Queer Stories

By day, the capital displays its well-known faces: temple spires, office towers, food carts, traffic jams. But once the sun sets, a different city comes alive. Neon lights take over and shadows hide details. Strangers slip between worlds. The city’s ability to reinvent itself shines in the hours when certainty fades and suggestion takes over. This is the Bangkok that photographer Noah Dolinsky captures in Fallen Angels, a captivating new photobook over a decade in the making. Beautifully produced and carefully printed, Fallen Angels feels more like a series of scenes from an unfinished film than just a collection of photographs. Turning the pages is like moving through a noir dreamscape where each image suggests a story that started before the shutter clicked and continues long after. Noah DolinskyPhotograph: Noah Dolinsky ‘I didn’t begin with the idea of making a book,’ says Noah. Fallen Angels grew slowly, one portrait at a time, over more than ten years in Bangkok. At first, I was simply drawn to the women I met, their beauty, confidence, vulnerability, resilience and individuality.’ ‘In the end, I wanted to make it because a book gives the work a lasting form,’ he says. ‘It slows observation down and lets the pictures speak to each other through sequence and rhythm. It invites the viewer to look more carefully, beyond stereotypes or easy labels.’ Many viewers will immediately appreciate the cinematic quality of the work. Though much is rendered in black and white, the photos don’t have the sharp, documentary style of classic street photography. Instead, Dolinsky’s images are saturated with atmosphere. Dark shadows consume corners of the frame. Light leaks through windows, bounces off mirrors, and wraps around faces. Noah DolinskyPhotograph: Noah Dolinsky The book focuses on Thai transgender women, photographed over 10 years. The project never feels like an exercise in categorisation. In a city where transgender people are simultaneously visible and misunderstood, celebrated and stereotyped, Dolinsky avoids making grand statements. While he is best known as a photographer, Dolinsky is also a filmmaker, having directed several award-winning short films about LGBTQ+ lives and identities. His portraits have been shortlisted three times for the Portrait of Humanity award. Throughout his work, he explores identity not as a fixed label but as something fluid, personal and deeply human. Instead, he highlights individuals. A glance. A gesture. A cigarette break. A quiet moment in a room. The photographs show people living their own lives rather than performing for the camera.  Noah DolinskyPhotograph: Noah Dolinsky ‘I'm not trying to define anyone. I'm offering space for them to be seen as they are.’ Bangkok has no shortage of photographers looking for exoticism. Dolinsky takes a different path. His Bangkok feels intimate. An emotional landscape. Streets, alleys, apartments, bars, and hotel rooms turn into stages for small human dramas. The deliberately simple compositions enhance that feeling. Without distractions, viewers focus on expression, posture, texture and mood. The photographs exist somewhere between observation and memory. Sometimes they are sensual; sometimes they are melancholic. Often, they are both. Noah DolinskyPhotograph: Noah Dolinsky The book's sequencing adds to the cinematic quality. Rather than follow a traditional narrative, the images accumulate like pieces of memory. Faces return. Locations resonate. Themes of solitude, transformation, vulnerability and resilience appear and disappear. The emotionally resonant and visually appealing Fallen Angels confirms Noah Dolinsky as a gifted storyteller in both photography and film. Like the city that inspired it, the book reveals more with each return visit, lingering in the mind as a series of unforgettable scenes rather than just a collection of portraits. FALLEN ANGELS by Noah DolinskyPhotobook, 204 pp. First Edition 500 copies. Bangkok, 2026Purchase at https://noahdolinsky.com/fallen-angels or at River City Bangkok Bookstore

If you needed proof that Thai drag has arrived on the world stage, Gawdland just handed it to you. The first Thai queen to win RuPaul's Drag Race: UK vs the World. Before her, Pangina Heals had already been laying the groundwork – hosting Drag Race Thailand Season 3, then stepping up to compete on UK vs the World herself. Every think piece, every ‘watch this space’ moment has been building to this. Gawdland feels like the exclamation mark at the end of a sentence  years in the making. Photograph: Pangina Heals What makes these looks land isn’t just the concept. It's the craft hiding inside it: rhinestones sewn on one by one, fittings that happen six or seven times before a seam is signed off, and the instinct to get the brief before it even exists. That person, for many of these looks, is Veed, the Thai designer behind some of the most striking pieces in Thai drag and performance fashion, built on obsessive craftsmanship, a theatrical eye and a clear refusal to play it safe. Alongside him is Fam, known as three_theofficial, the headpiece designer whose sculptural creations sit right at the top of a look. Veed builds the silhouette, Fam quite literally crowns it.   Photograph: davidelaffe   We had Gawdland drop by our office just months before she went on to make history. There was something sweet in the air that day, though no one knew yet she'd be carrying the Thai flag all the way to the top. Read more here. Now, as the win settles in, we're turning the spotlight onto the creative force behind the looks. Many hands and minds shaped this journey – today, we're focusing on two of them. Short names, precise work: remember them, Veed and Fam. Here's where it all began, how they think and why the most interesting looks are often the ones that spark debate. Spoiler: they’re into that.    Start at the beginning  – how Veed and Fam found their craft  Where did it all begin? Veed: ‘It started with art and a question: how do you take something you love and make it real?’ My aunt used to bring Issey Miyake bags into the house when I was small, and something about the way those objects existed lodged itself in my mind. That eventually led me to John Galliano's Dior haute couture show from 2003, and the whole world cracked open. That show – the collision of cultural references, theatrical excess and genuine beauty – completely reframed what fashion could be for me. It was never just clothing. It felt more like mythology with a zip.’ Fam: It started with making pieces for myself – for class assignments and faculty performances. Then people began noticing and reaching out, asking me to make things for them. Trace the early work and how it evolved Veed: Looking back, I was completely in the world of costume – everything built around specific characters and very particular fantasies. Japanese animation, high-drama aesthetics, a visual language that only really makes sense at full volume.  The shift came when I enrolled at a vocational development centre in Phatthalung, where I learned to sew properly. Not just the idea of it, but the physical reality: how fabric behaves, what a needle does, how a machine reads a seam. The more I understood the process, the more absorbing it became. The precision, the way cloth falls from different angles, the quiet drama of a well-constructed garment – it all started to feel like magic with a technical manual. Photograph: three_theofficial Fam: My early work leaned into cosplay-style – mostly pieces made for class assignments. The first thing I ever made was a Sogeking mask from One Piece, for a school project.   Build the look – what each piece brings Veed: The body comes first. A look for a show isn't just about how it photographs or reads from across a room. It has to work with the person wearing it – how they move, how they perform, how their body speaks when the music starts. Some pieces go through six or seven fittings before they're right, with adjustments made not just for fit but for rhythm.  ‘The outfit has to sync with the song. It has to breathe with the performer. Anything less is just a very expensive obstacle.’ Fam: A headpiece is what makes a look complete. An outfit can be beautiful on its own but still feel like something’s missing – like the story hasn't quite been told.  ‘The moment you bring a headpiece in, everything clicks. It fills the gap and the whole look becomes what it was always meant to be.’ Photograph: pattographyx Handle the unseen – the hardest parts of the work What are the hardest parts of this work that most people never see?  Veed: Fashion – especially at the level of real tailoring and construction – demands patience and precision that can be brutal.  ‘There are moments when you have a grand vision in your head and then you sit down to execute it and realise how much invisible work is hiding inside the dream.’  The gap between what you see and what it takes to get there can feel enormous. There were times when that voice crept in: is this right? Is this really where I'm supposed to be? But I stayed! Fam: The biggest challenges are time and materials.  ‘Finding new materials that can reduce the weight of the headpiece without compromising the look – that's a constant puzzle.’ It has to be comfortable enough to sit on someone's head, sometimes for hours. I'm always adjusting structure and weight so it doesn't become a burden for the person wearing it. Photograph: davidelaffe Read the performer – working with Gawdland When you first started working with Gawdland, how did you approach understanding who she is? Veed: Gawdland is genuinely fun creative territory, and that's not a throwaway compliment. Her identity sits at an interesting intersection: modern and playful, with a pull between something conservative and something that twists it sideways. There's a generational energy to her that keeps the design process alive. If anything, it’s hard to stop. Fam: Working with Gawdland is actually quite straightforward. The team usually comes with images or references already in hand, and I design within that to create something that fits the look they've envisioned. Shape the idea – from concept to finished look Walk us through the creative exchange – how does an idea become a finished piece? Veed: It starts with understanding who someone actually is – not just what they like to wear, but their temperament, their way of thinking, the energy they carry without realising it. Some people appear still but are intricate. Some seem strong but hold something fragile inside.  All of that becomes material. It can be translated through silhouette, fabric, colour or the smallest detail. Clothes are a language. They tell a person's story without requiring them to say a word. The goal is never to reinvent someone – it's to make what's already there feel clearer and more like itself. Photograph: wearingveed Fam: The team comes with rough references and gives me a scope to work within. From there, I take those references and bring my own ideas into the design. It's a collaboration – they set the direction, I build the detail. Pinpoint the look – defining Gawdland Is there a specific Gawdland look that captures her most completely?   Photograph: wowpresentsplus   Veed: The carpet look. It brings together everything that makes Gawdland interesting: High Camp, a fashion sensibility that knows exactly when to twist convention, and a reading of conservative cultural aesthetics put through a very particular filter. The headpiece, the make-up, the construction – it all works together to say something specific. It doesn't just look good. It means something. Photograph: Laliphat Bumrungkarn – Time Out Bangkok Fam: The piece Gawdland wore for the promotional shoot. For me it speaks to Thai identity reinterpreted in a more contemporary way. That tension between tradition and modernity is exactly the kind of problem I love to solve. Hold the signature – the pieces that feel most personal  And which piece holds the most of you in it? Photograph: Pangina Heals Veed: The Likay look I created for Pangina Heals, for the opening episode of Drag Race Thailand Season 3 when she came out as host. That one sits closest to me. It was a genuine merging of Camp and Thainess, with both holding their ground rather than one swallowing the other.  ‘And the craft involved was not for the faint-hearted: rhinestones sewn on one by one, in exactly the way traditional Likay costume makers actually work.’ It's slow, it's painstaking, but entirely worth it. That level of attention doesn't disappear when the cameras roll. Photograph: wearingveed Fam: The promotional shoot piece, honestly. That's genuinely who I am – someone who takes traditional Thai headpieces and finds ways to make them feel modern. That piece didn't just look like me. It came from me. Photograph: three_theofficial Step onto the stage – seeing the work go global Seeing your work on a global stage – has it changed how you see what you do, and what brought you to this point? Veed: The approach doesn't change, even when the platform does. When I worked with Nicky Doll for Drag Race France, it was the same method as always: start from who they are, read their energy and find the answer through your own perspective. The scale confirms the method – it doesn't replace it.  ‘And I think what brought me here is consistency and the willingness to risk being wrong.’   Photograph: wearingveed If something looks beautiful in a familiar way, it becomes just another look – nothing people hold onto. ‘The things that stick are the ones that make people talk, that spark a little friction, that you can't immediately categorise.’ I don't like making things that have already been made. That instinct has, almost accidentally, become my most recognisable quality: when a client wants to stand out, they know where to find me. Fam: I feel genuinely proud. That Gawdland and the designer trusted me and gave me the chance to be part of a global drag stage – that means everything.  ‘Trust is really what got me here. People saw the work, believed in it and kept coming back.’   Push forward – what comes next Where are you taking things from here? Veed: I try to put craftsmanship into everything I make, because it's something you can't find on a shop floor or order online. It's what turns a piece of clothing into something people remember. That's where I'm heading – deeper into the work that takes time, demands skill and leaves a mark. Follow along at @wearingveed. Fam: I want to keep pushing Thai headpieces into new spaces – finding ways to make something so rooted in tradition feel completely current. There's a lot more to explore there and I've barely started. So watch me as I go. Follow @three_theofficial.

GAWDLAND is loud, proud and RuPaul-approved.  The Northern-born, Bangkok-based queen stormed Drag Race Thailand season 3, became a Silom staple and is now the only Thai queen on RuPaul's Drag Race VS The World season 3 – the international all-stars showdown in front of Mama Ru herself. Here's her gag on Thai pride, Gen Z fire and what going versus the world really means. So, GAWDLAND – where does the name come from? Photograph: Laliphat Bumrungkarn   It's from my real name! Tharathep, which in Thai means 'god of the land' – like the big boss of the earth. And then I thought, you know what? Let's make it queer. So instead of 'God' (G-O-D), I made it 'GAWD' (G-A-W-D). Just GAWD-ed it up. What makes GAWDLAND... GAWDLAND? What's your signature? "Loudness. Volume. I'm like a firecracker – you know those little ones we see when Chinese New Year comes around? Small, compact, but the impact is massive." Every time I step into a space, people have to turn and look. Some love it, some find it annoying, some find it jarring – but you will notice me baby! That's guaranteed. People define drag in so many ways – art, activism, entertainment so what is it to you? Photograph: Laliphat Bumrungkarn "All of it. And more. It's art, it's entertainment, it's activism – it's life itself." My entire life is driven by drag. I wake up thinking about it, I go to sleep thinking about it. It's always: how do I become a better drag queen? It's in my head constantly. It's my life force, honestly. It's what keeps me going. I can't even describe it properly – it's just everything. How does a look come together?  It depends on the assignment, really. Whether it's a photoshoot, a fashion moment, a performance – whatever the purpose is. I get the brief, then I pull in my drag identity and weave it into what's being asked of me. Most of the time, I'm working to a brief. There's always a theme. Photograph: Laliphat Bumrungkarn Drag always has parameters, every runway has a theme. You get the creative brief and then it's up to you to interpret it, inject yourself into it and deliver something that's both you and what they're asking for. Tell us about your early creative process. Photograph: Laliphat Bumrungkarn I grew up in the north and my family wasn’t exactly open to queerness. But I remember sneaking around, watching traditional dance performances, trying to copy them in front of the mirror when no one was looking. My parents caught me once and yelled at me for it. But I've always felt connected to performance, especially the local, traditional kind – the Thai classical dances. That really inspired me. I wanted to be a performer from such a young age. And now, here I am, doing it professionally. Thai culture is both deeply traditional and incredibly modern – tell us about your balance. Photograph: Laliphat Bumrungkarn "I'm a Gen Z drag queen, so one foot's in the algorithm, one in the archive." I want that fresh-off-the-timeline energy – to show who I am, to be relatable and reachable, never stale or dated. But I also bow to the queens who built this, who came before me. I take reference from that lineage.   Photograph: Laliphat Bumrungkarn So when I was preparing to represent Thailand on the show, I knew I had to merge the traditional with the contemporary. That's the whole concept: old meets new.  P' Art Araya is my creative director – a Thai drag icon, designer, and stylist who's worked in fashion for three decades and judges Drag Race Thailand. She oversees everything from start to finish. She's older, I'm younger. The collision of those perspectives created something balanced and fresh while honoring roots that run deep and still showing my individuality that couldn't be more Gen Z Thai. "It's a generational crash, but it's all glitter and rainbows and garlands and awesome Thainess. And I'm confident we pulled it off beautifully." And now you're on the biggest stage in drag – RuPaul's Drag Race VS The World. What does that feel like? Photograph: Laliphat Bumrungkarn "It's a huge responsibility. I'm not just representing myself – I'm representing Thailand, Thai drag, the Thai community, Thai entertainers. It's a national thing." Even if I tried not to think about it, it's always there in the back of my mind: I'm here to represent my country. I'm so honoured. I'm proud to do it. And honestly, on an international stage, Thai culture does stand out. It's so rich, so distinct. I felt proud showing that to the world. You remix tradition, dig past the stereotypes. Concerned some won't get it? If people don't get it, they can always look into it themselves – that's part of the journey! Sometimes I'm not doing it straight (pun intended!). I'm taking it, blending it, making it modern, making it campy. It's going to be so queer and so me and so good. That's spreading Thainess in such beautiful ways – making people curious and inviting them to discover it in their own time and on their own terms.   Tell us about the day you got the call about VS The World. Photograph: Laliphat Bumrungkarn I got a call. They asked if I was interested first, because Drag Race Thailand season 3 was still airing. They were worried I might not be ready. But I didn't even think. I just said yes immediately. No hesitation. And when it was confirmed, I was over the moon. For so many drag queens, meeting RuPaul is the pinnacle. And for me, it's confirmation that I'm doing good, going well and making Thailand proud. Pangina Heals was the first Thai queen to step onto this stage. What did watching her journey teach you? She's a legend. The first queen from Southeast Asia to represent us on a global stage – she didn't just crack the door open for Thailand, she kicked it wide for all of us. That's her legacy forever. But I also learnt from her in ways you might not expect – the highs, yes, but also the weight that comes with carrying a whole region on your shoulders. "So yes, I'm representing Thailand. But I'm walking in as myself. To spread love, positivity, to inspire people, to show the art I believe in." I'm going for me – and Thai is already woven into everything I do. That realisation? It lifted so much pressure off my shoulders. One of your most viral moments was going full drag to your graduation at Chulalongkorn University – what's the story there?   Photograph: Gawdland (Laughs) Yeah, that was fun! Chula is a very prestigious institution and I studied journalism, so I learnt critical thinking, how society is constructed, gender, politics, queer art – all of it. Drag is political. Journalism is political. My degree makes my drag better, honestly. Like, no one expected me to show up to my graduation in full drag – but that's a political statement. "Both drag and journalism are about crafting stories that matter"     Photograph: Gawdland     Give us GAWDLAND's guide to going out in Bangkok Massage first. Always. Anywhere. Oil massage, foot massage – I'm obsessed. Then food. Na Rueang Lao (ณ เรื่องเหล้า) near Chao Phraya – super chill, local vibes, the food slaps. Also Tahona in Sukhumvit  for dinner dates – classic Thai flavors reimagined with contemporary cooking methods and plating. For drinks, I'm all about Long Islands at Hippie de Bar in Khao San.  If it’s a day date, we’re starting at a museum or a temple – Wat Pho, Wat Arun, something. Gotta test the vibe!   Now, my queer venue roll call! Photograph: beef.bkk Silom Soi 4, always. That's home. If I'm not performing, I'm in the audience. The list goes: House of Heals, Eau de Toilette, The Stranger Bar, Beef – they're all on this magical stretch of Silom. You can literally stumble from one to the next, like a full gay bar crawl situation.   With all of this coming at you fast and hard – the fame, the scrutiny – how are you feeling right now? The world is bigger than I knew. I understand people better now. Being on screen, being constantly perceived, being visible – you realise you can't make everyone love you. You can't make everyone like you. All you can do is ask yourself: am I happy where I'm standing? Did I come here for the right reasons? And my answer is yes. I get to do the art I love. I get to inspire people and be inspired back. I get to show that dreams do move closer. The world stage once felt far, now it’s in my palm. It’s not impossible. I’m living proof, guys, girls and gays. GAWDLAND is competing on RuPaul's Drag Race VS The World season 3, streaming January  27 2026.

Like most people who tumbled into the glitter-slicked rabbit hole of drag, my gateway was RuPaul’s Drag Race. The show was camp, chaotic and, occasionally, cathartic – and while I adored the performances, what I craved was context. That’s when Yellow Channel found me. Somewhere between a critique and a love letter, the channel offered commentary that felt neither detached nor indulgent. It was opinion with eyeliner – sharp, unblinking and occasionally smudged. Now, I’m staring at the face behind it – Pat (Phatthara Lertsukittipongsa) – via video call, framed by a glittery backdrop that feels more like a curtain call than a coincidence. He’s not just the creator of Yellow Channel. He’s also the mind behind Thailand’s Drag Star, a platform that’s bringing together performers from every corner of the country. Not just the Bangkok icons, but the dreamers from Chantaburi, the showgirls from Nakhon Si Thammarat, the misfits from every corner of Google Maps. Over the course of our conversation, we talk drag as transformation, Bangkok’s unpredictable scene and what makes a truly fabulous night. I also find out what, in his opinion, makes Time Out the best recommendation in town – but that secret’s staying tucked away until the final paragraph. If you’re ready, wig first, read on. Photograph: Yellow Channel How Pat got pulled into drag (without even realising) ‘I used to think RuPaul in drag and RuPaul out of drag were two different people,’ Pat admits with a grin. ‘I didn’t get it at first – it felt like magic I couldn’t explain.’ Roughly a decade ago, he was just another curious viewer of the early Drag Race seasons, unsure how wigs, heels and confessional couch banter fit together. But like many, the confusion gave way to awe. ‘It was the transformation that got me. Not just the makeup, but the fact that you could use your whole body as a canvas. It’s all kinds of art – performance, costume, design – layered into one.’ Still, understanding drag from a screen and living it in the real world are different things. The learning came slowly, sometimes clumsily, over years of trial, error and many nights of makeup that didn’t quite blend, but the curiosity never left. “I wasn’t trying to become a queen, I just kept being drawn to what drag could do.” Photograph: Yellow Channel Before the spotlight, there was design Before there was Yellow Channel, there was just Pat. He studied industrial design, the kind of degree that sounds sensible on paper and feels slippery in practice. But he always found ways to fold creativity into every project – usually with a subtle wink to the queer community. ‘I was working in the creative scene, running my own company,’ he explains. ‘At that time, drag was maybe 30 percent of my life. Now it’s more like 80 percent.’ He talks about production with a kind of technical glee, but the subtext is always community. Everything he did, even the commercial stuff, circled back to queer spaces – either overtly or in spirit. The drag came after-hours, but it never felt separate. Just unfinished business. Photograph: Yellow Channel ‘It started as a hobby. But it kept creeping into everything else,’ he shrugs. Yellow Channel wasn’t born from a desire to perform, but from a need to create. The persona grew alongside his real-world work – until one day, the two merged. “Drag gave me something corporate life never did: freedom. Not just creative freedom, but the freedom to be political, funny, messy.” Photograph: Yellow Channel Thailand’s Drag Star and the politics of platform If Drag Race sparked the idea, then Thailand’s Drag Star was the local answer. Launched with the ambition to bring visibility to drag communities outside Bangkok, the show is both competition and cultural documentation – drag as grassroots cartography. ‘We always talk about how big the Thai drag scene is,’ Pat explains, ‘but what we really mean is Bangkok. Meanwhile, there are queens in Pattaya, Ayutthaya, Chanthaburi, even Nakhon Si Thammarat, all doing amazing things – but to work, they have to move here.’ So he asked: what if they didn’t?   Photograph: Yellow Channel   Thailand’s Drag Star doesn’t just centralise Bangkok. It widens the lens. The name itself is telling. ‘I used ‘star’ instead of ‘queen’ on purpose,’ he says.  “Queen has gender baggage. But star? Anyone can be a star. Gay, straight, trans – it doesn’t matter.” With every year, the stage pushes further – collaborating with government bodies, festivals, grassroots organisers, even educational platforms. It’s drag, yes. But it’s also social infrastructure.   Photograph: Yellow Channel   Photograph: Yellow Channel Reading the Bangkok drag scene like a mixtape If you ask Pat to summarise Bangkok’s drag scene, he won’t give you a paragraph. He’ll give you a playlist. ‘It’s four songs,’ he tells me. ‘First: ‘Dream On’ by Aerosmith. That’s the beginning – when people hoped, imagined, reached. Then, ‘Born This Way’ by Lady Gaga. The anthem. The middle finger to the world.’ He pauses before continuing: ‘Next is ‘Pink Pony Club’ by Chappell Roan. It captures the new energy – playful, rebellious, glitter-fuelled. And then there’s a Thai song: ‘History’ by Christina Aguilar. Even though it’s old, the lyrics still resonate with every generation of the community.’   Photograph: Yellow Channel   Photograph: Yellow Channel Add on to that, he’s proud of the new generation – their makeup, their confidence, their defiance – but he’s also cautious.  “They look incredible. Tens across the board. But the hardest part isn’t the makeup. It’s figuring out who ‘you’ are in all of it. That takes time.”   Pat sees a scene that’s expanding not just in size, but in self-awareness. The young queens are hungry – but they’re also asking bigger questions. Who am I performing for? What do I stand for? What does drag ‘mean’ in Thai culture? Photograph: House of Heals How to do bangkok drag (and survive the night) When asked how to do drag night in Bangkok properly, Pat doesn’t hesitate. ‘Start at House of Heals,’ he says. ‘There’s a stage, real lighting – it’s where drag becomes theatre.’ Then: Silom Soi 4, the city’s most colourful artery. ‘First, Silver Sand. It’s where the younger drags experiment. Then head to Circus Soi 4 – classic drag, the kind that reminds you where it all began.’ Photograph: The Stranger Bar Finally, wind up at Stranger Bar. ‘It’s the best of all worlds. Everyone’s there – old, new, local, foreign. It’s the place where strangers become part of the same story.’ That story is no longer a side act. Thanks to performers like Yellow Channel, Thai drag is no longer asking for space. It’s taking it – on stage, online, across provinces. Photograph: Yellow Channel Becoming Yellow The thing about Pat – whether he’s speaking on screen, typing under Yellow Channel, or emceeing the next Drag Star showcase – is that he doesn’t separate the glamour from the politics. For him, drag isn’t the escape. It’s the confrontation. And while the rest of the world plays catch-up, Thailand’s drag scene is writing its own script – one that’s less about Western imitation and more about local reinvention. At the heart of it? A person with a design degree, a glittery backdrop and a relentless desire to connect every performer who’s ever dreamed of more. “People think drag is fantasy. But it’s one of the most honest things you can do. You have to know yourself to wear that much truth.” So yes, Time Out might call it the best recommendation in town – but don’t take our word for it. Go see the starlight for yourself. And Yellow? That’s the colour he shines best.

There is a certain cruelty to early fame in Thailand. It sticks, fossilises and refuses to move on even when the person inside the image does. We know NOTEP or Note Panayanggool as an artist, an influencer, a brand, a woman who seems to operate somewhere between sound bath and electronic music. Yet the country first met her as something else entirely – Note The Star, runner-up on a televised talent show, ukulele in hand, smile fixed in place. That version of her lingered longer than she wanted. For years, she tried to outrun it, forming an indie band, leaning away from pop sweetness, pushing herself towards edges that felt less tidy. But reinvention is rarely a clean cut. There were fractures along the way, moments where ambition and expectation collided hard enough to rattle her sense of self. Eventually, the noise inside became louder than the one outside. She stepped back and began what she now describes as a spiritual journey, not in a hashtag sense but as a necessity. Photograph: Vivi Suthathip Today, Note Panayanggool feels like a complete picture. Or at least closer to one. She is a Thai artist, musician and environmental advocate whose work moves across disciplines, often blurring where one ends and another begins. Since starting out as a singer in 2010, she has expanded her practice into sound design, installations and collaborations that orbit environmental causes. Music is still the anchor but it is no longer the destination. Photograph: Vivi Suthathip From hyperactive to hypnotic The shift from mainstream television to meditative soundscapes feels so drastic it almost reads like fiction. When I ask what her younger self would never believe, she doesn’t hesitate. ‘That one day I’d be producing works that are very calming and mindful,’ she writes. ‘I used to be super messy and hyperactive leaning on the intense side hahaha.’ It’s easy to forget how radical calm can be, especially for artists who grew up equating success with volume. Her current work often sits somewhere between electronic rhythm, ancient instrumentation and field recordings gathered from forests, oceans and places far from the club. This hybrid did not arrive fully formed. Photograph: Vivi Suthathip ‘It was definitely intentional and gradual,’ she explains when I ask if the idea arrived in a sudden flash. ‘A lot of research, deep self-reflection and yes many late-night epiphanies. It came from wanting to reconnect with something deeper and primitive inside me and translate that into the modern world.’ There is something quietly defiant about that word, primitive, especially within a music industry obsessed with futurism. Her compositions resist neat structure, preferring slow evolution. It mirrors her own process. When she talks about her album Metamorphogenesis, the language shifts into something more personal. ‘It was therapy for me,’ she admits.  “Creating without the pressure to please anyone. Just pure dialogue with my inner self.” I find myself pausing there, aware of how rare it is to hear an artist speak so plainly about removing the audience from the equation, even temporarily. In a city like Bangkok, where scenes mutate overnight, that refusal feels almost rebellious. Photograph: Vivi Suthathip When sound becomes a conversation Watching footage of her live sets, it’s hard to categorise what’s happening. People sway, dance, sometimes lie down. There are moments of stillness that would terrify most DJs. Her performances operate more like environments than shows. ‘The audience can always feel when something is happening in real time,’ she says. ‘When sound becomes a conversation instead of a script.’ Photograph: Vivi Suthathip There is planning involved, she insists, but only at the edges. The introduction, the ending, a loose narrative thread. Everything else is left open, guided by instinct and whatever the room offers back. Improvisation keeps it alive, she tells me, and it keeps her interested too. Field recordings play a central role in these experiences. I ask about the most unforgettable sound she’s ever captured, expecting something poetic. Instead, she delivers the kind of answer that punctures any lingering pretension. “From random farts to toads having orgies, the world has a wild sense of humour if you really listen.” It’s a reminder that nature is not a wellness moodboard. It’s chaotic, funny and occasionally grotesque. Her work doesn’t sanitise that. It invites it in. When I ask how she balances hypnotic repetition with movement-friendly rhythm, her answer avoids technical jargon. Photograph: Vivi Suthathip ‘It’s a mix of intuition and rhythm,’ she says. ‘Knowing when to build tension and when to let it breathe. I listen to how the body naturally wants to move, not just the ears. Feel first, think later.’ That line sticks with me. Feel first. Think later. It feels like an ethos that runs through everything she does now. Photograph: Vivi Suthathip Activism without the burnout Note’s environmental work is extensive, spanning collaborations with Greenpeace, UNDP and Coral Gardeners. It would be easy for this to slide into branding territory but she remains cautious, even sceptical, of scale for its own sake. ‘If it’s for a cause I believe in and I have the bandwidth, I’m always down no matter the budget or size,’ she explains. ‘If it’s rooted in intention, it’s already worth it.’ Photograph: Vivi Suthathip That emphasis on bandwidth comes up repeatedly. Burnout, she believes, is creativity’s quiet killer. In her studio routine, meditation and exercise are non-negotiable. She stops working by 10pm. Screens are avoided. Discipline, here, is an act of self-preservation rather than productivity. Her project High On Your Own Supply centres on self-sufficiency, a philosophy she weaves into performances without sermonising. ‘I want people to feel inspired, not lectured,’ she writes.  “If you can make people laugh, dance or feel deeply they’ll naturally get the message.” When I ask which environmental project made her feel like she was actually making a difference, she refuses to rank them. ‘All of them,’ she says. Each reconnects her to purpose in a different way, whether through coral planting, community building or simply starting conversations through sound. Photograph: Vivi Suthathip This resistance to hierarchy feels intentional. Activism, for her, isn’t about saviour narratives. It’s about sustained attention without self-destruction. ‘You can’t save the world alone,’ she reminds me later. ‘Protect your energy, stay informed but not consumed. Joy is part of the resistance.’ Photograph: Vivi Suthathip Quiet futures and staying put Bangkok’s cultural scene is notorious for its speed. Trends flare and vanish before you can decide how you feel about them. When I ask how she stays relevant without losing herself, her answer is disarmingly simple. ‘By not chasing trends,’ she writes. ‘Trends fade but authenticity doesn’t.’ Photograph: Vivi Suthathip Recently, she’s been immersed in Japanese ambient music, drawn to its restraint. Minimalism, she says, at its best. It aligns with her growing preference for calmer spaces where people are truly listening rather than performing attention. Her relationship with crowds remains fluid. Having played across Asia, she refuses to generalise.    "Every crowd is its own organism, quiet rooms can be deeply emotional, loud ones sometimes turn inward without warning"   Wonderfruit, the Thai festival she has played multiple times, holds a particular place in her memory. Not for the spectacle, but for sunrise in the fields. ‘I’m a total grandma,’ she admits. Nature, she adds, is always the real headliner, whether through rain or dust storms. When I ask about hidden Bangkok spaces that nurture her experiments, she lights up. Brownstone studio, with its rare synths and unpredictable collaborations. Temp in Sept’s shop, filled with cacao and tribal instruments. Places where you might arrive for rehearsal and leave with something entirely new. Photograph: Vivi Suthathip Towards the end of our exchange, the questions turn softer. What if music and activism disappeared? She imagines painting by the sea, running a small cafe and workshop space. It sounds plausible, even likely. Perhaps the most revealing answer comes when I ask about misconceptions. ‘That I’m a party girl or an extrovert,’ she says. ‘I’m actually an introverted grandma who loves tea, quiet nights and personal space. My wildness just expresses differently.’ Photograph: Vivi Suthathip By the time I reach her final line, it reads less like a slogan than a gentle instruction manual. ‘It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. Be present, celebrate the small steps and never forget how far you’ve already come.’ I realise that this is what her work ultimately offers. Not escape, not spectacle, but permission to move at your own pace. In a city addicted to acceleration, that might be the most radical sound of all.

In a world of apps and algorithms, Subhas Kandasamy is betting that four people around a square table – tiles clacking, strangers becoming friends – is still the most compelling thing a city can offer. It started with his grandmother in Singapore. Now it's everywhere, Bangkok included. Photograph: mahjongpalace There is a particular kind of household that stays with you. The kind where the door is always open, where something extraordinary is always being cooked and where, if you look through the right window on the right evening, four people are hunched over a square table, fingering tiles against a wooden surface like a low, insistent percussion.  Subhas Kandasamy grew up in one of those houses – in Singapore, with his grandmother Dolly, in a different era of the city-state, when multi-generational living was simply how things were done and the veranda looked onto a garden of mango and guava trees. That house, those evenings, that grandmother: they followed him everywhere. And eventually, they became a business. Photograph: anoukdbrouwer/mahjongpalace Mahjong Palace, the social club that Subhas founded in New York in September 2023, is not your usual Mahjong club, even for the US, and it’s certainly not a gaming den. It is not a Chinese cultural centre or a wellness concept or a members' club either – although it does borrow something from all of these.  It is, at its core, a reimagining of what it means to play mahjong in the 21st century – stripped of the money, filled with strangers who quickly stop feeling like strangers and roaming – staged wherever possible, inside galleries, museums and cultural spaces. Photograph: mahjongpalace 'It aims to get people off their phones and apps,' Subhas says, with characteristic directness. 'To promote intergenerational interaction. To foster a genuine non-digital community.' Photograph: mahjongpalace The origin story begins, as many good ones do, with a grandmother. Dolly was, by all accounts, a force of nature – 'the template Peranakan matriarch', as her grandson puts it – who ruled the household with the particular authority of someone who knew exactly how to make everything feel abundant.  Peranakan culture, born out of Chinese immigrant communities settling across the Malay Peninsula centuries ago – mixing with local Malay populations and absorbing their spices, textiles, languages and rituals into their own culture – is understandably, and famously an in-betweener. Not quite Chinese, not quite Malay. Something that carved its own distinct identity out of that in-between-ness. Subhas is drawn to that idea. After all, he himself has always straddled worlds – Singapore, Europe, the US, the art world and the domestic, the formal and the spontaneous. Photograph: mahjongpalace It is fitting, then, that the game at the centre of his life shares a similar origin story. Mahjong was born in 19th century China, most likely in the Yangtze River Delta during the Qing Dynasty, before travelling south with the Chinese diaspora across the sea routes of Southeast Asia.  By the time it reached the shophouses and clan halls of Singapore, Penang and Kuala Lumpur, it had already absorbed local inflections, adapted to new hands and new climates and settled into the rhythms of communities that were themselves in the process of becoming something new. It was never purely Chinese. It became, like the Peranakans themselves, something richer for the crossing. Photograph: mahjongpalace At Dolly's table, a mahjong set was always out. Dinner guests would drift from the food to the veranda, where the tiles were waiting. By the age of five, Subhas was standing at his grandmother's elbow during games. By seven, Dolly had – as is tradition – handed him a little money to play with.  'If I lost that money,' Subhas recalls with a laugh, 'she would absorb the loss. If I won money, I could keep the money. This is the best gambling education for children.' Photograph: mahjongpalace But the lesson was not really about gambling at all. It was about consequence, attention and the pleasure of being taken seriously at a table full of adults. Two things stayed with him from those evenings: the warm hospitality and the generous inclusivity. 'These two characteristics,' he says, 'have always influenced my hosting.' Photograph: anoukdbrouwer/mahjongpalace Before Mahjong Palace, there was the art world. Subhas spent years working in high-pressure roles at institutions including Carpenters Workshop Gallery, Superblue and Company Gallery – director of sales, the kind of position that requires both a finely tuned eye and a constitution for sustained stress. He is diplomatic but candid about what that world taught him. 'Aspects of it taught me how to never treat people,' he says. 'The entitlement and bullying that people get away with is shocking… you know who you are.' Photograph: mahjongpalace But he also credits the art world with igniting what he calls 'the hustler in me', which has come in very handy since. He made friends he still considers lifelong. And it gave him an intimate understanding of the smaller galleries and cultural spaces that, he felt, were always being eclipsed by the bigger names – an injustice he would begin to address once he went his own way. Photograph: mahjongpalace The tipping point came through the body rather than the mind. 'My husband, Martin Andersson, could tell from my happiness level in the room whether I was working on gallery work or Mahjong Palace,' he says. In December 2025, he handed in his resignation. He gave a month's notice, went to Sri Lanka for Christmas and came back someone else. 'After such a dramatic decision,' he reflects, 'returning to Asia was like going home.' Photograph: mahjongpalace Mahjong Palace had actually begun the year before, in September 2024, when Subhas emerged from a six-month break between jobs, burnt out and restless – and decided to take the mahjong lessons he had been giving friends on Sunday afternoons out into the world.  The first session: two tables, eight people, a neighbourhood restaurant in Dumbo, Brooklyn. No grand plan. Just a feeling. 'It's just going to be a friend's thing,' he told himself. Photograph: mahjongpalace It was not, as it turned out, just a friend's thing. Within weeks, messages were arriving from friends of friends who had heard about this mahjong club. Two tables became four. Four became six. Six became eight. By January 2024, the Financial Times was on the phone.  'I thought it was a joke,' Subhas says. But a joke, it was not. A cultural moment had arrived and Mahjong Palace was positioned inside it. 'I started Mahjong Palace not because I knew a trend was coming,' he is quick to clarify. 'I just wanted to bring my friends together. The fact that it hit the curve at the right time was an added bonus.' Photograph: mahjongpalace Walk into a Mahjong Palace session and you will find something that feels considered in every detail. Guests receive a welcome email in advance requesting they arrive on time. There are drinks, food, a welcome speech. In gallery and museum settings – the natural home of Mahjong Palace – a tour of the current show is played out by the curator or director before anyone sits down to play.  Then comes what Subhas describes, with evident satisfaction, as the seating plan. Tables are allocated by skill level. But there is also something more intuitive at work. 'I like pairing guests up if I think there is room for a spark,' he says. 'This is my Peranakan aunty side showing.' Photograph: mahjongpalace There is also, it should be said, a dress code – not an enforced one, but an understood one. People show up. They put on something nice. Mahjong Palace has become the kind of evening you get ready for.  'It's very much like date night,' Subhas says. 'People dress up, they come to Mahjong Palace, they know there's going to be a nice bar.' For a game that most people associate with their grandparents' back room, that reframing alone is a minor cultural coup. 'It's a very 360 experience,' he says. 'There's the food and drink, the nice bar, great Asian food. Sometimes, for up to 50 players, I still do the cooking myself – it's kind of like my love language to cook. And then for three hours, you forget about everything else and just be present in the game.' Photograph: mahjongpalace The teaching itself is systematic and also rather elegant. Subhas has designed a method that moves from the hardware to the software – you learn the tiles before you learn the game, because 'if you don't understand the hardware, how can you understand the software?' He breaks the tiles into their three categories – suits, honour cards, flowers – and then shows players the final destination before they begin. The way a driving instructor might show you the route before handing over the wheel. When someone accumulates enough points to earn a place on the leaderboard, he walks through the room and sounds a gong. The whole room erupts in cheering. 'People love seeing their name in lights,' he says. Photograph: mahjongpalace In place of money – which Mahjong Palace famously eschews to the occasional bewilderment of Asian audiences accustomed to the two being kind of inseparable – the leaderboard provides the competitive charge.  Re-educating players on this point has been, he admits, one of the harder parts of expansion. 'When I brought it to Singapore and Bangkok, everyone was like, oh, I don't want to lose so much money,' he says. 'I have to say: we're going to teach you a way to enjoy it so there's no money involved.'  The point, he insists, is that 'you can still enjoy the game immensely without the money aspect.' Photograph: mahjongpalace For someone running sessions across New York, London, Singapore and Bangkok, the logistics are, understandably, a little theatrical. Subhas travels with two mahjong sets in stainless steel cases that he describes, without a trace of understatement, as looking 'like James Bond Roger Moore era cases that carry the Cold War nuclear codes.'  He also packs two neoprene playing mats in Mahjong Palace's signature colourways, so the tables look right regardless of where he has landed. 'I get funny looks at airports,' he says. We’re not surprised. Photograph: mahjongpalace And then there’s the peculiar venues. Why galleries? Why museums? Most people, imagining a social gaming club, would go solely straight to a bar. Subhas's instinct ran elsewhere. Having watched brilliant smaller galleries be perpetually overshadowed by the big institutions, he wanted to give them a new kind of energy and a new kind of audience. 'It just seemed like my natural fit,' he says. 'I now get to engage with art in a different way.' Mahjong Palace has hosted sessions at the Faurschou Foundation in New York (with Ai Weiwei's blessing), partnered with Studio Ashby in London for an early pop-up and played in Bangkok's Siri Sala, Irma Go's lovingly restored canal-side villa in Bangkok Noi. Three century-old teak houses brought back to life as a boutique guesthouse, it marked the club's Thai debut. With guests staying overnight at Siri Sala, conversations stretched into the next morning, creating a kind of intimacy and camaraderie that felt especially rare in a fast-moving city like Bangkok. Now, in what Subhas describes as a milestone moment for the club, Mahjong Palace is heading to the National Gallery in London on April 17 – a collaboration that feels like a threshold being crossed. 'They have been so wonderful to work with,' he says of the National Gallery, London, 'and their vested interest in community is so legit.'  At the event, he will also be serving Mahjong Palace's first branded ice cream – a collaboration with a company called Baobae, the flavour a meditation on Dolly's garden – pandan and coconut, mango and pineapple. 'Always with a hint of what Dolly would have cooked,' he says. What Subhas is building, at its most essential level, is a counter-argument to the digital age. He talks about the way apps and online communities create the 'false belief' that you are part of something, when true community is still, he believes, found face-to-face. Photograph: mahjongpalace The age range – anywhere from 23 to 86 in New York and London – is something he is proud of. There is now a group in London, strangers who met at a session, ranging from their twenties to their seventies, who go to dinner together, to the cinema. 'It really makes me happy,' he says. He mentions, almost in passing, that people over fifty 'start becoming invisible to the world.' He would like Mahjong Palace to push back against that. Photograph: mahjongpalace He also does not shy away from the fact that competitive games are, among other things, excellent dating tools. 'If you are going on a first date,' he says, smiling, 'you can save time by bringing your date to Mahjong Palace, because they can never disguise their personality when they're playing. It all comes out.' View this post on Instagram A post shared by I am S U B H A S (@subhversive) Bangkok, where Subhas has been spending more time as of late, feels like the next real frontier. He has already confirmed a return to Siri Sala in the first week of June and beyond that he is thinking bigger – a two-day event, his husband flying in from New York to co-host, cocktails, food, more tables.  In three years, he says, he and his husband plan to split their time between Europe and Bangkok exclusively. He already feels at home here. 'It's such a dynamic city,' he says. 'A nice mix of high culture, low culture, everything in between.' Photograph: mahjongpalace If Mahjong Palace were ever to have a permanent home in Bangkok, he knows exactly what it should feel like. 'An intersection of art, culture, food and drink,' he says. An emerging gallery, perhaps. A boutique hotel. Somewhere like the Jim Thompson Art Center.  'I feel that the role of museums has changed,' he adds and you sense he is talking about something larger than venues. 'They should become a meeting point for people to come together, especially in these times where there is so much exclusion and division in the world.' He has been around the block, as he puts it – Singapore, England, Switzerland, New York and now everywhere that two stainless steel cases can be carried through airport security without too much incident. He has worked in difficult rooms and made lifelong friends in them. He made some hard decisions, he says, because he did not want to keep waiting. 'If it doesn't work, I only have myself to blame,' he told himself on that December morning. 'But I leave with a lot of satisfaction in my heart.' That is, it turns out, the Mahjong Palace philosophy in miniature – play with abandon, don't mind losing, learn from the risk and find melody in the clacking of tiles. Mahjong Palace returns to Bangkok's Siri Sala in late May/early June 2025. We’ll share details once dates are announced and follow mahjongpalace.net for all the latest updates.

Bangkok isn’t always known for drab office wear. In fact, it’s one of the more colourful and creative cities I’ve worked in over the years. Yet behind the corporate machine, the suit and tie matchup still stands strong – a demonstration of fitting in.  But one, rather arty fellow, is pushing for the exact opposite. Why settle for a plain silk tie when you could rock up to a meeting wearing a sardine dangling from your neck? Or a lobster? Or a monkey mid-swing?  Tie A Knot founder, Thai designer Kanatach Intarakaow – better known as Tortarn – asked just this. Launching his own necktie brand that breaks the rules with truly ‘bonkers’ designs, he’s now behind one of Thailand’s most delightfully absurd and fastest-growing fashion exports – making it to Selfridges and collabing with Disney in a matter of months.  Photograph: Tie A KnotThe Thai designer making officewear wonderfully weird   It started with a sardine At first glance, the ties look like novelty gags dreamed up after too many office coffees. But with Thailand’s love of the avant garde, there couldn’t be a better time for Tortan to, quite literally ‘tortan’ (resist in Thai) the office fashion rules.  It started when I was going to a party, and needed to dress up as a robot. Tortan explained as he opened a sack of his neckties in the Time Out office for us all to try on. ‘I had no top to go with my robot trousers so I made a robot-themed necktie.’  The tie was a hit with his fashion-forward friends, but was that just a one-off? ‘I thought, neckties could be my thing,’ added Tortan, a forefinger and thumb caressing the orange-hued snapper hanging around his neck. ‘I have always had an obsession with fish. Anything underwater really. So I thought, why not try out a fish necktie and try to sell it.’ View this post on Instagram A post shared by tie a knot (@tie.a_knot) Fast forward a month and Tortan was set up with a stall at Ngan Sen in Chiang Mai – an art- and fashion-forward market event in the heart of the country’s most creative city.  Somewhere between fashion accessory, wearable sculpture and internet meme, Tortarn quickly cornered a niche that feels uniquely Thai: humorous, chaotic and completely unconcerned with traditional fashion rules.  Up close, the ties reveal an almost obsessive level of detail – carefully stitched fins, dangling claws and duchess fabric bodies sculpted into surprisingly lifelike forms. By December 2024, ties were in production and the brand launched officially in February 2025, under the name Tie A Knot. From there, things moved fast. Really fast. Photograph: Time Out BangkokThe Thai designer making officewear wonderfully weird From Siam to Selfridges in one fell swoop Blowing up fast on TikTok and social media, the brand was a hit. Thais were infatuated, orders careered in and before he knew it, regional audiences were hooked. ‘I’m not sure how people outside first saw my ties,’ said Tortan. ‘But it was a feature in Bazaar Hong Kong that really kicked things off.’ From there, influencers, celebrities and the fashion conscious were all vying for a fish around their necks.  Soon after, another breakout came courtesy of Thai rap superstar MILLI, who wore the brand’s now-iconic sardine tie during an appearance on Korean rap competition Show Me The Money 12. Suddenly, screenshots of fish-shaped neckwear were ricocheting across social media, introducing international audiences to one of Bangkok’s strangest fashion success stories.  ‘She brought it and wore it herself,’ he clarified. ‘I had nothing to do with that appearance, but it was so surreal to see.’ Bonkers, you may say. Photograph: Tie A KnotThe Thai designer making officewear wonderfully weird   Before he could catch breath, Tortarn had British stylist Harry Lambert – the British fashion stylist best known for dressing Harry Styles and Emma Corrin, among many others – reaching out with a surreal proposal: a Disney collaboration sold through Selfridges in London for the Christmas season. ‘I couldn’t quite believe it, and I was certainly not prepared for such a task,’ said Tortan, explaining he has many moments of wanting to throw in the towel given the complexities around production, contracts and such fast international attention. ‘But Harry was so kind and helpful, he worked with me through it all and we brought the Tie A Knot collab to the UK without a hitch.’  Photograph: Tie A KnotThe Thai designer making officewear wonderfully weird Tied up in success Independent Thai designers are increasingly finding global audiences, in all the best possible ways. Not by mimicking Western luxury trends, but by leaning into originality, humour and real, from the soul creativity.  Tie A Knot feels like a perfect example of that shift: proudly niche, unmistakably local and weird enough to become universally memorable. For Tortan, a big part of the appeal lies in the tension between formality and silliness.  ‘Before Tie A Knot, I had another, even sillier brand,’ Tortan added. ‘Always into arty fashion, it was more monster focused – punky outfits, silly designs. Things that followed a theme, so not very practical.’ Tortan Official is still going, with pieces made to order, although neckties are definitely his main focus right now.  Since our interview, Tie A Knot has launched a new range of shark-themed ties, as well as a limited edition Axolotl tie, which is simply too cute to put into words. You can browse the full collection and latest releases via Tie A Knot’s official Instagram. International shoppers can swim straight to Etsy for your fishy finds.  When asked which tie was his favourite, Tortan again fingered the tie around his neck. ‘It has to be the red snapper. The orange goes well with so many of my clothes.’  Needless to say, neckties are traditionally symbols of professionalism, hierarchy and office culture. For years, I hated them. But Tortan inspired me. With a fair few of his ties in my wardrobe, they come out more often than I’d like to admit, but his ‘Bonkers Office Wear’ inspired me to stock up on a new collection of colourful, ridiculous neckties that are now part of my everyday outfits.  Tie A Knot twists the symbolism of the necktie entirely, turning the accessory into something humorous and deeply expressive instead. It’s fashion with a wink – if fish could wink – and a not-so-subtle protest against the monotony of modern workwear. It’s time to cause a splash at the office.