The Seriousness of The Soul: Reginald Sylvester II

October 25, 2019

Reginald Sylvester II is spiritual. Not in the sense that he does yoga, or paints the word ‘holy’ on a canvas and calls it devotional, but that every point in his process, from idea to execution, is a kind of divine exploration of his relationship with himself, his culture and his god. His large, conceptual paintings, rooted in abstract expressionism, are as much a product of the spirit as they are of his hand, and his practice is informed by the discord between them. Though highly personal, Sylvester’s work also speaks to the collective contemporary Black experience: “I’m very adamant in my practice that the work resonates with us on that playing field,” he tells artist Eric N. Mack, who visited Reginald at his Queens studio to discuss his life and art.

Interview Eric N. Mack
Text Alexandra Weiss
Photography Micaiah Carter @ Giant Artists
Styling Simon Rasmussen @ Cartel & Co, Talent
Talent: Reginald Sylvester II
Men's Fashion Editor: Sebastian Jean
Producer: Bonnie Osborn
Photo Assistants: Rahim Fortune, Michael Wolever
Fashion Assistants: Elsa Herri, Zoë Ziirsen

(Above) Hat and sweater by LOEWE, vest by JACQUEMUS

Inside that space, Sylvester has recently finished his latest series—aptly referred to as his ‘Soul Vs. Flesh’ paintings—a sort of culmination of his career thus far. The works are sprawling, lawless pieces that touch on religion and historical trauma in a way that’s true to Reggie’s own understanding and engagement with the idea. But there’s also an undeniable and inherent beauty, from the color palette to the controlled mania of his strokes. It’s a concept that both Mack and Sylvester can relate to—one they discuss openly in the latter’s studio—that as Black artists and creatives in our societal landscape, they fight to summon meaning from their scars.

Left - Coat by COMME DES GARÇONS HOMME PLUS, shorts by LOEWE, shoes by CLARKS (Reginald’s own).

Right - Hat by NIKE, glasses by RETROSUPERFUTURE, shirt by MARTINE ROSE, belt and pants by A.P.C., shoes by CLARKS (Reginald’s own).

ERIC N. MACK—Did you go to museums as a kid?

REGINALD SYLVESTER II—I didn’t go to museums at all—I wasn’t versed in art as a child. The only reference point I could really make was my father. He was a graphic designer and typographer. So, I would see him sign-painting and taking comic strips and blowing them up tenfold and repainting them, and just always creating and working with his hands. When I think about the palettes my dad worked in—black, white and green, and yellow—and now looking at some of the paintings around here, those are the colors that I am naturally drawn to when I’m just selecting and going in.

EM—I hate this question, but how did you begin this series? Did you have a conceptual or emotional space that you wanted to project as you were painting?

RS—I really just picked up where I left off. My last exhibition, in my opinion, wasn’t my strongest. So, when I stepped back into the studio, I knew there was going to be a big change, and I knew I still wanted to use the totality of the figure, but I wanted to get to these abstract pictures, and I didn’t necessarily know how. My basic process is to build and take away. I just kept editing myself and editing myself, and I came to realize, ‘Well, actually let me go back into the exhibition that I felt was my strongest,’ and that was the show I had in Milan, The Rise and Fall of the People at Fondazione Stelline. And the strongest work I had in that show was actually made from less—less colors of paint, less materials. In that show, the figuration was a lot more elusive. So I started to use the exhibition as a basis to further investigate and explore.

As I started to do that, I started to actually be more judgmental and pick apart parts of the painting that I felt were weak, and parts of the painting that I felt were the strongest. I would pick those—whether it was a corner or a center area—and I would take that area and expand on it into the next piece.

Slowly but surely, I started to see this relation with these war-like, abstract figures I was making, between where I was in my life at the time. These last 10 months I’d say, has been me just really battling with myself on the things that I’ve been reading and interacting with through scriptures in the Bible and how I’m living my life. And that gave the work its meaning and context. That, and me deciding I wanted to use less of the figure and be more suggestive. The more I suggested, and the more that it alluded to these more abstract pictures, the more confident I really got with my hands.

EM—Totally. So, there’s a palette, and reducing a palette produces some of the terms. But also, there’s an interesting contradiction where there’s the reduction of the palette, but then they’re these maximalist overall paintings.

RS—What started to happen was, once I started to get more confident with my hand, I got more confident in covering the full surface of the work. And also the decision-making became stretched out. I made a lot of those earlier paintings with a more simple palette, and in one sitting. But these vertical, more abstract pictures, I actually started to live with them a lot longer, and it would take a lot more energy out of me too. But definitely, the reduction has always helped me evolve in some weird way. Making work with less has always helped me push to get to that next place. It’s very strange, because the works that are in the exhibition—those were made in sessions, and now I’m back to a place where they’re made at once. I guess that’s me being more confident and understanding my hand. I think it also has something to do with how I came up with the title of the show, Nemesis, because I felt like it tied into the idea of the soul versus the flesh, the spirit and the physical, and that we are our own biggest enemy, in some way, shape or form. That’s just been my life, man—these trials and tribulations, and painting really just allows my spirit to speak about the internal battle I’ve been having, and also the struggle that our people have been having as well, because I feel like we’re all connected. It’s all just a big chain gang.

Left - Hat and jacket WALES BONNER.

Right - Sweater and pants by LOEWE, shoes by MARTINE ROSE.

EM—That brings me to my next question: Can you speak to your intended viewership? Who is the intended audience for these paintings, this exhibition? I love thinking about your work having come so much from your father’s, and I imagine he would be somebody on your list.

RS—Yo, hugely man. Hugely. Me and my pops, it’s so great, because I feel like when you’re a kid, you idolize your father, and then you go through this—at least, for me, I went through this stage where I resented him in a weird way and held this grudge against him deep down. Now, the conversations we have are so in tune with the work and so in tune with how we as a people are being treated around the world, and just the systematic barriers that are set up against us, and that have been so detrimental and so influential to the world.

RS—Overall, my introduction to abstract painting has been through the abstract expressionists that lived and worked in New York. But to be honest, the more I’ve educated myself and the more I’ve learned, I get hungrier and hungrier for more painters that are representative of who I am, and my background and where I come from. I’ve always wanted to be a representation of my tribe—our tribe—through abstract painting, and I just never necessarily knew how to get there, and I didn’t necessarily have the knowledge of the forefathers before me that were doing it. I’m just now starting to find out about Raymond Saunders, and Jack Whitten. Or even—

EM—[Robert] Colescott, or—

RS—[David] Hammons—all these guys.

EM—Gilliam.

RS—Yeah, Sam Gilliam. I’m so novice in this area and this range, but I know that I’m speaking to somebody that spoke before me that looks like me. Because I want to speak to the Black and Brown person living our experience through abstract painting. I know I’m not the first to do it—I know I’m not the only one doing it right now—but it hasn’t been necessarily celebrated. So, I don’t want to leave anybody out, but when I think about these works, they’re spiritually meant for Black and Brown men and women. That being said, they can still be relevant for every other race and every other person on this planet.

EM—It doesn’t diminish that. It’s just that these images need to connect to the people that they’re about, and Black folk need to be remembered and celebrated.

RS—Yeah. When I’m making this work, I’m listening to “American Dreamin’” by Jay-Z or “So Many Tears” by ‘Pac, and I listen to those records because they almost touch on, not so much the trauma, but the lack of that we have in society. And I’m thinking about the state of our people. Some of us might be good, but the majority of us are not, and I try to lock myself into that emotion in order to get in touch with my own pain, and to touch on the pain of others that look like us. I hope that by trapping myself in those emotions, and reflecting those vibrations onto the surface, I can facilitate the means for people to pick up on that when we come face to face with the work.

EM—I feel like there’s a basis of trauma, and a lot of people would say that that would be the pressure that would produce a diamond. But I think there is, in spite of it all, the traumas of today and yesterday as they were directed to African American folk, Black folk of the world, Brown folk of the world, the importance of focusing on structuring aesthetic, thinking about beauty, being allowed to produce and find something of beauty made out of—

RS—Made out of pain.

EM—And coming from nothing but aspiration and intention, which identifies that maybe there is no such thing as a deficit. It’s not about a deficit or an emptiness, but a kind of beautiful potential. I remember years ago watching this Philip Guston interview, where he talks about having ghosts in his studio space, and in his images, and it being a process of the works exorcising the ghosts in his paintings. And when the ghosts leave, he’s left with himself—and that’s the connection to the works that he finds most meaningful. So, I guess it’s a question about influence, about the anxiety of influence— the ‘there’s nothing new under the sun’ train of thought, on which I beg to differ, especially with us. But…are there ghosts in your studio?

RS—You know what, yeah. Because I’ve definitely been speaking to Max[imillian William] like, “Yo bro.” When I’m in the studio, I know my painting forefathers, or even some of those original mark-makers that were us, that I may not even know about yet, I feel like they’re with me. From a de Kooning or a Twombly to a Jean-Michel [Basquiat], or maybe some ancient forefathers—we all have that connection. But as far as influence, I feel like the career that I’ve had so far with painting, I’ve always been critiqued on influence. “It looks like this, it looks like that. He’s trying to be this, he’s trying to do that.” But really—

EM—That’s anybody.

RS—That’s anybody! You fight through the influences in order to find your true self, which kind of reminds me of what you’re saying with Guston—maybe those ghosts were his influences hovering over him until he painted his way through to get to something that was truly left—himself. I feel like I’ve been battling to get to that, and I’m just now being able to get to that space, because now, when I’m going into my work, I’m not necessarily thinking about my painting forefathers from their imagery. I’m more so thinking about them from their perspective and from the life experiences they had in order to make the work that they made.

EM—Right. Like a kinship.

RS—Exactly. And I’m more hungry for that now too, now that I have a better understanding of my own practice. Do you feel the same?

EM—Yeah, definitely. Unfortunately, the difficulty with that question and the reason I say it with some hesitation, is because I think it’s been used as a means of critical dismissal of young Black artists historically.

RS—Say it again!

Left - Glasses by RETROSUPERFUTURE, jacket by CARHARTT WIP, shirt by MARTINE ROSE, shorts by JACQUEMUS, socks by UNIQLO, shoes by NIKE x SACAI, hat Reginald’s own.

Right - Hat and jacket by WALES BONNER, pants by CARHARTT WIP, shoes by CLARKS (Reginald's own).

EM—For people who refuse to criticize the work, they tend to talk about what it looks like or how it’s already there, how it’s already a part of a conversation, which ends up negotiating on meaning in the market rather than meaning in the artistry books. There was a Jerry Saltz article reviewing the [Whitney] Biennial, and he just scooped up four to five of my peers, Biennial Black artists, and just talked about them as riffing off of Rauschenberg. I also remember going back and reading early reviews of Sam Gilliam’s work, where they completely slammed him as being parody—that’s the worst of all. Our history is an image, and the after-effects are so much more complex than an LOL. But people—it seems like they tend to try to disengage the bomb.

RS—It’s funny you say that, because Roberta Smith made a comment about my work, referring to it as a Basquiat- Picasso fusion, and I felt like that was just lazy. When I hear you say that about Gilliam, or even your peers at the Biennial—listen, my biggest thing with that whole shit is we’re the original mark-makers. But all these artists that aren’t of color, like Picasso, get praised for taking away from things that we originally made, and it’s labeled as great. Or even the abstract expressionist movement—their work was called aggressive. It was considered to be manly in a good way, then Jean-Michel hits the scene and he’s primal. Why can’t it just be aggressive or manly work too?

EM—But it’s also really all about resilience and pushing through those barriers.

RS—Do you feel the fact that Gilliam and Whitten, and the other OG from London—

EM—Bowling. Frank Bowling. And Norman Lewis.

RS—Yeah, all those guys. Do you think that them getting the respect they’re getting now, do you think it will make it a little easier on us? Or do you think they’ll always try to disengage? Because that’s my biggest thing with this body of work that I’m making. I’m like, ‘What can you say now? I sat out a year and a half, I didn’t just keep making the shit that I was making, I pushed my limits as far as I could push them. Are you going to disengage?’ I mean, they put you and your peers in the Biennial. Are they going to continue?

EM—Well, just the framework of a show like the Biennial and how people experience it—where there are 70 or something artists—there are these quick judgments and quick distinctions. But they are making those judgments and distinctions within the institution of the Whitney. So it’s like, no matter what you’re going to say, somebody’s going to review the show and be able to speak to either the individual identity of the works or the meaning. But the fact is, all of these references I’m thinking about—Guston, Gilliam, all of these OGs that are now running up on this bluechip establishment, people that we’ve always known, like Betye Saar and Faith Ringgold—there has been this intense suppression or marginalization of these voices, and now it’s being celebrated and brought into a new light.

RS—At the end of the day, it’s about being relentless in our practice—to just keep going. At the end of the day, great work speaks.

EM—That reminds me, this might be a leap, but how does fashion relate to your life and practice?

RS—I’m really influenced by fashion just because I want to be fresh. But on the other end of that, I think of how I’ve been able to speak to fashion in the sense that I’ve always been interested in textures and colors and fabric, and I think when I started to make paintings on canvas—especially on stretch canvas—it almost felt like I was working in a way in which maybe a seamstress might be working with a piece of fabric. Because you have that freedom of folding and stitching and moving things—that freedom with the form of the fabric. Definitely my favorite brands would be Comme des Garçons and Margiela—those are two brands that I see influenced by the medium of paint, and when I think about Rei [Kawakubo], I’ve always just loved her approach—it’s very radical, in a sense.

EM—Are you empowered by contemporary fashion? Do you feel like there are designers considering you?

RS—I’m empowered by the camaraderie between fashion and culture. And I’m empowered by that door being kicked in a bit, so that fashion and culture have been able to mesh in a way where it’s more about community, and it’s more welcoming—even the industry is a little bit more open. But when I think about the art world, those barriers are still there. Art spaces and institutions need to continue to open up, because I’ve always felt like—you know the term ‘art imitates life?’ Well, how much of this art is really representational of culture and what’s really going on? In fashion, I think it does—or at least it’s started to—and I just wish that same empowerment would translate to the art world. But I also think that a lot of these fashion houses need to pay attention to more art. It’s happening, but we need—

EM—For the houses to acknowledge what they’re paying attention to.

RS—Yes, and don’t take. Don’t sit here and take, please. Because if you can open the door to street culture and streetwear, you need to open up to these artists that are around you, that you know you’re being inspired by— the artists on your moodboard. I can definitely say that you’re on a whole lot of moodboards, and others like Tschabalala [Self], as well. These houses need to just be like, “Look, these are the artists that are actually creating on a level, give them their due.” Or at least bring them in and don’t act like you’re not noticing what the fuck is going on. Because it’s happening, and if the real art world is taking notice, then you damn sure should be taking notice, too.

EM—Yeah, definitely.

RS—That’s why I haven’t been too pressed to do anything with brands—because I feel like, if that opportunity ever came, I genuinely want to work with somebody that’s making great clothes, but is on the up and up. Somebody I can see more as a peer, or as an extension of what I’m doing. Like, I see what Sam Ross is doing, I see what Kenneth Ize is doing, and that would make more sense than waiting for some big house that’s been ignoring my contemporaries, you know?

Left - Hat by NIKE, glasses by RETROSUPERFUTURE, shirt by MARTINE ROSE, belt and pants by A.P.C., shoes by CLARKS (Reginald’s own).

Right - Sweater and pants by LOEWE, shoes by MARTINE ROSE.

EM—Right. We’ve previously talked about abstraction and faith, which I see as a really concrete link for me. Abstraction as a vehicle for faith, and the relationship between the painting object and the body of the artist—that it brings its own dimensions, unseen structure, resonant beauty, transcendent communication and distinctions in light referring to a physical space that’s also emotional. What do you think?

RS—I believe the definition of faith is evidence of things that are not seen—I probably murdered that, but I’m pretty sure it says something like that in the Scriptures. So, for me, going into abstract painting, there is no evidence of what’s going to come at the end of the journey of making the picture. But that’s the beauty of it: having the faith that you’re going to find that picture, that unconscious image. On a larger scale, it’s about having some type of faith that if I keep these certain laws and these certain commandments, that there is a promise in the end that there’s more than the end. That connection for me—it’s made the Scriptures that much more real, because painting and making abstract pictures has been the tangible evidence of that. You know? Just having the faith to come into the studio every day, to keep putting my emotions, my struggles, and my trials and tribulations on the line in order to build these surfaces. I feel like it’s the same thing, and how I try to live my life—making mistakes, learning from those mistakes and trying not to make the same ones again, so that I can get to the heaven I want to get to. Paintings, even for me, are about honoring Him, because I think the most ultimate gift is to be able to create. That’s what I bring into the studio every day—that’s what motivates the work.

EM—I might have asked you this before, but did you see the Aretha Franklin film, Amazing Grace?

RS—I should have, but I still haven’t watched it.

EM—You have to see it. I bring it up because she was obviously raised in the church, and began to sing in the church, because her father was a preacher. But the documentary functions as this way of her resolving some of the tension between the pop, secular music she sang, and her past and upbringing in a gospel choir. But there’s a part in it where Reverend James Cleveland speaks about the title track, “Amazing Grace,” and the Civil Rights movement, and the riots, and how he didn’t think they would ever experience the beauty, or happiness, that they have. So, there’s still pain, there’s still strife, but there’s this document of Aretha at her best, and I feel like you could definitely connect with it, because emotionally, I connected with it too—just seeing a room full of Black folk witnessing all these different types of aesthetic transcendence.

RS—Yeah, for her to make something or sing something so beautiful in a time that was hectic as hell for us, I think that’s interesting, because I really do feel in my heart that it might be worse now than it was then. I always have this conversation with my mom, and it’s because back then the shit was in our face. So, we as a community grew more tightly knit. But now, those evils are hidden behind so many curtains, and I feel like, if somebody doesn’t like you, you’d rather just know it, versus them secretly feeling some way about you. I was talking to my homie Anthony [Jamari Thomas] about this loud silence. We feel it in the air and we feel it inside, but it’s almost like a dog whistle—like it’s being blown but only certain people can hear it, or maybe only us, as Black and Brown folk, can. And I think that’s why we’re creating at the level we’re creating. It’s important to be aware of the times. I feel like my friends always think, ‘Here Reggie goes again,’ but I do feel like we’re in the last days, and it’s imperative that we touch on the seriousness of the soul, the spirit and where our soul or spirit resonates with the world. There’s a lot of struggling going on right now, but when you look at the majority of that struggle, it’s in our areas, in our countries, in our communities and homelands. But I think that’s Him putting pressure on us, so that we can ultimately turn back to Him in some way. The Civil Rights Movement, the riots and all the things that were happening to us, like being hung on trees—He will afflict us in order to put us in a position to turn to Him, and I feel like that’s happening again now, and I gotta tap into it. —END

Left - Sweater and pants by LOEWE, shoes by MARTINE ROSE.

Right - Hat and jacket to WALES BONNER.

Fashion

Racer and Eamonn Freel Explores Nostalgia and Identity Through Their Newest Campaign

December 24, 2024

Racer and photographer Eamonn Freel present a new project blending humor with cultural identity. The Tallinn-based brand continues to develop its distinctive post-Soviet aesthetic, building on the success of its debut runway show at Men’s Paris Fashion Week last June.

This collaboration explores post-irony and youth culture, inspired by late 2000s and early 2010s trends. Racer’s designs reflect the clothes its founders wished they had as kids, combining past and present. Subtle references to feeling “so close yet so far” add emotional depth, making the collection both personal and relatable.

Directed by Anna Himma and captured by Eamonn Freel, this campaign highlight the brand’s take on identity and history.

By Enzo Holdt
Creative direction by Anna Himma
Photography by Eamonn Freel
Styling by Natacha Voranger

Fashion

Inside PALY: A Conversation with James Franco and Kyle Lindgren

December 23, 2024

Kyle Lindgren and James Franco didn’t set out to create just another fashion brand when they launched PALY. Instead, they wanted to fuse their distinct worlds—cinema, storytelling, and design—into something that felt both personal and universally relatable.

Franco, an artist and filmmaker, brings his passion for storytelling to PALY, turning garments into canvases for narrative. His deep love for pop culture and film history infuses the brand’s aesthetic, with reimagined icons and cinematic references that add layers of depth to each collection.

Lindgren, whose roots in skatewear influence the brand’s design philosophy, found a unique synergy in Franco’s expansive archive of sketches. Together, their collaboration transformed what began as personal sketches for friends into a fully realized brand that blends creativity with practicality.

Simon Rasmussen and Enzo Holdt from Office Magazine sat down with James Franco and Kyle Lindgren to explore their creative process, sources of inspiration, and what’s next for PALY. While James Franco was late to join the call, the conversation offered plenty of insights.

Here’s what they had to say.

Interview by Simon Rasmussen and Enzo Holdt
Introduction by Enzo Holdt
Photography by Owen Kolasinski, Ryan Murray and Mark Anthony Blanco

Simon Rasmussen: Kyle, nice to meet you. How’s it going?

Kyle Lindgren: Hey, man. Good, good.

James always got Google Meet issues. But I’ll text him—he’s usually a couple minutes late.

Simon Rasmussen: How did you and James first meet?

Kyle Lindgren: Through mutual friends—classic L.A. story. My friend was close with his girlfriend, and we just kept crossing paths at art galleries and film events. During COVID, we ended up connecting more. I think he was writing a script loosely inspired by The Bachelor.

Simon Rasmussen: That’s a solid show.

Kyle Lindgren: Right? I mean, it started as research, but we all got hooked. Every week, friends would come over to watch The Bachelor at James' place. Actually, now that I think about it, this is kind of the origin story of PALY. I’d just come back from my day job at the Fucking Awesome, and James would be sitting there doodling in his notebook while we watched.

One night, I asked to see some of his sketches, and from there, I started experimenting. I’d wake up at 5 a.m. every day before work, watch YouTube tutorials on Photoshop, and just crank out designs. I wasn’t good at graphic design then—most of the stuff I made was terrible, looking back. But a couple of those pieces actually saw the light of day. I’d mock up t-shirts using James’s sketches and try different techniques I learned online. Eventually, we made about 30 designs, printed them all, and brought them to our Bachelor group. Everyone voted on which ones we should produce, and that became our first unofficial collection.

Simon Rasmussen: So this all started in 2020?

Kyle Lindgren: More like 2021. By that time, James had built up a pretty solid archive of sketches. During the pandemic, he started this ritual of sketching in a notebook every day. His assistant would scan everything, so when we began seriously creating designs—initially just for our friends—there were already 1,000 or 2,000 drawings to work with.

Now we’ve got over 8,000. He goes through a notebook every couple of weeks. It’s crazy.

(At this point, James Franco joins the conversation...)

James Franco: Hey, sorry I’m late. What’s up? I’m out of it. I’m only in LA for five days, so I just… yeah, I just got back. Sorry about that.

What were you guys talking about?

Kyle Lindgren: We were just talking about how you’d sketch during Bachelor nights and how that turned into our first designs.

James Franco: Oh, yeah. That’s funny to think about. It really started so casually during COVID. Well keep going.

Simon Rasmussen: So it really began during those watch parties?

Kyle Lindgren: Yeah, in the most random way. It wasn’t some planned thing; it just came together naturally.

Kyle Lindgren: I had forgotten that it all circled back to The Bachelor—when we used to sit and watch it every week. I think I was talking about how when we started mocking things up, we had maybe a couple thousand drawings. The last time I counted we had about 7,000. That was a year ago, and now we’re probably at 14,000. It’s been super helpful for designs.

James Franco: Yeah, I don’t know what Kyle’s told you, but we’ve known each other for years now. I’d gone to art school a long time ago, but I hadn’t been drawing or painting for years. During the pandemic, I read How to Be an Artist by Jerry Saltz. It’s a simple book, but really smart, with practical ideas about creativity. One suggestion was to draw every day. With acting on hold, I thought, Okay, I’ll create a schedule for myself, even if there are no art shows or concrete goals in sight.

I started sketching while we’d watch The Bachelor—initially as research for a script I was writing about LA TV.

Simon Rasmussen: So it started as research?

James Franco: Yeah, and then it became an addiction. My girlfriend’s the real reality TV addict now—she’s deep into The Real Housewives. I couldn’t hang with that; it’s like Dostoevsky-length reality TV. But The Bachelor didn’t require much focus, so I’d sketch while we all watched. Then Kyle asked me to draw on some denim. I did a couple of jackets, and our friends thought they were cool and started bringing their own jackets for me to customize.

Kyle saw potential in the drawings and started mocking up t-shirts. He scanned the sketches and printed them onto shirts. We ended up with a bunch of samples, laid them out in the kitchen, and had our friends vote on which ones were best. That became our first collection: eight t-shirts and a few hoodies and crewnecks.

Simon Rasmussen: When did this happen?

Kyle Lindgren: We showed the collection for Spring/Summer ’24, so by June 2023, we were in Paris.

James Franco: Before that, we didn’t have any store connections. Kyle lived near H. Lorenzo in LA, so we walked in with our stuff. It was like a scene from a movie. Lorenzo and his son, Mack, were there. Lorenzo was like, Okay, show me what you’ve got. Put it on the racks. They went through every piece, deciding which ones to take. It was all consignment, but they sold everything.

After that, we went to Paris for Men’s Week. We rented a hotel room and emailed stores, introducing ourselves as Kyle and James Franco. Honestly, I think some people thought it was a scam.

Kyle Lindgren: We didn’t want to market it as a “celebrity brand,” but that was probably the one time we used James’ name—just to get people to come look.

James Franco: Hey, Kyle, go back to the origin spot. What was in your brain when we started, I can't even remember?

Kyle Lindgren: Honestly, I think I just had this tunnel vision about apparel. Back then, everything I saw—sketches, objects, even random stuff like a leaf on the street—felt like it could be applied to fashion. It’s a bit corny, but I was constantly thinking, How can this become a shirt, or inspire a collection? Like so dumb.

It was really just like a daily practice. James was doing his daily drawings. I was doing my little daily mockups every morning before work. We never really forced anything. It also didn't come easy, like having a celebrity attached. Because that wasn’t the front-facing thing, we didn’t really take many shortcuts. It almost made it harder because we had this thing we were trying to conceal. We didn’t want it to damage the brand and wanted the design to stand on its own.

James Franco: At MRKT during Basel, people came in loving PALY without knowing I was involved. I was even drawing on denim at the party, and some kids didn’t realize it was me until later. It’s kind of fun being in the background like that.

Simon Rasmussen: So, why do you choose to tell the story now?

James Franco: There’s part of me that really liked the idea of it being kind of a hidden thing. Because, as opposed to acting, where I can’t escape it—it’s just like, boom, there I am; it’s my face that’s in the work—this was different. There was something appealing about a kind of Elena Ferrante or Banksy thing.

But I think we just figured: a) it wasn’t going to remain hidden forever. I was already meeting with all the stores, doing events. I wasn’t going to keep showing up to things in secret. And b) we realized the selling point wasn’t me. People liked the product. So, it wasn’t about leveraging celebrity; the design stood on its own.

Simon Rasmussen: Was Hollywood always part of the vision?

Kyle Lindgren: Yeah, it’s central to James’s art. His work reflects Hollywood history and its darker underbelly, so it became the natural throughline for the brand. When I placed his drawings into the context of the designs, Hollywood’s mystique tied everything together.

Simon Rasmussen: Is there a message to Hollywood in the brand?

James Franco: I wouldn’t call it a direct message or critique. It’s not like one of those tourist t-shirts that says, “This place sucks.” It’s more about transformation. There’s an underground filmmaker, Kenneth Anger, who really influenced me. He wrote Hollywood Babylon, a book full of overblown gossip and tragedy that turned Hollywood’s mystique into something almost mythical, like a quasi-religion. He collaborated with people like Mick Jagger but also explored Hollywood’s darker, mystical side.

Anger’s work was about taking the glamour and icons of Hollywood and making them reference something bigger—both its light and dark sides. That’s what I see PALY doing, too: not critiquing Hollywood but diving into it and amplifying its mystery and power. It’s about letting Hollywood represent something universal, something that fascinates us about humanity.

A lot of artists I admire, like Paul McCarthy, Harmony Korine, and Douglas Gordon, used Hollywood as material to create something new. For me, it’s similar—I grew up in Hollywood, but through art and now fashion, I can step outside of it. I’m in a unique position where I can use Hollywood as a lens, not just to critique it but to reimagine it and turn it into something fresh.

Simon Rasmussen: It's a very interesting place, you guys position yourselves. Luxury brands are increasingly positioning themselves as entertainment channels, aiming to compete with top Hollywood productions. Brands like Louis Vuitton and Saint Laurent are focused on creating films, taking on the role of filmmakers to rival major directors.

James Franco: Yeah, I noticed that trend at Cannes this year. Saint Laurent Productions had like four films there.

Simon Rasmussen: It’s fascinating how brands are trying to imitate Hollywood. It's very interesting. You're onto something.

James Franco: Exactly. I was just watching Queer by Luca Guadagnino last night, and Loewe's designer did all the costume design.

Enzo Holdt: The collection you just launched at Art Basel features reimagined posters of films like Paris, Texas, Blue Velvet, and Drugstore Cowboy. These movies explore themes of alienation, so I wanted to ask, James, why did you choose these specific films/posters to work on?

James Franco: There are a few reasons. On a practical level, Kyle sources these vintage posters, so part of it depends on what he finds. But when I saw these oversized, beautiful pieces, I initially hesitated—like, should I even draw on them? Then I thought, well, that's kind of what I do. When I was in Italy recently promoting a film, I spent a lot of time signing posters, so in a way, this felt like an extension of that—adding to the poster, not destroying it.

As for the films themselves, Kyle and I often develop themes for each collection, whether it's an old legend, a tragedy, or a myth. For example, in Miami, there’s a nod to Dorothy Stratton’s tragic story, which inspired Star 80. With Paris, Texas and Drugstore Cowboy, I have a personal connection, having worked with Wim Wenders and Gus Van Sant. And Blue Velvet, for me, is iconic—David Lynch at his best. It’s the movie where he fully became Lynch, balancing a polished surface and then underneath is the subconscious and the darkness. And in a way, I think that's our company, those multiple levels. So that movie, just like Kenneth Anger, is super special to me and Kyle.

And beyond that, these films share a certain kind of Americana, capturing a raw, rugged underbelly of America that resonates deeply with what we’re building.

Enzo Holdt: Kyle, when I look at PALY’s designs, I see a strong punk influence, which might come from your time at Fucking Awesome. But the combination of that with Hollywood—something far more glamorous and alluring—feels contrasting yet creates something really beautiful. Could you talk about that?

Kyle Lindgren: Definitely. My time at Fucking Awesome taught me a lot, particularly about working with an artist’s vision and translating it into three-dimensional forms.

Enzo Holdt: You’re referring to Jason Dill?

Kyle Lindgren: Yes, Jason. We’d dig through his archive of artwork and find creative ways to bring it to life. That experience taught me how to add depth to a collection, not just through storytelling—like what James brings—but also through the techniques we use.

With PALY, there’s a real emphasis on storytelling. James drives that narrative side, but we also make sure the garments physically tell a story. Techniques like crystals, embroidery, washes, and distressing aren’t just decorative—they give each piece a sense of history, as if the wear and details reflect where the garment has been.

Ultimately, we merge these elements into a cohesive whole, where the designs carry both visual and emotional depth.

Enzo Holdt: It sounds like PALY’s storytelling and approach are very tactile. Would you describe it as an analog brand in a digital world?

Kyle Lindgren: That’s a deep question. For me, I’m so involved in the day-to-day that it’s hard to step back and see the brand from a broader perspective. James is much better at looking at the whole picture, whereas I’m more focused on the physical product—the fabrication, techniques, washes, all of that.

In that sense, the brand feels analog to me. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, but I naturally think product-first, rather than prioritizing social media or digital campaigns. That’s what creates a nice balance between James and me. His background is rooted in media and storytelling, whereas I’m more hands-on and product-oriented. Together, it creates a dynamic mix.

James Franco: I love that, and I’ll just add something quickly. About ten years ago, I did a project with MOCA in L.A. based on Rebel Without a Cause. The project, Rebel, involved different artists reinterpreting parts of the film or its behind-the-scenes stories to create new work.

That’s what I appreciate about PALY. It’s not about critiquing Hollywood; it’s about re-engaging with it and giving it new life. I love how old movies still resonate—fan clubs, special screenings, places like the New Beverly—and how they continue to bring people together.

Through PALY, we’re doing something similar. We’re not remaking Drugstore Cowboy, but we’re reanimating its essence. These stories and legends get a new form through the clothes—new iconography, new imagery. It’s like the narrative is reborn, letting people connect with those stories in a fresh way. You’re not just watching the movie; you’re experiencing it again, but differently, through what you wear.

Enzo Holdt: You have mentioned Kenneth Anger a few times, what is your favorite project of his? I just watched Lucifer Rising for the first time, and it felt a bit occult, but I thought it was pretty good.

James Franco: Lucifer Rising definitely has a dark backstory.

Enzo Holdt: Yeah, I read about the music and the composer was connected to the Manson family, right?

James Franco: Exactly. Beausoleil was the first member of the Manson family to be arrested. He wasn’t involved in the Sharon Tate murders but was tied to an earlier one. There’s a whole history there—he and Kenneth Anger had a falling out, and supposedly, Beausoleil stole some of the film reels for Lucifer Rising and buried them in the desert.

Enzo Holdt: That’s wild.

James Franco: For me, Scorpio Rising is still my favorite Kenneth Anger project. I first saw it in film school, and it completely blew me away. What stood out was the way he used pop hits of the time as a soundtrack, set against contrasting and provocative visuals.

What really struck me, though, was how Anger, as a queer artist, captured a real biker gang and transformed their image. Instead of coming across as purely tough and hyper-masculine, they take on this sensual, almost queer quality through his lens. That idea of transforming your subject through how you shoot it really resonated with me. It influenced my early short films at NYU and is still something I think about in my work today.

Enzo Holdt: What has been the most rewarding part of building PALY together?

James Franco: For me, the most rewarding part has been the collaboration. I’ve always loved working with others—it’s something I learned from being an actor and making films, where every project involves so many people coming together. Working with Kyle has felt really natural, and it’s been this beautiful, symbiotic process.

I tend to want to do too much—I overload scripts, shoot too many scenes, and put in more than necessary. When I direct movies, editors and producers help me refine things, and Kyle plays a similar role for PALY. He’s like an editor, filtering my tendency to go overboard and helping shape all these ideas into something cohesive and better.

As an artist, having a collaborator or editor you trust is invaluable. It’s what I’ve always envied about teams like the Coen Brothers—someone to bounce ideas off of and build something together. That’s what we’ve created here, and it’s incredibly rewarding.

Kyle Lindgren: I’d have to echo that—it’s the collaboration. Being able to bounce ideas back and forth until they evolve into something unexpected is such a special process. Often, it’s a struggle to get there, but when you trust your partner, even if it’s just starting on a two-dimensional screen, you create something far better than you could have on your own. For me, that’s the most rewarding part of this whole journey.