Denim(fabric from Nîmes) - very strong cotton fabric, in twill w More is a symbol of defiance. Stiff, but not rigid. Heavy, but forgiving. It fades, but it doesn’t forget. It softens over time, but never truly relaxes. Worn long enough, it becomes a second skin—creased at the knee, bleached at the thigh, frayed at the cuff. Denim carries the body like a memory. Denim worn together, jacket and jean, it becomes almost myth.

The Canadian Tuxedo––wearing denim both for the top and bottom––was born in Vancouver in 1951. Bing Crosby—after a hunting trip, dressed in Levi’s head-to-toe—was turned away from a hotel lobby for his outrageous look. Too casual, they said. Too working-class, even. Not the right attire for a fancy hotel. Crosby turned humiliation into a joke. Levi’s responded in kind: a custom tuxedo jacket made entirely of denim, finished with rivets, and a leather patch declaring Crosby––while flashy, almost comical––welcome in any hotel, anywhere. The Canadian Tux was irony dressed as formalwear. A joke, yes—but one with endurance.

The full denim look was already in the air. Cowboys wore it. Miners lived in it. But this pairing—top and bottom, indigo and indigo—was something not seen outside manual work environments. Anti-fashion and yet unforgettable. Elvis wore it with a sneer. Marvin Gaye wore it with his iconic orange beanie. Springsteen made it Americana. Diana wore it cropped, over bike shorts. The formula never changed: denim above, denim below. Same cloth, different intention. It is not always about matching, though. It is about balance. Faded top, dark jeans. Dark top, faded jeans. Boots, or soft leather loafers. Avoid parody. Seek ease. The Canadian Tuxedo is not a uniform. It’s a suggestion. It suggests a proclivity for rebellion, utility, an element of carelessness masking precision. It is what happens when labour becomes style. Denim ages. Denim resists. Denim is nowadays a quiet, ubiquitous fabric, but when doubled, it can be striking.