Paul Ishwood dives into the world of the Strong Man aesthetic and how if needed we can all can shroud ourselves in a touch of autocrat aesthetic.

Pozzoli

As the year began, I could feel a change in the wind—a sharp gust from the west, blustery and somewhat overwhelming. When it finally settled, it turned into a fog—a hazy fog that hung over us with weight. This weight pressed down on our shoulders, pulled at the corners of our mouths, and seemed to seep into our very being, latching onto our hearts.

This wind has captured something unsettling: a thick air of unease, impatience, and discontent. It has masterfully woven together some of humanity’s least attractive qualities and solidified itself into a force—one that has found its home on the right. For those of us who, perhaps naively, believed ourselves immune, the wind has lashed at our faces but not taken hold. We stand here now, battered but not swept away, trying to navigate this new world order, working out how best to move forward.

For me, a man of a certain age—supposedly English, though who knows anymore, now that Suella Braverman and her ilk are questioning everyone’s lineage—the challenge is to find my place. I am someone who loves antique chintz, loose covers, hyacinths and tulips, and paintings. My home is a battle of pinks, lavenders, oranges, and blues, each vying for more landmass. But I know this aesthetic is out.

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