There is a particular type of person who walks through life with an awareness that they are a walking contradiction—both part of the world and utterly detached from it. These people do not dress, they exist in fabric. They do not follow trends, they haunt them. ZIGGY CHEN’s Menswear Fall/Winter 25-26 collection, “VOLEISURE,” is not for the eager or the desperate. It is for those who know that elegance is not something to be screamed, but murmured in a language only the discerning bother to learn.

A fusion of volition and leisure, VOLEISURE suggests a deliberate withdrawal from the exhausting spectacle of modern fashion, offering garments that feel less designed and more discovered—like relics of a forgotten era, preserved in the folds of cashmere and linen. The collection is a study in controlled ruin, where the softness of watercolors meets the structure of ancient wood. Clothes that look as if they have survived something—time, movement, an encounter with someone who no longer exists. The palette—a muted assembly of greens, deep brown-reds and ink-washed grays—speaks in hushed tones, refusing to demand attention yet effortlessly holding it.

This is not fashion for the hungry-eyed, those who clamor for applause and validation. This is for the ones who move like shadows, slipping through cities with an air of quiet, impenetrable knowing. VOLEISURE is an invitation to exist on your own terms, to dress like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised. These are the clothes of someone who has seen everything and still prefers the poetry of the unsaid. And so, the question remains: do you wear it, or does it wear you?

Languid Precision

For the poet who doesn’t wake before noon

Somewhere in a crumbling Venetian palazzo, a man once stood, draped in tattered velvet, speaking in riddles about the death of luxury. He would have worn this. Or at least, he would have admired its refusal to try too hard.

ZIGGY CHEN’s latest look is a deliberate exercise in controlled disarray—like a half-finished oil painting that refuses to be overworked. It’s the kind of thing worn by those who have seen everything, said nothing and still manage to be the most interesting person in the room.

The silhouette drapes, not in that exhausting, exaggerated way that reeks of forced effort, but in a natural, collapsing ease. The oversized blazer, with its fragmented patchwork and softened structure, looks as if it’s been passed down through generations of eccentric scholars who scribbled love notes in the margins of their books. The pants pool like ink on damp paper, wide and unbothered, creating an unspoken dialogue between movement and stillness.

And then there’s that beanie—a quiet rebellion against anything too polished. It whispers of Berlin winters and secret underground poetry readings. I’d trade it for a silk scarf tied at the neck, personally. Something with a little venom.

But let’s talk color. That deep brown-red, the varying shades of green—it’s the palette of a neglected library where time has softened every edge. It calls to mind traditional Chinese ink paintings, their pigments bleeding into each other in quiet defiance of structure. There’s a sense of architectural decay here too—the kind found in an abandoned Kyoto tea house or a Brutalist building whose concrete has finally given way to creeping ivy.

Would I wear it? Absolutely. This is exactly the kind of thing I’d throw on when I want to exist on my own terms—half there, half elsewhere. It’s armor for the deliberately elusive. If fashion is a conversation, this look is a message written in disappearing ink.

Ruins in Motion

For those who wear their past like a badge

Somewhere in a basement jazz club, a man once sat, claiming to have seen the end of the world. He smelled of whiskey and old books, dressed like he had just emerged from a war that never officially ended. He would have worn this. Or maybe he already had.

ZIGGY CHEN presents decay as a luxury, an excavation of memory stitched into fabric. This outfit is a walking palimpsest—layered, frayed and marked by something that feels like erosion. The print on the fabric? It looks less like a pattern and more like the remnants of an old fresco, slowly chipping away in an abandoned monastery. There’s no flash, no gimmicks, no desperate need to be understood. Just an accumulation of textures and shades of brown, black and green, melting together like damp paper left in the rain.

The oversized jacket slouches with the ease of someone who has nothing left to prove. The pants drag just enough to suggest you’ve been wandering the earth without destination, and yet, somehow, you’ve ended up here. And those sunglasses? The kind worn by people who never bother explaining themselves. They see everything, but offer nothing in return.

Would I wear it? Not like this. I’d swap the hat for something sharper—a velvet beret, perhaps. Something that says, Yes, I exist, but not for your benefit. The rest, I’d leave untouched. After all, some things—like the slow disintegration of time—shouldn’t be interfered with.

This isn’t just clothing. It’s evidence of a life already lived.

Crushed Reverie

For those who drink absinthe at noon

Somewhere, a poet disappeared for three years and returned wearing nothing but velvet and regret. This outfit could have belonged to him. It’s indulgent, moody and entirely impractical for anyone who cares about time.

ZIGGY CHEN has sculpted something here that looks like it was discovered in the attic of a forgotten estate—clothes that have absorbed every whispered secret and spilled glass of wine.

The crushed velvet swallows light, shifting between deep ink blue and the color of burned sugar. The jacket, slightly disheveled, looks as if it was hastily buttoned after a night of questionable decisions. The scarf tied at the neck? A perfect touch. It suggests an air of nonchalance, the kind usually reserved for men who never carry umbrellas and always leave dinner early. And those sunglasses? They’re not shielding the eyes; they’re creating distance. A deliberate barrier between the wearer and whatever dull conversation is happening around them.

Would I wear it? Absolutely, but I’d ruin the illusion. I’d add a leather glove—just one. Maybe a silver chain that looks like it was stolen from an ex-lover. This is an outfit for someone who doesn’t explain themselves. Someone who laughs softly at things that aren’t jokes. Someone who understands that the best part of any party is the moment you decide to leave.

Drenched in Memory

For the ghost who never left

Years ago, in a quiet alley in Kyoto, rainwater soaked into the pages of a discarded book. Ink bled, edges curled, its words dissolved into something unreadable yet strangely beautiful. This coat feels like that moment—an artifact of something that once was, now softened by time and wear.

ZIGGY CHEN has mastered the art of decomposition. The trench coat, with its blotched, washed-out stains, looks less designed and more discovered, as if it had been hanging on the back of a chair in an abandoned house for decades. It’s theatrical in its quiet despair—like a prop from a Tarkovsky film or the wardrobe of a forgotten poet exiled to the countryside. The sleeves crumple just enough to suggest exhaustion, the fabric drapes with the weight of a thousand whispered confessions.

The scarf at the neck adds a note of deliberate restraint. A nod to 19th-century melancholia, perhaps? Or just the finishing touch of someone who understands that true style lies in the smallest of details. The knit vest peeking out from underneath, though, is almost too proper. I’d lose it. Replace it with a sheer black shirt, something barely held together.

Would I wear it? Without a doubt. This is clothing for someone who doesn’t belong to any specific era, for someone who moves through the world like a half-formed memory. If the end of days ever comes quietly, I imagine this is what I’ll be wearing when it does.

Exile Chic

For those who carry their own weather

In a nameless café on the outskirts of Vienna, a woman once wrapped herself in a wool coat, pulled on gloves too extravagant for the setting and disappeared into the rain. Her face was never seen again. This outfit feels like a tribute to her—someone eternally departing, always slipping just out of reach.

ZIGGY CHEN’s take on disheveled formality is poetry wrapped in olive drab. The layering of the waistcoat, blazer and voluminous trousers suggests someone who never fully unpacks, someone who treats dressing as an act of defense rather than vanity. The muted greens melt together like the inside of an old leather-bound book—soft, worn and filled with stories no one has bothered to write down.

Then, the accessories. The beanie, practical but noncommittal, sits like an afterthought. The oversized gloves, dangling at the hips, are ridiculous in the best possible way—a contradiction between preparedness and indifference. And those shoes? A jarring, almost cartoonish shade of green, as if the wearer walked through a wet painting and never looked back.

Would I wear it? Of course, but I’d replace the gloves with something sharper—structured leather, maybe. Something that says, I’m here, but I won’t stay. Because that’s what this outfit is: a farewell note in fabric, a whisper of someone already gone.

Driftwood Elegance

For those who walk through fog without looking back

On the edge of a cliff in the Faroe Islands, the wind once twisted the ocean into something unrecognizable. There’s a heaviness in the air before a storm, a stillness that feels almost deliberate. This coat captures that—weight, movement and the quiet inevitability of something slipping away.

ZIGGY CHEN has given us armor for the modern drifter. The heathered gray fabric has the texture of something softened by salt air and time, an overcoat that looks as if it’s been worn through years of departure and return. The proportions are exaggerated just enough to suggest indifference—sleeves too long, trousers pooling, fabric swallowing the body like a memory that refuses to fade. And then, the hood. A strange, almost monastic detail that transforms the look from merely melancholic to something almost mythic, as if the wearer could disappear into the woods and never be seen again.

It’s thoughtful, but not fragile. Calculated, but never forced. A philosopher’s uniform, perhaps. The kind of outfit you wear when you need to be present but would rather not be perceived.

I’d wear this, but I’d trade the hood for something sharper—a silk scarf tied at the throat, something that makes it clear I’m still in control. Because this look walks a fine line between mystery and surrender, and I prefer my solitude to be intentional.

Fugitive Poetics

For those who look better leaving than arriving

Somewhere, there was a man who lived out of a suitcase but dressed like he owned the world. He spoke in riddles, carried old maps instead of a phone and left every city before anyone got too familiar. This outfit is him. Or maybe it’s the idea of him—the silhouette of someone perpetually in transit.

ZIGGY CHEN offers an ensemble that feels like it belongs to a traveler who never unpacks. The oversized brown corduroy coat drapes with the ease of an afterthought, its wide lapels folding over themselves like a book left open to a forgotten page. The pants, pooling at the ankles, suggest a deliberate disregard for the concept of tailoring. Then there’s the shirt—an abstract watercolor of soft gray and ink-splattered black, layered under a scarf that seems almost too delicate for the weight of the rest. It’s a contradiction, but then again, so is anyone worth paying attention to.

The hat? Necessary, though I’d swap it for something meaner. A felt fedora with a crushed brim, maybe, something that says I don’t have time for small talk. But the undone buttons, the way the fabric moves—it’s all about calculated dishevelment. The illusion of effortlessness, perfected.

Would I wear it? Obviously. But only on the kind of night where I know I won’t be staying until morning.

Monastery Drift

For the scholar who never returns to the library

Somewhere, a man lived in a house with no furniture—just stacks of books, unmarked bottles of wine and a mattress on the floor. He spoke five languages but never finished a sentence. If he wore clothes at all, they might have looked like this.

ZIGGY CHEN delivers an outfit that feels like it belongs to someone who abandoned academia but took the aesthetics with them. The oversized knit vest, its deep V-neck and striped trim, looks borrowed from an old philosophy professor who left town under suspicious circumstances. Beneath it, a languid cream shirt, its cuffs peeking out just enough to suggest a past life of structure and routine. The pants, though, steal the attention—washed in a hazy, marbleized gray, they move like shadows cast on ancient stone. It’s a monk’s robe reinterpreted for a world that no longer believes in silence.

Then, there’s the scarf, wrapped haphazardly, like an afterthought or an intentional disguise. A relic from another time, another place. The kind of thing you keep for no reason but refuse to throw away.

Would I wear it? Of course. But I’d trade the vest for a structured wool coat, something sharp enough to cut through all this softness. Because, as much as I enjoy the romance of looking lost, I prefer to leave the impression that I know exactly where I’m going.

Credits

Styling: Noey Park

Casting: Lucien Casting

Hair & MakeUp: Emiliano Riccardi

Music, Video, Photography: Alessandro Tinelli

PR: Federica Tattoli + Ritual Projects

Art Direction: Ziggy Chen

Camera: Tomas Smith

Production: Studio Luma

Location: Grand Garage Haussmann

Saxophonist: Dan Kinzelman