I used to drive to meetings at Tom’s studio in Venice from my office in Downtown LA, with the top down on my 1988 Mercedes 560sl. The process would often take a whole day. As noted by Sa-Ra, Glorious.

Tom’s studio was a masterpiece in itself. The front half was a large minimalist box with a desk and art on the walls. The back half was a series of huge tables that were strewn with the ingredients of his craft. Jewels, clasps, miniature hand grenades. Fuck off.

We would talk about his identity. He would swear a lot and loudly. Sketches would be scribbled out aggressively as soon as they were formed. There were meetings ahead in Paris with the fashion houses, who were sniffing around apparently. We’d show them. I would leave our meetings armed with cultural doctrines prescribed by Dr. Binns. Television. Greil Marcus. The Situationist International.