Teens in Jeans in Gênes

by Matthew Bedard

Robbing the Cradle of Denim: An Encore
Oh, the serpentine ways we weave our summer-sweet reveries—ever to her, in the fore, not fully actualized in her power, yet ready to retract this power’s jaws and swallow that around it whole, like a jungle snake, or a Pizza Hut buffet loyalist. For if your loyalty, dear readers, is as we’ve heard you espouse upon countertops in nearby dens of iniquity—squid ink and Chartreuse stains upon your bibs—you will recall we made this voyage last summer, to a place called Nîmes. And ah, that we climbed, on your behalf, to the upper-most tier of Nîmes’ coliseum to peer beyond the city’s limits on what she and her power—down below, jean-clad mind you—might desire after fleeing a place such as this… to swallow whole.

And so look, there! Not so far up the coast: Genoa, or Gênes as you might say here. It glares back in stony defiance, whistling a contentious tune of origin. Oh, the French and the Italians, and their many duels. For many call Nîmes the birth of denim. We won’t embarrass ourselves splitting open ‘denim’ to illustrate the nomenclature/history/purpose of last edition’s quest (though you know our dogged talents.) Instead, we will offer an excursion into the counter lore. Because, loyalist lovers, whoever started it—be it haute cuisine, fashion, prophylactic scorn, or the artisanal mustache—they’ve been doing it longer. They’ve been doing it with more enthusiasm. Now split your genes, you lean queens, you seam fiends, on our second volume of teens in jeans.

Photographer: Louis Canadas at Louiscanadas.fr.