My Own Words: Try Sutrisno
On Diva Devotion and Self Expression
Try Sutrisno as a test lighting model.
There’s a saying—or a meme—that goes: “when gay boys turn 13, the universe assigns them one woman working in entertainment. From that point on, their purpose on earth is to support her so hard that the force of their love could literally kill them.” It’s hilarious because it’s true. Most gay boys I know worship at least one goddess: Ariana, Beyoncé, Britney, Christina, Kylie, Taylor. And if they’re trying to be cool about it, Björk, Caroline, Charli, Lana, or Lorde will appear in their stories like sacred icons.
But it’s more than just a joke. I’ve seen this devotion play out in real life. Friends will spend months saving for concert tickets and organise their already busy schedules around the date, or camp outside a venue just to breathe the same air as their chosen diva. Online, it’s even more intense: stans dissect and analyse everything their idols do and fight with anyone who dares criticise them. To be assigned a woman is to be given not just a soundtrack, but a tribe, a sense of belonging in a world that often tells you you don’t belong.
Styling for PEARS Advertorial. Image courtesy of Try Sutrisno.
Styling for TOTON x PEARS Showcase. Image courtesy of Try Sutrisno.
And I couldn’t help but wonder—why?
One X user once said, “gay men use women as avatars for themselves,” and a study even argues that pop divas embody survival and reinvention—qualities that resonate deeply with queer men. Their constant transformations mirror the way many of us adapt and redefine ourselves just to keep thriving.
And yet, identifying as a gay boy myself, whose life has been nothing if not survival and reinvention, I still can’t figure out which pop star I’m supposed to worship. I do listen to them, of course—and Olivia Rodrigo is probably the closest I’ve come to obsession. Her lyrics about turning twenty hit me harder than I expected, something I should probably unpack another time. Still, when she announced her tour last year, with stops in countries near mine, I didn’t even try to get a ticket. Not because I didn’t want to—but because… I just didn’t feel compelled the way stans do.
I also don’t dig into their survival stories, biographies, or fun facts, nor do I follow them religiously on socials. Beyond their delicious music, I don’t really care.
So does this mean I’m straight?
Lol. I wish.
Here’s an embarrassing fact: I’m tone deaf. No, not in taste or opinion, but literally tone deaf. I can’t tell the difference between do, re, and mi. Maybe that’s why music never felt like my native language the way it does for others. Growing up, music wasn’t part of my environment. My house was filled with screaming parents and siblings instead of songs, and I didn’t own a radio, or a Walkman. So in my room, I would slip into a few clothes I shared with my brothers (sometimes my mother’s), stand in front of the mirror, and study myself, trying to decode what I was feeling. In my solitude, clothes became my first language. They gave me the vocabulary I lacked, the grammar I could rely on, the fluency to say what I felt without words. And maybe that’s why I never needed a pop star as my avatar.
My daily plain uniform courtesy of woman designer Clare Waight Keller of Uniqlo C. Image courtesy of Try Sutrisno.
Behind the scenes of PEARS’ third edition. Images courtesy of Try Sutrisno.
I realise something else too. I have been working my butt off this year, distracting myself from a break-up, and to keep upm I’ve been living in practical clothes—sweatpants, roomy tailored trousers, T-shirts. My fashionable pieces are buried somewhere in the closet. At first, I tell myself it’s fine, that it just means I’m on the right path to become Steve Jobs, or any of those successful leaders whose wardrobes never change, but whose work changes the world. But the longer it goes on, the more I feel… muted. Like I have pressed pause on myself. The days blur together, and so do the outfits. I’m not showing up as me; I’m showing up as a uniform.
The days blur together, and so do the outfits. I’m not showing up as me; I’m showing up as a uniform.
Simone Rocha Autumn/Winter 2026: Look 51.
My first Simone Rocha piece. Image courtesy of Try Sutrisno.
And now—burned out and desperate for salvation—I don’t really crave music, or escape, or even rest. I crave slipping into Simone Rocha’s Look 51, the way someone else might crave a hyper-pop song on repeat after a long day. A reminder that somewhere under the exhaustion, there is still a self that wants to express itself through explosive ruffles, a bejewelled skirt, and long floating ribbons.
Then one night, scrolling through my Instagram and dreaming of those days when I wore frocks just to get coffee, it clicked. I do have female figures I worship—I’d just been looking in the wrong direction.
Mine don’t sing. They stitch.
So now I know why I’ve always gravitated toward female designers. Miuccia Prada is my Christina, and Simone Rocha is my Olivia. I buy their pieces season after season, even when fashion critics or colleagues dismiss them. “Prada and Miu Miu are scams—their quality is horrible,” a friend of mine always says. I know that. But I don’t care. I keep buying anyway, the way stans stream albums on repeat.
The Prada contradiction.
My devotion goes back years. I still remember the first time I saw a Prada show streamed online. The models walked out in clothes that looked like contradictions: ugly and beautiful, stiff and romantic, serious and playful all at once. It felt like someone had reached into the contradictions inside me and stitched them into fabric. I couldn’t stop replaying the clips, the way someone else might replay a pop anthem on loop. With Simone Rocha, it was different. I saw one of her pieces in a store—a puff-sleeved number with an oriental girl portrait printed on black taffeta—and even though I couldn’t afford it, I tried it on anyway. Standing in the fitting room, I felt transported. It was my version of hearing a song lyric and thinking, “she wrote this for me”. And yes, I bought it—on a six-month credit card instalment plan.
So if stans catch a plane to see their pop star live, I’d do the same for a runway show—just as devotedly. Watching a collection unfold look after look in person feels, to me, like listening to a diva belt out her anthems, each one louder, riskier, more breathtaking than the last.
Now, as I’m packing my suitcase for Tokyo for a week of Airplane Mode—something I’ve not done in a long time—I find myself tucking in my dreamy dresses, feet-pinching-yet-gorgeous shoes, and ultra-fashionable jackets. Some people pack based on their vacation itinerary, but I do the opposite. Where I will go and what I will do will depend on what I want to wear, and all I care about for this trip is dressing to the nines every day. Because I can’t do it in Indonesia. Not only is it impractical with the life I’m living, it’s also still socially frowned upon for a guy like me to be wearing a tutu.
Where I will go and what I will do will depend on what I want to wear, and all I care about for this trip is dressing to the nines every day.
So maybe the universe did assign me a woman (or five) a long time ago. She just happened to be holding a needle instead of a microphone. And that’s my version of devotion. Not a concert or an anthem, but a wardrobe. The kind of love that won’t literally kill me, but will almost certainly murder my wallet.
Follow Try Sutrisno on Instagram at @shinosjournal and PEARS magazine at @pearsmag to see more of his work.
About the writer
Try Sutrisno is a freelance fashion stylist and editor-in-chief at PEARS magazine, known for curating timeless yet modern looks with a strong narrative edge.