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.
