STYLE’S SOFT POWER

by Teo van den Broeke

London, UK SHOREDITCH HOUSE

Following my time at Wallpaper*, I did stints at two of the UK’s leading men’s magazines in the role of style director. During my tenures at both titles, I travelled the world attending fashion shows and product launches; a working rhythm which meant I spent a great deal of my time (and money) trying to adhere to the trends I was reporting on. I loved clothes – I loved looking at them, touching them, buying them, writing about them. But the more stu I bought to try and fit in with the industry, the more uncomfortable and less like myself – my slim-cut, ever-so-slightly straight-laced, navy blue-clad self – I felt. Although I was fortunate to find myself awash with clobber in my former roles, there were only ever a handful of garments that I would return to time and again. The brushed cotton navy grandad shirt I bought from Uniqlo with one of my earliest paychecks, for instance. I’d worn the shirt on more dates than I cared to remember (some disastrous, some fabulous). e fabric had so ened beautifully with age and it always fi ed like a glove, no ma er how much my weight would fluctuate with the seasons. Magic! I only threw it away because it started to disintegrate a er I accidentally put it through a boil wash. Disaster!

Likewise, the first pair of white suede Gucci loafers I bought in the sale with my Christmas money in 2003. ey cost £70 and were too big for me, but I wore them on pretty much every summer holiday for the following decade because they reminded me of the inimitable thrill of being young and buying something beautiful you can’t a ord (but absolutely need to own). Eventually, I came to realise that, as much as it’s important to wear clothes for the pleasure of others, there are far more valuable endorphins to be earned by wearing clothes you love, simply because you love them.

Self -discovery and expression through clothing is a subject I examine closely in my new book, The Closet –a coming-of-age-meets-coming-out memoir published this September (Harper Collins HQ). Each chapter of the book focuses on a garment from the wardrobe of my past, from the cornflower blue princess dress I desperately wanted to wear as a toddler, but felt ashamed to do so, to the Puma Mostro trainers I bought as a teenager to impress the boy

I loved. eCloset is a paean to the clothes we care about and the stories they tell.

I finished writing the book just under a year ago, as I took up my post at Soho House, and I can honestly say that I’ve never felt more confident in my style choices than I do today. It might have something to do with the fact that I now work for a company where style is treated with equal weight to inclusivity and community; or maybe it’s because I’m constantly surrounded by people dressed in ever more inspiring and surprising ways than I am.

Every time I visit our Houses I’m freshly delighted by the bold array of sartorial statements on display. From the evening-centred elegance of 180 and the stealthy breeziness of West Hollywood to the insouciant under - statement of Paris, each of our clubs sit s in its own specific corner of the international style smörgåsbord. It’s one of the many reasons I love being both a member of and working for Soho House. here’s an episode of Sex and the City in which Samantha bumps into her old friend Phoebe (played, in a peculiar cameo, by Geri Halliwell). In their brief exchange, Phoebe extols the virtues of surviving the New York summer thanks to the pool at Soho House. “I mean, what else can you possibly do in this heat?” she says. “Just sit by the pool and drink cocktails while they mist you with Evian. Isn’t it the best?” Stuck on the waiting list, Samantha claims a lost membership card in order to sneak into the ho est (or rather, coolest) spot in town

Or perhaps it’s simply because the process of writing my book became a kind of sartorial “therapy”, allowing me to finally figure out who I am through the prism of the clothes that I love. Either way, wearing clothes that ma er, ma ers. Wearing clothes y ou care about matters. Wearing clothes for the approval of others is, well, bollocks. But then, as I say, you don’t need me to tell you that.

An old yarn but an ever-relevant lesson: part of the magic of a Soho House swim is that a place by the pool feels elusive, hard-won and, in a city heatwave, invaluable, whichever House you’re at, from New York to Amsterdam or London. It reminds me of one sweltering day spent on the roo op of White City House, in a novel moment of al fresco freedom post-lockdown. e water provided respite from the searing heat, but equally welcome was the glamorous chaos of the scene: the tangle of sun-starved bodies unleashed once more, the candy-striped towels doused in spilt rosé, the rounds and rounds of Picantes and wood-fired pizza. Soaring above the urban sprawl below, you could be anywhere more reliably temperate than London. And yet you could be nowhere but here, up on the roof of the former BBC Television Centre, uplifted by 1960s spirit and screen-ready good looks.

And then there was the time in deepest Somerset, a world away from London, enacting the remote working fantasy with a laptop and pool session at Babington House – Zoom camera switched firmly o . During o ice hours, swimming there felt like the ultimate clandestine escape, surrounded by idyllic acres, laptop propped on a sun-dried towel (they’re sage green at Babington, to match the manicured lawns). Lunch took place beside the Georgian manor at the heart of the place, all that storybook charm cheering the most work-weary soul.

Back in town, I’ve often been surprised that partygoers can resist a midnight plunge when an illuminated pool gleams invitingly. Swimming stops at 10pm, to be clear, but at the a er-party of the Soho House Awards last September, I could have sworn the glittering depths on the roof of 180 House winked at me. at sirenic swell had also beckoned months earlier at the Vanity Fair pre-BAFTA party –although it would have been a bracing plunge on that chilly March night.

But the Soho House pool is for all seasons, as I recently discovered during a daring dip at Shoreditch House. To my surprise, I was not the only one braving the January dash from changing room. And li le wonder – the experience was deeply reviving, with views of the City and East End filtered in so focus by steam rising from the (mercifully) heated water. A word to the wise: one-pieces are preferable for out-of-season swimmers, though nobody ba ed an eyelid at the ostentatious Baywatch-red bikini I had mistakenly packed in a rush. Post-swim, the velvet sofas and booths on the Fi h Floor had never looked more appealing, and it felt only right to se le in for the a ernoon, as bleary-eyed brunchers gave way to the wholesome groups meeting for Sunday roasts.