is an innate part of humanity and what makes us human; that it’s really something inalienable from the human condition. It’s not something that’s dependent on you living in a fashion capital, or even being from a really well-developed country, not even a country that has any kind of social stability. And I thought, ok, if I’m going to have this theory, I’m going to have to prove it,” he explains of the thinking behind his book Afghan Style, which was published last year.
“I had been to Iraq before,” Spangle says with no small degree of understatement—he’d visited to shoot conflict reportage in 2017 and several years earlier, serving in a reconnaissance unit with the US Marines, sussing out the lay of the land in advance of the initial US ‘surges’ of 2010. “I thought Afghanistan would be perfect as a place to prove or disprove this theory, because it was an incredibly poor country, and incredibly isolated—the conflict, the economic isolation and the harsh geography keep most people out. Certainly, this would be a place where, from a Western perspective, you’d expect to find absolutely zero fashion, zero style or any interest in the above.”
Spangle accepted an assignment for a magazine named Esquire (you may be familiar with the masthead, reader) and headed to Afghanistan for a four-to six-week visit. “Once I got there, I realised my theory was right, but my assumptions were wrong—Afghanistan is one of the best environments I’ve ever been in for photographing style, because the level of cultural style, and the value placed on cultural style, is just massive there. It’s everywhere, it’s in all directions.” When he returned from the journey, Spangle says, “I did the hardest photo edit of my entire life. I think I had, like, 120 images that I really couldn’t part with.” It was more than his assignment for Esquire called for. “So then I started thinking about a book.”
Spangle’s publishing plans were nearly scuppered when the Taliban re-took control of Afghanistan in late 2021. He felt the proposed book would lack relevance unless he revisited the country to see how the regime change had affected Afghans’ way of life—and to be able to get a more comprehensive picture of the landscape. Without a return, Spangle says, “I don’t think it would have been a complete document, because the security situation was so bad when I was first there that it was impossible to travel in the country.” He likens that initial visit to going to America and only scoping out New York: “You would get great style, and you would get people from all over the country, but you would not have a complete picture, would you?”
So Spangle went back and visited Afghanistan’s more out-of-the-way regions. What became apparent was, “Afghan men, across the board, are the most proud and self-possessed men I’ve ever met in my entire life,” Spangle says. “It’s kind of mind-blowing, because in the developed world, we always paint impoverished people as, like, grovelling. Yet, in fact, in Afghanistan, every single person you met wanted to look you in the eye and stand on even ground with you—whether they were unemployed, or if they were someone who was better off, like a warlord, they all looked you in the eye, treated you and spoke to you as a man, had total self-confidence.”
Something Spangle loved was, unlike the denizens of Pitti, these guys weren’t dressing for the camera, they weren’t busting rehearsed poses. Yet they looked outstanding. Literally. “How self-possessed these guys were, that blew my mind. And it also made them really easy subjects. I don’t think I’ve had an easier time photographing any group of people on Earth, including places like Pitti Uomo, where people want to be photographed, and I’m sure are practising in the mirror for it,” Spangle says. Afghan gentlemen, meanwhile, “They’re not putting on some kind of show for you. They’re not giving a practised smile—they’re just looking at you as if it’s only natural that you flew 5,000-and-something miles to come and photograph them.”
Just as it’s often the ‘éminences grises’ who stand out at Pitti Uomo—the likes of Lino Ieluzzi, Yukio Akamine, David Evans and Ignatious Joseph—Spangle says the more seasoned Afghan guys possess remarkable style. “There’s a lot of emphasis on maturity in Afghan culture,” he explains. “So young boys, boys, men, mature men: those are really, really big social demarcations in Afghanistan, and that definitely affects the way they dress. You’ve got guys who are like, probably 60-year-old horse hands, who I photographed a few seconds after they dusted off the places that they were sleeping on the ground the night before, using a tarp for a sleeping bag. And they look like a senior stylist at RRL or something, wearing a crazy tweed overcoat and a really cool vest. And for a guy who’s, like, working with horses and sleeping on the ground, they’re just immaculately presented.”
What can we here in Singapore learn from the way Afghan men dress and carry themselves? Clearly, confidence and self-possession are key. Make eye contact. Be a stand-up guy. Don’t be defined by your job or income. Plus, the Afghan sartorial stance—based around the timeless perahan tunban (an ensemble of long popover tunic shirt and loose trousers)—has proven, over the course of centuries, to be highly efficient in a hot, sunny environment. And Spangle says we shouldn’t shy from what some might describe as ‘cultural appropriation’. “I think cultural appropriation is basically what fashion is,” he says. “Fashion is doing what humans do, which is borrowing what we think is cool”—whether you’re gathering your sartorial inspiration from the dandies of Pitti or the horsemen of Helmand.
All photos courtesy of Robert Spangle.
It’s a new year, and there’s a good chance you’re looking for a new job. Maybe you’re pondering going freelance or starting your own business. You are not alone. Statistics suggest that a third of the workforce switches jobs every 12 months nowadays. Witnessing wave after wave of layoffs, people have learnt that companies aren’t loyal to staff any more if indeed they ever were, so why should employees display blind loyalty to their bosses?
Even here in status-obsessed Singapore, where a stable and well-paid office job has long been seen as the ideal, more and more people are looking for “meaning and purpose in what they do, not just for good salaries,” per the gahmen’s recent Forward SG report. Giving new meaning to the phrase ‘Money no enough,’ today, we want jobs that are rewarding on a level beyond remuneration—jobs we’re passionate about. Often, that means creating a job for yourself.
Many of Canadian artist Samara Shuter’s super-detailed paintings celebrate the type of peacock sartorialism seen at the Pitti Uomo menswear fair. Why the passion for men’s style? Shuter’s family has deep roots in the garment trade—she grew up amongst bolts of colourful cloth, and she says her father’s dapper dressing when she was a young girl also left a lasting impression.
“My father had an incredible appreciation for style. He had the most amazing collection of ties,” she recalls. Her dad’s struggles to support his family in various corporate sales roles, which required the Shuter clan to regularly relocate—“We moved every year or year-and-a-half; I was kinda like an army brat, it felt very unstable,” Shuter says of her peripatetic upbringing—also left an indelible mark.
So, when she set out to forge her own career, Shuter says, “It was important to me that I could do something that I love, but where I was in control.” Having seen her father suddenly lose jobs and the turmoil that caused for her whole family, she says, “It was important that what I did, nobody could take away from me.” So she became an artist. Back in the mid-’00s, Shuter took the money she’d saved waiting tables and tending bar and hired a booth at an art fair in Toronto. It was a big gamble, several thousand dollars, everything she had. “But that weekend, all the works I’d painted sold out. I couldn’t believe it.”
Three years later, Shuter was selling sufficient volume, at high enough prices, that she was able to quit pouring pints and focus on her art practice full-time.
Leading independent British bespoke shoemaker Nicholas Templeman says it was an invaluable experience mastering his craft as an employee of one of the most legendary firms in the trade. But to make the sort of shoes he was passionate about, he had to set up his own business. “I trained at an established bootmaker—I worked at John Lobb for seven years before going it alone,” he explains. “I had a great time there and there’s a lot I look back fondly on, I don’t think I could have learnt as much about shoes and bootmaking anywhere else in the world.”
Eventually, though, Templeman reached a point where to be fulfilled, he needed full creative and quality control over the footwear he made. “That’s only really possible when your name is stamped on the soles,” he says. Having his signature on the product also means Templeman is especially punctilious about quality. “I’m pretty fastidious about what I make, no shortcuts, even if, as currently, it makes the lead times longer than I’d like.”
Master watchmaker Denis Flageollet, cofounder of De Bethune and a godlike figure in the world of watches, reckons passion—and the confidence to express that passion—is an essential attribute in anyone aspiring to stand out in haute horlogerie. “I love talking to young independent watchmakers to see whether they have that spark inside them, that passion that will allow them to really grow their vision of what watchmaking can be,” he says.
“For several years now, I’ve realised I need to pass on the knowledge I have, not just to train new watchmakers for De Bethune, but to share what I know and my experiences with a larger audience,” Flageollet says. The advice he habitually gives young watchmakers is, “You have to be brave, you have to be bold. If you think you’ve got an idea, but it’s maybe a bit of a crazy idea, or it’s a bit left-field, just go and do it. The only way you’re going to know is to try it, and then see what the world thinks of it; it could be the next great idea.”
He says creatives have got to trust their instincts. “You shouldn’t be scared of not being understood. Maybe they’ll understand you in 10 years’ time—or after you’re dead! The most important thing is that you do what you believe in, what you’re passionate about.” Flageollet encourages rising watchmakers to place a bet on themselves. “I tell them to gamble, try and do something that they believe in, take a leap of faith because that ultimately is what’s going to make them happy.”
Independence is brilliant, but as any start-up entrepreneur, small business owner or freelancer will tell you, there’s also much to be said for a reliable monthly salary. However, those who choose to go the regular wage route are increasingly opting to work for purpose-driven businesses, where the sense of fulfilment goes beyond merely cashing that wonderfully predictable pay cheque.
“To be a successful organisation in the 21st century, to attract the best people, you need to be authentic,” says the co-founder of Soneva luxury resorts, Sonu Shivdasani, OBE. “You can’t be saying one thing and doing something different, because people will vote with their feet now—they don’t need the work. So if you aren’t authentic, you’re not going to attract the best people.”
In Soneva’s case, that authenticity comes down to what Shivdasani calls “a very clear focus, an undiluted philosophy” he has dubbed SLOWLIFE, an acronym standing for Sustainable, Local, Organic, Wellness, Learning, Inspiring, Fun, Experiences. “Essentially, offering luxuries, while minimising our impact on the environment and enhancing the overall wellbeing of our guests,” Shivdasani sums it up. Soneva is considered the gold standard in sustainable tourism.
The brand’s founders, Shivdasani and his wife Eva, believe a business must have a purpose beyond simply making money, if it hopes to generate high levels of employee engagement and as a flow-on effect, happy customers. “In our industry, in hospitality, the definition of luxury is the magic created by our people, the hosts—we don’t have employees at Soneva, we have hosts. And I believe that magical service has to come from the gut; you can’t train it, it has to be instilled. By having a core purpose that our hosts are aligned with, they become more engaged, more passionate.”
Preparing to open a new wing opened at Soneva Jani in the Maldives a couple of years ago, Shivdasani recalls, “We had 80 vacancies. And within a week, we had 3,000 applicants for those 80 vacancies.” When the successful candidates arrived and Shivdasani was performing their induction, he joked with the fresh hires, “You know, it’s actually tougher to get into Soneva Jani than it is to get into Goldman Sachs or Oxford—and that’s because people really were passionate about joining us.”
We’ll grant you that the prospect of working in a tropical paradise probably didn’t harm Soneva’s recruitment efforts. Nevertheless, there’s a potent lesson in the anecdote for organisations trying to engage people who’ll stay on for more than 12 months. Showing you care about something beyond the bottom line—demonstrating you care about your employees, your customers, and the world—has its advantages. Think about it, boss.
