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Fjällräven Kånken backpack: Too cool for school Understanding the cult phenomena of the Kånken backpack...    

BY LEE GALE Tuesday 2 October 2012

One of the main problems with casual fashion is that the Iberian peninsula and, by association, South America, holds too much sway over the way the British dress. Where once our fashion pointers were derived from

All Creatures Great And Small, golf or WWII armed forces, today's High Street hotsteppas are more likely to resemble Mario Kempes on a post-Argentina '78 beach holiday.

When it comes to buying casualwear, a handful of trusted style oases exist, but you have to carry out research to find them.

Manchester's Oi Polloi is one such watering hole. Established in 2002, Oi Polloi was one of the first outlets to bring Swedish outdoor brand Fj채llr채ven (Swedish: "arctic fox") to our attention. The label was quickly adopted by cooler elements in Northern football grounds before filtering down to a select fashion audience. Wearers of Fj채llr채ven tend to be secretive about their supply source. Like DJs with white labels, they don't want you to own what they have found.

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Northern interest in a Swedish label is hardly surprising given that the Viking expansionism of the 9^th century meant that Yorkshire and Lancashire came under the jurisdiction of the Danelaw. Don't forget that Northerners are very proud of their Norse heritage - take a look at Doncaster Rovers' badge, featuring a Viking warrior

in profile. Fjällräven is also an exotic-looking name. It has two umlauts for a start. It's about as anti-Mediterranean as you can hope for.

Although Fjällräven's upland aesthetic was easily adopted by discerning Northern casuals, its Kånken backpack has a cult following nationwide - and not just with men. Kånkens have become a sort of fashion equivalent of the VW Type 2 camper van. On the road, Type 2 drivers will give a friendly nod to each other, but without the protection of a windscreen to offset social awkwardness, Kånken owners tend to stare at each other, a bit like dogs on leads. They have one thought: "What events in life have led you to your backpack?" Kånken owners consider themselves rucksack rebels, revelling in the fact that they stand apart from the more commonplace easy-to-purchase Eastpaks, Jansports and Karrimors.

Far from being essential kit for tackling a peak, the Kånken is actually a schoolbag, introduced in 1978 to alleviate an age-old Swedish problem of backache. By the mid-Seventies, 80 per cent of the Swedish population was affected by some form of back discomfort. Fjällräven founder Åke Nordin, who had been developing backpacks since the early Sixties, believed Sweden's thoracic and lumbar troubles were a product of the school run, with children straining to carry heavy textbooks and folders between classroom and home, setting in motion a lifetime of strains.

The KĂĽnken distributed weight evenly across the shoulders, a fact not lost on Sweden's pensioners who, by 1980, started buying the backpack en masse.

Sweden's OAPs realised that with free arms, they could stroll unimpeded with a walking stick to collect their pension and roughage. By the time that Abba's internal problems

were becoming apparent, Swedes, regardless of age, had been captivated by the Kånken's simple charm.

Kånken disciples are quick to discuss the bag's waterproof properties. The secret is the material itself. Vinylon F is a synthetic fibre that, like a natural fibre, swells when damp and creates a waterproof shield around your homework. Incredibly, during heavy downpours, a puddle develops on the roof of its front zip-up pocket, where you keep your pens and keys, in the manner of a gutter. "They're brilliant," says Oi Polloi co-founder Steve Sanderson. "The functional design, the colours and the fact they were designed as an antidote to kids getting back problems while carrying their books - it's form following function, a similar design ethos to orthopaedic shoes like Birkenstock and Finn Comfort.

Oi Polloi has a history of re-appropriating these kind of items. The Kånken truly is the people's bag. You can have one of these from a really young age, all through school, college, everything in between and beyond. They're good for your lunchbox, sports kit and laptop.

We sell a fair amount. They have universal appeal and also represent great value for money."

Today, Fjällräven makes 200,000 Kånkens a year, in a variety of sizes and shades. Just don't be surprised when Swedish tourists suddenly approach and begin speaking to you in Nordic tongue, like you're a long-lost friend from Malmö. They'll naturally assume you are of Scandinavian origin - one of them. Which, of course, most Northerners are.

From ÂŁ55. fjallraven.com

The Origin of Blue Jeans On the anniversary of Levi Strauss’ death, learn the creation story of one of the most popular articles of clothing

By Joseph Stromberg

SMITHSONIAN.COM SEPTEMBER 26, 2011 85563361.7K

Image: http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/aroundthemall/files/2011/09/duck-pants-small.jpg

image: http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/aroundthemall/files/2011/09/duck-pants.jpg

An early pair of Levi Strauss & Co.'s "Duck Trousers." Photo courtesy American History Museum

On the 109th anniversary of Levi Strauss’ death, his chief product—blue jeans—have become a $91 billion per year industry, an icon of American culture, and quite possibly the world’s most popular article of clothing. His name, more than any other, evokes the tough denim fabric and heavy stitching of America’s favorite pair of pants. But the birth of blue jeans came under surprising circumstances—and the ancestral trousers barely resemble the blue jeans of today.

It all started in 1871, when tailor Jacob Davis of Reno, Nevada, had a problem. The pants he was making for miners weren’t tough enough to stand up to the conditions in local mines; among other issues, the pockets and button fly were constantly being torn. “A miner’s wife came up to Davis and asked him to come up with pants that could withstand some abuse,” says curator Nancy Davis (no relation), from the American History Museum. Davis looked at the metal fasteners he used on harnesses and other objects. “At that time, he came up with the riveted trousers.”

As local miners snapped up the overalls he made with rivet-strengthened stress points and durable “duck cloth,” a type of canvas, Davis realized he needed to protect his idea. “He had to rush, due to the fact that these worked really well,” says Nancy Davis. “He realized he had something.” Lacking the money to file documents, he turned to Levi Strauss, a German immigrant who had recently opened a branch of his family’s dry-goods store in San Francisco, and the two took out a patent on a pair of pants strengthened with rivets.

Davis soon moved to San Francisco, and wide scale production of riveted pants started for the first time. Strauss ran the business, while Davis became production manager. “ actually was the person in charge of making sure that the trousers really did what they said they were going to do,” says Nancy Davis. “He was the person who knew how these pants should work.”

image: http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/aroundthemall/files/2011/09/levis-2.jpg

A close-up of the Smithsonian's original Levi Strauss trousers. Photo courtesy American History Museum

Business for the company boomed as pants flew off the shelves. “Strauss was doing pretty well in terms of bringing in merchandise from the East, but this was great because he didn’t need to bring in everything. He could manufacture it there, and that cut out a lot of cost,” says Davis. “He didn’t make just the jeans, but this was the principal thing he was making, and they were very popular.”

Essential to the Levi’s name was the integrity and ruggedness of the trousers. As seen on the American History Museum’s own pair of antique duck trousers, made sometime between 1873 and 1896, the label clearly proclaims “Patent Riveted Duck & Denim Clothing. . .Every Pair Guaranteed.

None Genuine Unless Bearing This Label.”

Even as the patent expired in 1890, Levi Strauss & Co. was already associated with a tremendously popular product and set up for long-term success. But introducing a new, more flexible fabric—blue denim—to go with the rivet idea proved to be the combination that would shape American wardrobes for more than a century and counting. “The brown duck continued to be used as late as 1896, and for a while it was side by side with the blue jeans,” Davis says.

The 1890 creation of the iconic Levi’s 501 style, in particular, led to the denim jeans taking over, eventually moving outside of the working class demographic and into the embrace of everyday casual fashion. “Initially, with Davis, it was the people who really needed serviceable pants, and needed them to last a lot longer than most,” says Nancy Davis. “Then we have record of—as early as the 1930s—people, other than blue-collar workers, wearing jeans. You do have people wearing them who don’t need to wear them, especially young people.”

In the latter half of the 20th century—decades after Strauss’ death in 1902—blue jeans achieved widespread cultural significance. “They really come to their apex in the 60s and 70s,” Davis says.

“The interesting thing is that this particular type of pants, the blue jeans, have become international,” she adds. “It’s what people think of. When they think of America, they think of blue jeans.”

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Fjällräven takes a hike for its 50th anniversary

In America, when we love a brand we, at most, may tell a friend. This is the mark of dedication.

This is the mark of a consumer’s trust. In Europe, they roll a little differently.

This past week, thousands from over 20 countries turned up at the Swedish Laplands—an area some 125 miles north of the Arctic Circle—to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Fjällräven for the Fjällräven Classic. There, trekkers embarked on a 70-mile hike through lavish birch forests, across turquoise waters, and up and down rocky mountains all while strapped into their arctic-fox-logoed bags (the "arctic fox" being the English translation of fjällräven, in case you were wondering).

The leagues that showed up ranged from diapers to senior citizens. Sure, there were plenty of twenty-somethings in the mix—the sort of folks you could see walking down anywhere street in downtown New York with the brand’s eponymous Kånken bags. But while the brand has enjoyed only a two-year life in the US, it boasts a much longer history in Europe where it’s legacy is closer to a style-minded North Face or Patagonia. A good deal of the trekkers rocked the same gritty-as-hell external-frame sacks they took camping back in the 70s, a time when most folks got their ass back in nature a little more and looked good doing it.

For most, the hike took four or more days. In between checkpoints, trekkers bandaged up, feasted on reindeer (smoked, grilled, meatballed, or doner-kebabed…seriously, the stuff is served in a Bubba Gump-assortment of styles in these parts), and kicked back in wood-fired saunas cracking jokes with strangers—often about Germans, the punching bag of choice for Scandinavians, at least while Americans are around. For others, it took less than 45 hours, some shotgun-jumpers capitalizing on the midnight sun and earning their injuries in reward.

That’s to say that the event wasn’t about a finish line. It wasn’t about how fast you ran or how many blisters you grew. Terrain this damn beautiful is outfitted with rocks that force you to take it easy anyway. It was about escaping cell phone service, getting a little dirty, and taking a breather in a land so freaking pure it begged for Sigourney Weaver-narration. Here, a glimpse at what we saw.

Chinese Styles ‒‒‒‒Zeyuan Liu & Xiong Rui

September 19, 2017

What are Chinese Styles?

Chinese Styles are also known as “Chinoiserie”. It is based on Chinese traditional culture, and it consist of plenty of Chinese elements, moreover, it also follows the global trends.

During recent years, Chinese Styles are often applied to the pop-culture business, such as music, costume, films, advertising, buildings and many other area.

The cheongsam is a female dress with distinctive Chinese features and enjoys a growing popularity in the international world of high fashion.

The name "cheongsam," meaning simply "long dress," entered the English vocabulary from the dialect of China's Guangdong Province (Cantonese). In other parts of the country including Beijing, however, it is known as "qipao", which has a history behind it.

When the early Manchu rulers came to China proper, they organized certain people, mainly Manchus, into "banners" (qi) and called them "banner people" (qiren), which then became loosely the name of all Manchus. The Manchu women wore normally a one-piece dress which, likewise, came to be called "qipao" or "banner dress." Although the 1911 Revolution toppled the rule of the Qing (Manchu) Dynasty, the female dress survived the political change and, with later improvements, has become the traditional dress for Chinese women.

Easy to slip on and comfortable to wear, the cheongsam fits well the female Chinese figure. Its neck is high, collar closed, and its sleeves may be either short, medium or full length, depending on season and taste. The dress is buttoned on the right side, with a loose chest, a fitting waist, and slits up from the sides, all of which combine to set off the beauty of the female shape.

The cheongsam is not too complicated to make. Nor does it call for too much material, for there are no accessories like belts, scarves, sashes or frills to go with it.

Another beauty of the cheongsam is that, made of different materials and to varying lengths, they can be worn either on casual or formal occasions. In either case, it creates an impression of simple and quiet charm, elegance and neatness. No wonder it is so much liked by women not only of China but of foreign countries as well.

If cheongsam is the symbol of Chinese ladies, then tunic suit would be the symbol of Chinese men.

The modern Chinese tunic suit is a style of male attire traditionally known in China as the Zhongshan suit (simplified Chinese: 中山装; traditional Chinese: 中山裝; pinyin: Zhōngshān zhuāng) (after Sun Yat-sen, also called Sun Zhongshan), and later as the Mao suit (after Mao Zedong). Sun Yat-sen introduced the style shortly after the founding of the Republic of China as a form of national dress although with a distinctly political and later governmental implication.

After the end of the Chinese Civil War and the establishment of the People's Republic of China in 1949, such suits came to be worn widely by males and government leaders as a symbol of proletarian unity and an Eastern counterpart to the

Western business suit. The name "Mao suit" comes from Chinese leader Mao Zedong's fondness for wearing them in public, so that the garment became closely associated with him and with Chinese communism in general in the Western imagination. Although they fell into disuse among the general public in the 1990s due to increasing Western influences, they are still commonly worn

by Chinese leaders during important state ceremonies and functions.

In the 1960s and 1970s the Mao suit became fashionable among Western European, Australian, and New Zealander socialists and intellectuals. It was sometimes worn over a turtleneck.

In the word, no matter cheongsam or tunic suit, they are all from Chinese culture and they are the traditional costumes in China. They also represent the process of Chinese history.

Do Fashion Collaborations Need a Revamp?

Mass-market fashion retailers could learn a thing or two from streetwear brands and sportswear giants about keeping their collaborations fresh.

LONDON, United Kingdom — For years, mass retailers like H&M and Target have worked with designer labels to produce limited-edition, “cheap and chic” capsule collections. Success was less about sales and more about generating media impressions and driving footfall to stores. After all, the collections themselves were usually produced in relatively small volumes and carefully calibrated to quickly fly off the shelves.

For participating designers, these collaborations offered both major marketing exposure and significant cash payments. Marc Beckman, CEO of DMA United, an advertising and talent agency that has brokered deals with Target for several designers, says sums in the six and seven figures are the norm.

For a while, the formula worked very well for both sides.

But on July 13, when H&M announced its latest annual fashion collaboration with Erdem, the London-based brand designed by Erdem Moralioglu — it’s safe to say the internet did not break. In the days after the announcement, the hashtag #ErdemXHM clocked up 53.7 million impressions on Twitter and Instagram, well below what the brand’s previous two fashion collaborations registered when they were announced. #KenzoXHM (2016) registered 81.6 million impressions on Twitter and Instagram, while #AlexanderWangXHM (2014) registered 266 million impressions, according to social media monitoring and analytics firm Brandwatch.

“I think Erdem is a great brand, it ties into the embellishment trend, but I’m not sure it has the same level of brand love,” says Petah Marian, senior editor at WGSN Insight. To be sure, Erdem Moralioglu — though highly respected for his intricate dresses, stocked at influential retailers like Barneys New York and Bergdorf Goodman — has a relatively small following. And coming after collaborations with major names like Karl Lagerfeld, Stella McCartney, Versace and Balmain, it looked as if H&M was running out of names.

“Every year when we do this we ask ourselves should we continue it? Should we do something else?” reveals Kristina Stenvinkel, H&M Group communications director, who has worked on every one of H&M’s fashion collaborations since its first designer capsule collection with Lagerfeld back in 2004. “But we think we come up with great and talented designers and customers are really appreciating everything? People are taking the day off school or work for the launch day to be in store.”

That may be true, but as the formula pioneered by the likes of Target and H&M becomes more widespread, it’s starting to feel, well, formulaic.

This Is the Wedding Dress Capital of the World In Suzhou, China, step inside one of the world’s largest silk factories and see where wedding dresses come from

By Jennifer Billock

SMITHSONIAN.COM APRIL 12, 2017 634853791

Welcome to Suzhou, China, the city of silk. Here, a large portion of the world’s silk is produced—and, according the the BBC, as many as 80 percent of the world’s wedding dresses.

Suzhou has been one of China’s silk capitals for nearly the entire history of the fabric’s production, and, in recent years, a destination for soon-to-be-brides from the world over.

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The idea of making silk stems from Chinese ingenuity, though the exact history of the practice is the stuff of legend. It’s said that about 6,000 years ago, Lady Hsi-Lin-Shih—the wife of Yellow Emperor Huangdi—was sitting under a mulberry tree in her garden drinking tea. A cocoon fell from the tree into her cup, and she was able to unravel the wet pod into a single strong thread. She went on to invent the loom and taught the locals how to raise silkworms for silk production.

Archaeological sites along the Yangzi River have revealed ancient spinning tools and silk thread and fabric dating back to 7,000 BC. For nearly 3,000 years, the Chinese kept silk-making processes a closely guarded secret, with leaks to the outside world punishable by death. Silk was obtained in other countries by way of the Silk Road, which began in eastern China and reached the Mediterranean Sea. Eventually, a group of Chinese immigrants settled in Korea and brought with them silk-making knowledge, and the

practice began to emerge outside its country of origin. Suzhou, though, remained an epicenter of silk production, producing high quality silk in staggering amounts—and that continues to this day.

Making silk is not as quaint as it once was—pulling apart a tea-soaked cocoon under a mulberry tree—but it follows basically the same process. The biggest silk factory in China is in Suzhou, the Suzhou No. 1 Silk Factory founded in 1926. They’ve automated the silk-making process as much as possible, though workers have a hand in every step of the process, producing a truly handmade silk product. Because silkworms exclusively eat mulberry leaves, the factory has a small mulberry plantation. The silkworms feed on the leaves until they are large enough to spin a cocoon around themselves. Normally, they would emerge from the cocoon and become a moth—but in silk, the moths inside are destroyed before they have a chance to break through and cut the silk strand used to make the cocoon.

At this point, the cocoons are collected and sorted by a grading system. White and glossy ones of uniform thickness are the first choice and are used for creating silk thread. Twin cocoons, where two silkworms spun their cocoons together, are used for making silk quilts at the factory. Any other cocoons—yellowed or spotted ones—are sorted and removed. (The discarded moths are then used in cosmetic products.)

Next, the cocoons are boiled to dissolve the sericin, the gummy substance holding the cocoon together, so the thread can be easily unwound. The thread is then reeled into an initial ball, and re-reeled by a machine to remove any moisture left in the silk from the boiling process. A single cocoon can produce about 3,300 feet of silk thread. At the factory, 8,000 double cocoons are used to make a single quilt.

Visitors to the Suzhou No. 1 Silk Factory will tour the facility from mulberry plantation to finished silk product, exploring and observing each step in the process. There’s a display of working 100-year-old automated looms behind glass, all of which are making elaborate silk fabric in the old style. And near the end of the tour, just before the extensive gift shop replicating an ancient silk market, guests can try their hands at making a quilt themselves. With the help of workers or other guests, everyone grabs a bundle of silk from one corner and stretches it as far as possible without breaking it, setting it down atop hundreds of other layers of the same stretched silk. This pile will eventually be sewn into a silk quilt. You won’t be able to buy it that day, but you can officially say that somewhere in the world, someone owns a quilt you helped make by hand.

After leaving the factory, pop in to one of the over 1,000 wedding dress shops that line the streets near Huqiu, or Tiger Hill, to see the silk come to life in a dazzling display of designs.

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