Reykjavík Grapevine - 31.07.2009, Blaðsíða 12

12
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 11 — 2009
Fashion | Analysis
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Nær
ein alda rís er önnur vís
As one wave arises, another is sure to follow
As on
e wave arises,
another is sure to follow Nær ein alda rís er önnur vís
PO
RT
h
ön
nu
n
The way Icelanders dress is, let’s
say, somehow different. Everyone
seems to be more... fashionable than
elsewhere. After some observation
and research, it becomes clear that
there indeed is an “Icelandic look,”
a dress code. And it has something
– if not everything – to do with The
Icelandic Soul. And Bubbi.
I returned to Reykjavík from Berlin
some days ago and noticed what I always
notice when I come to Iceland: the people
in Reykjavík look as if they are about to
strut along the catwalk, styled from tip
to toe, while people in Berlin look like
earthbound nature folks, hippies even,
who seem as if they just put on some
random beige or brown shirt that they’ve
found in the closet that morning. Green,
if the person is totally wacky. How come
nothing that Icelanders wear seems to
be randomly picked out of the closet?
The Cutie Pies
After closely observing this
phenomenon for a while it dawned on
me: in general, there are two groups of
people. First, there are the alternative
ones. They are also referred to as “cutie
pies” (“krútt” in Icelandic – reminiscent
of the nineties’ twee movement). They
listen to more “sophisticated” music like
Sígur Rós, Björk or múm, and wear a lot
of colours. The girls, for example, wear
red-green-striped tights with blue skirts
or colourful dresses. They have modern
haircuts with straight bangs and don’t
mind going without make-up, save for
a lurid red lipstick. The guys usually
wear skinny jeans in blue, black or red,
checked shirts, and preferably colourful
scarves. Both, guys and girls like skinny
jeans and loafers or slippers. Colourful,
of course. Checked. Red. Yellow.
Whatever colour is available.
If the “cute people” have glasses, they
probably wear these big, black, round
glasses, usually worn by the nerds in
the movies. They obviously underline
their ugly-cute, so “non-caring” charm.
But the most important thing is that
everything should look as if they just
reluctantly put on “something” he or she
found in the closet. Any garment should
look as if it was bought in a second hand
store or has already been worn by older
siblings for generations. In fact, it was
most likely bought in one of the hot
designer-shops of downtown Reykjavík.
Attack of the Hair Gel People
The other group of folks, also easily
spotted on a night on the town, are the
so-called “hair gel people.” It is quite
easy to distinguish them from the “cutie
pies.” The most striking difference is
that these people love black. Simply love
it! They either like to dress up only in
black or combine something black with
another, plain, coloured garment. White
is quite popular in this regard. But no
patterns or colourful stripes. The girls
like black, silver or golden leggings,
preferably with an adorned part on the
ends, like buttons or a pattern. They
love dresses, big belts and high heels for
any occasion, and don’t mind looking
dressed-up. Actually, looking dressed-
up is the purpose of getting dressed-up.
That’s also why they put on a lot of make-
up, the eye-shadow-colour matching the
colour of blush and lipstick, of course.
Their hair is usually cut in layers and
almost all of the ash-blond girls bleach
it and/or have light strands. The guys
like to wear black suits when they go out,
complimented by collar shirts and a tie.
In everyday life, they wear suit-trousers
or khakis and collar or polo shirts. And
yes, they do use hair gel. When it comes
to music, they also have a quite different
taste compared to the “cutie pies.” They
usually don’t enjoy the music of Sigur
Rós or Björk, but rather listen to fun
pop music, like Sálin hans Jóns mins or
Nýdönsk.
The search for an Icelandic look
Albeit very different in appearance, the
two aforementioned groups do have
something in common: they both put a
lot of care and thought into their general
look. So, despite all the differences,
there is what could be called a typical
“Icelandic look.”
Like everywhere else, Icelanders
follow the fashion of their idols. In
Iceland, musicians play an extremely
important role in being icons for the
people. In the 1980s, punk and disco
music clashed in Iceland – and with it,
different lifestyles and opinions collided.
So people started imitating their idols
by dressing up like them and thus
expressing their unique take on life. Sara
María Júliudóttir, owner of the fashion
store Naked Ape on Bankastræti, agrees.
“When I look at my friends, I realise that
they dress like the people who make the
music that they listen to and talk about
the old punk bands and what Bubbi did.”
As for Bubbi Morthens, he is probably
the most famous, at least the most
consensually approved of songwriter
in Iceland. No Icelandic musician has
sold more albums than he on the local
market. Before Bubbi Morthens reached
out to the more commercial folk-pop-mix
that most people know him for, he was a
punk rocker. He was one of the leaders
of the punk-front against the disco music
in the 1980s, long before Björk with her
colourful outfits, the godmother of the
“cutie pies,” appeared on the horizon.
Yes, it was a front against a front and
Bubbi was in the first row. People chose
sides by choosing outfits and this choice
still lasts. And since “Icelanders thrive
on their isolation,” as Sara María puts it,
they go to great lengths and extremes in
everything they do.
“Icelanders sometimes feel like a very
isolated, small nation. Consequently, it is
very important for us to be independent
from other nations and stand out. There
is a different kind of energy in Iceland,
an energy that probably serves in making
us more extreme in everything we do.”
And it’s not a secret that Icelanders go
to great length with whatever they do,
no matter if it’s about the purchase of
the biggest f lat-screen-TV or the latest
high-end Jeep, economic growth, the
consumption of alcohol or, yes, clothing.
It’s only natural that these extremes
would be reflected in their clothing.
The roots of these peculiar dress styles
reach deep into the Icelandic soul. Make
a statement! Show who you are and
distinguish yourself from the others!
And be extreme when you do that!
The Hybrid
One can only imagine the identity
crisis some people might go through
being faced with these two modes of
expressing oneself in Iceland. I mean,
what do people do if they – by nature –
are trapped between the two groups? If
they like Sígur Rós and Abba? If they like
wearing colours and hair gel? Well, there
is always the possibility of becoming
a hybrid. Some hybrids can already
be found in the streets of Reykjavík. A
hybrid is a person who has obviously
not experienced the clash of cultures
in the 80s – a teenager. One could also
call them the second generation of “cutie
pies” or “hair gel people”. They pick
out whatever they like from both styles,
so one could encounter a young girl
combining colourful leggings with high-
heels. Or one sees a young guy wearing
a suit – but it is a colourful one and has
a slim fit or sixties cut and it is also
probably too small, true to the “cutie pie”
motto: don’t look as if you if you tried.
Essentially, a hybrid is completely in
love with his or her cell phone, which
comes in all imaginable colours. In the
end, there is no need for foreigners to
feel lost when it comes to choosing the
right clothes. Choose a side or become
a hybrid. Just make sure it fits your
lifestyle and music tastes. And always,
always think about what you are about to
fish out of the closet. That’s the Icelandic
way of dressing!
Dress Code Rvk: Cutie Pies, Etc. Run Amok
In the backseat there’s a traffic accident
waiting to happen. Three hot properties
are locked in a tongue twist of epic
erotic proportions, enticing me to keep
an eye off the road but rather locked in
the rear-view mirror. “Are you enjoying
this?” inquires one, while coming up for
air. I just nod and smile. “Perhaps we'll
get a nice discount?” “Perhaps,” I reply.
Then the groping starts. I avert my eyes
from the fiery femmes and turn them to
the road ahead, struggling to think about
old people and waste treatment. Or old
people engaged in waste treatment.
A couple emerges from a dinner
party. The woman is souped up to the
breaking point. Struggling to retain her
dinner, she hangs her head out the open
window and delivers verbal abuse to her
long-suffering mate. He’s taking it with
a pinch of salt and merely interjects the
odd consoling comment while rubbing
her shoulders. Then the inevitable
happens. She turns to fire off some
final derisive blow, but instead erupts
in a red geyser of strawberry vomit. Her
indiscretion settles like a pool of blood
on the backseat covers, oozing the smell
of digestive acid and red-hot shame. I
get these fuckers home at double the
speed limit and keep the meter ticking
as the boyfriend goes to work with
a sponge and a bucket of hot water,
egging him on with some Pig Destroyer
blasting at hyper speed on the stereo
turned up to an ear-shattering volume.
Minister for Foreign Affairs Össur
Skarphéðinsson enters my cab bound
for a party at the American Embassy.
Not worth mentioning, were it not for
the fact that the right honourable Mr.
Skarphéðinsson lives within walking
distance and this is back when we
were approaching the $200 oil barrel.
Furthermore the Prime Minister had just
the previous day recommended through
national media that people resort to
walking our biking whenever possible.
Since this reeks of wasted tax money I
ask Össur, arguably our coolest Minister
of anything, to date, if he’s in the habit of
ignoring his closest superior. “Oh, you’d
rather not have the fare?” replies the
Minister of witty retorts. “Touché”, is all I
can come up with.
Outside Q Bar two gay men enter,
one of who had recently achieved his
allotted 15 minutes of fame for shaking
his awesome girth in the music video
for a Eurovision song contest entry. Shit
was hella funny I admit, so the sexual
rewards he has coming to him inside my
cab are well earned. Unfortunately I have
not a smidge of bi-curiosity in me, so the
face sucking taking place on the way to
the boy’s house does not distract like the
aforementioned encounter.
Apparently his hook-up is soon put
off as well, as no amount of enticement
will lure him inside for what I can only
assume would’ve been a close encounter
of the anal kind. Instead we about face
right back to Q Bar, where he might
scout an alternate piece of ass.
-“TRAVIS BICkLE”
Grapevine’s cabdriver
Taxi Driver:
Moments
IRINA DOMURATH
HÖRðUR SVEINSSON