Denis Simachev
by Micha Rinkus
Slouched insolently in a booth
underneath an old-fashioned
drawstring toilet,
Denis Simachev (see-ma-CHYOV)
looks not unlike the rest of the
clientele at his club —
asymmetrical haircut,
immaculately clean sneakers and
an air of impenetrable boredom.
He wears an ironic graphic tee,
also not an uncommon clothing
choice in this particular haunt,
the primary difference being
than he designed it. “Pykh! Pykh!
Pykh!” growls the wolf on his
chest, instantly recognizable to
Gen-X Russians as the cartoon
menace of Nu Pogodi, a Soviet
rip-off of Tom & Jerry.
It's difficult to pinpoint why
exactly Simachev Bar & Shop, the
designer's first monobrand store
whose lower-level is a white-hot
hipster hangout, seems so out of
place for Moscow, but it's
something to do with its quirky
black humor. While other
establishments spend their money
to look as glam as possible, the
designer chose to invest in a
handful of one-of-a-kind
decorations, such as a
cheerfully colorful mosaic
depicting a hentai rape scene, a
pilot's ejector seat for seating
and antique toiletry. These are
trappings of an idle wealth that
can now indulge its
eccentricities, including potty
humor.
Then it becomes clear: Simachev, like his Bar & Shop,
is cool, something the rest of
Russia glaringly is not.
In
the 1990s, New Russia had a
fashion problem.
Like Beverley
Hillbillies cut loose on Rodeo
Drive, the newly rich piled
Dolce & Gabbana on Hermes on
Jimmy Choo with reckless
abandon, not caring that slavish
devotion to Western brands was,
at the very least, uncool. The
country’s party scene suffered
the same affliction: Moscow's
exclusive megaclubs were glitzy
and decadent, but could never be
mistaken for hip. How could
they? Money was being spent
purely for the sake of
spectacle, and without a hint of
originality. It was if an entire
generation had no pants, and no
one on the inside would call
them out.
The
first cracks in this facade came
at the start of the 21st
century, with the emergence of
“indie elitny,” a trend that
infused the same moneyed
hyper-exclusivity with
cosmopolitanism and an air of
ironic distance.
Password-encrypted underground
clubs like Gazgolder, hidden in
the industrial shantytown near
Moscow's Kurskaya train station,
hosted tusovkas (intimate
parties) for Moscow's golden
youth — investment bankers who
moonlight as DJs, models who
holiday in Goa, young designers
fed up with the lazy and
derivative fashion of their
predecessors. And when this
elite circle of New, New
Russians needed an ambassador of
style, Denis Simachev was more
than prepared to step in.
His
first solo boutique, Denis
Simachev Shop & Bar, opened in
early 2007 on Stoleshnikov
Pereulok. Beloved by the wives
of Moscow’s minigarchs, the
lesser versions of the city's
infamous oligarchs, Stoleshnikov
is where the boutiques of
Europe's biggest fashion houses
are located. To announce his
arrival, Simachev
Christmas-wrapped his two-story
store, situated between Hermes
and Burberry, in gaudy neon
Khokhloma, a 17th-century folk
print. Needless to say, there
went the neighborhood.
“People tried D&G, then they got
sick of it,” says Simachev.
“They started to think about
what's us, what's funny to us,
what evokes feelings for us.”
Rather than imitate the French
or Italian experience, which was
the goal of Russian elite since
time immemorial, Simachev
decided to loot the treasure
chest of Russian national
costumes. Thus, the telnyashka
(a striped naval tank top),
kitschy hammers & sickles,
provincial headscarves and flags
of all eras have found their way
into high fashionability in
modern-day Russia. Each of
Simachev's collections is based
on a specific Russian “hero”—a
soldier in Chechnya; a Siberian
schoolteacher with a golden
plait; Red Army commander Vasily
Chapayev; a 1980s Olympian.
Taken comprehensively, they are
a compelling, unabashedly
patriotic history lesson,
preaching pride in one's rich
cultural legacy rather than
mindless abuse of foreign status
markers.
It
was clear to Simachev that most
European haute couture didn't
jibe with Russian fashion
sensibilities. For example, a
Russian girl wouldn't be caught
dead in austere, military Prada.
“Save all the princesses from
the bewitched castles of
unisex,” the designer exhorted
in his “Made in Moscow”
collection. His girls strut down
the catwalk in gold lame
tracksuits and high heels, with
shirts cooing that enticing
slogan, “From Rasha Viz Lave.”
He also doesn't pander to
trifling environmental concerns:
PETA activists would urinate
themselves at the sight of his
pterodactyl-esque fur earflaps,
an essential for surviving cold
northern winters.
While Simachev doesn't deign to
talk much about the rationale
behind his designs—too cool—and
comes up with an impressive
range of throwaway answers (“I
just make clothes my wife will
look good in,” “Everyone has to
brand themselves somehow”),
nonetheless, there is one thing
that is crystal clear about him:
He gets it — “it” being the
profound, unbreachable chasm
between Russia and the rest of
the world. Knowing this, he
gleefully stokes all the West's
greatest fears and stereotypes
about Russia, from its
mail-order brides to its
creeping authoritarianism. For
instance, Simachev's latest
collection, “Bang! Bang!” an ode
to mid-’90s syndicated crime,
featured ostentatiously bling
Orthodox crosses, ominous
leather trench coats and
t-shirts declaring “I Heart OPG
(Russian organized crime
gangs).” Other tees announce
“Neft Nashe Vsyo” (Oil is Our
Everything) or depict Putin
framed in roses, evoking Cult of
Stalin propaganda. “Of course
they are provocative,” Simachev
laughs. “They are supposed to
make people think about Russia
and about Russia's place in the
world.”
Nonetheless, he
wishes people paid the same
amount of attention to his less
controversial items, such as the
handmade 1940s-50s-style shoes
he includes in every collection.
“They just don't sell,” he
laments. This candid admission
tugs at the heartstrings until
you remember that everything
else Simachev has touched in the
past year has been wildly
successful. Since the beginning
of 2007, domestic sales of
Simachev wear, previously
targeted to Europeans as a
novelty, increased from 30
percent to 70 percent in Russia.
Russian movie stars wear his
attitude t-shirts to premieres;
banners across Tverskaya,
Moscow's 5th Avenue, announce
his fashion shows; and the
city's hottest clubs hire him as
their headline DJ (Simachev's
musical style is called vinegret,
from the Russian salad that
tosses in everything that’s
lying around). Even Vladimir
Putin, gazing out his office
window across the Moscow River
at the entire length of a
building advertising a Simachev-branded
PlayStation, must have a touch
of Denis envy.
“I'm not going to just say
‘Let's love Russia’ or ‘Yay,
Putin!’” the artist concludes.
“People always accept things
more easily when you give it to
them with a smiley face.” To
wit, the Kremlin, constantly
plagued by PR problems, might do
well to hire a cultural attaché
like Simachev, a man who makes
even patriotism look edgy and
hip. Maybe it hasn’t reached the
president yet, but Simachev’s
message has already trickled
down from the elite hipster
circles to the unwashed masses
who can't afford his t-shirts:
Russia is cool
again.
