Promo sample from Ben Westwood's Clint Eastwood-inspired collection. Photo: Rodney Westwood
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Ben Westwood recruits Julian Assange to model his latest fashion collection

Dame Vivienne's son will give the Wikileaks founder his modelling debut.

For the past two years Julian Assange has been holed up in the Ecuadorian Embassy, avoiding his extradition to Sweden where he is wanted for questioning regarding alleged sexual offences. Yet it seems his confinement has diversified the scope of his extracurricular activities.

Fashion designer Ben Westwood, eldest son of Dame Vivienne, has recently announced plans to enlist the Wikileaks founder to model his latest collection at London Fashion Week in September 2014. The show will take place as a fringe event, located in the Ecuadorian Embassy itself.

Claiming Assange as inspiration for his Clint Eastwood/Spaghetti Western-themed collection, Westwood has stood by his decision: "I can't think of anyone better to model my clothes. He is a good looking man."

Despite his reclusion, Assange has maintained an enigmatic presence in the media. Last year saw him as the subject of a Disney-funded Hollywood flop The Fifth Estate, being portrayed by Benedict Cumberbatch. In an interview with the Telegraph Assange detailed his domestic life in the embassy, and frequent contact with celebrity visitors including Yoko Ono, Maggie Gyllenhaal and the rapper M.I.A.

This latest revelation from Westwood confirms the Wikileaks founder as an object of fascination in the public imagination. Westwood describes him as a “hero” who has “done a great deal to change public opinion”.

By identifying the Wikileaks founder as his muse, Westwood suggests the catwalk could aid Assange's campaign: "I want to highlight Julian Assange's plight. What happened to him is totally unfair." With regard to the allegations from 2010, Westwood states: "They're just allegations and no proof has been presented... He's innocent until proven guilty.”

According to the designer it is “a citizen's duty to stand up for justice and freedom of speech." A duty which, evidently, can manifest in the form of fashion.

Previews from the collection involve camouflage prints and combat gear modelled stylishly against rocky mountain terrains. The unisex garments create a militaristic chic: the connotations of warfare and violence surgically amputated by their status as fashion.

Joined by six other models, Assange will take to the embassy-based catwalk in September, accompanied by music from the film The Good, The Bad And The Ugly. The show has already garnered much attention and will host a diverse range of guests. George Clooney and his fiancée Amal Alamuddin, part of Assange’s defense team, are amongst those invited. 

JAMES SPARSHATT/DESIGN PICS/CORBIS
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Skellig Michael is hardly an island - but it's the one I love most

On a rock in the Atlantic, I felt the magic of place.

I am on the vaporetto from Marco Polo Airport to the Venetian island of San Giorgio Maggiore, gulls and terns drifting back and forth over the boat, cormorants on the docks, wings spread to the sun, that late August light, unique to this place, shimmering over the waters. I haven’t been here in 20 years but I remember the greys and silvers of the terns (four species are recorded here, including the black tern, Chlidonias niger, which I find particularly elegant in flight) and the miles of tantalising reed beds, where anything might be hiding – only the city, when it finally emerges from the haze, is more postcard than recollection.

It’s a mental flaw, I suppose. I remember habitation in a formal, almost abstract way, whereas light – which is always unique to place – and flora and fauna are vivid and immediate to my mind. At the same time, every approach by water, anywhere in the world, reminds me of every other, whether it’s the crossing from Staten Island to Manhattan or the ferries that run up the coast of Norway, stopping in at one tiny harbour town after another along the way. So it comes as no great surprise, as I disembark, that I find myself remembering the island landing that I love more than any other, even though I have made that passage only once.

Skellig Michael is hardly an island. A thin needle of rock soaring more than 600 feet high straight out of the Atlantic, seven miles from the Kerry coast, it was once refuge to those contemplative monks whose desire for undisturbed reflection reached such an extreme that they braved the choppy waters common in these parts in simple coracles to settle, in tiny beehive huts, at the windy summit of the Skellig. On the day I made the crossing, most of the charter skippers refused to go out, citing the stormy weather, but I finally managed to persuade one man – whose name really was Murphy – to make the voyage and, though the water was indeed rough, the approach to the island and the hours I spent ashore were nothing short of beatific.

Nobody else was there, apart from two archaeologists who kept to their billet in the one stone house by the quay and the rabbits that had run wild and multiplied after the monks left. Halfway up the needle, I turned oceanwards as a pure light cut through the clouds, illumining the sky and the water so the horizon looked like one of those mysterious sea photographs by Hiroshi Sugimoto.

All through the crossing, gannets had swarmed noisily over the boat in spite of the weather, before dropping back, disappointed, to their colony on Michael’s sister rock, Little Skellig. Up here, however, at the top of the needle, everything was calm, almost silent, and inside the first of the beehive cells it was utterly still. I have no time for gods, as such, but I know that I was touched by something in that place – something around and about me, some kind of ordering principle that, though it needed no deity to give it power, was nevertheless sublime.

Back in Venice, as I changed boats at San Zaccaria, the noise and the crowds and the now golden light on the water could not have offered a greater contrast. Yet what was common to both landings was that quality of unique to this place, the sensation of the specific that makes any location – from gilded Venice to a bare rock, or a post-industrial ruin – magical. As long as we have such places, we have no real need of outside agency: time and place and the fact of being are enough.

Place, first and foremost, is what we all share, living and dead, in our griefs and our visions and our fleeting glory. It is what we should all strive to protect from the blandishments of commerce and the appropriations of agribusiness and other polluting enterprises, not just here, or there, but wherever our ferry boat puts in.

Next week: Felicity Cloake on food

This article first appeared in the 03 September 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Pope of the masses