There is a spiritual and folkloric subtext behind all this. A kind of Paganesque nod to the days of myths shared around a campfire, appropriated as a preternatural, sartorial call of the wild.
The year is 2020 and the mystic wolf lives. The mystic wolf tee is woefully kitsch, and oblivious to the mores of taste, subtlety, and common sense. The mystic wolf tee revels in the trite, the pedestrian, and the misguided. There is something forcefully out of touch about the tee. It is like a self indulgent parody of an already parodied aesthetic form. It’s like a book based on a movie that was based on a soundtrack that was inspired by a daydream. I tell you, the thematic density is labyrinthine.
What are the wolves really saying about our collective conscious experience? What does the contour of the moon say about our fraught and fractured relationship with our natural provenance? What are the wolves thinking? What do they want from us? There’s a voyeuristic aspect to our relationship with these wolves, glimpsing them as we are from behind the rows of densely packed trees. They call out to nature for answers, the moon acting as a deus ex machina, miraculously bearing witness to the plight of these sorrowful wolves.
There is a spiritual and folkloric subtext behind all this. A kind of paganesque nod to the days of myths shared around a campfire, appropriated as a preternatural, sartorial call of the wild. The visual associations are latent with culturally appropriated Northern symbolism and the motel room nightmares of a Harley motorcycle club denizen. The wolf tee leaves nothing to the imagination, though it certainly draws from it- leaving us to wrap our heads around the obscure origins of its visual taxonomy.
