Denis Simachev
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.
Then it becomes clear: Simachev, like his Bar & Shop, is cool, something the rest of Russia glaringly is not.
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.
“People tried D&G, then they got sick of it. They started to think about what's us, what's funny to us, what evokes feelings for us.”
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.