When David Foster Wallace killed himself in the fall of 2008, I, like so many others, was hurt and disappointed but not surprised. I’d always read Wallace’s literary project as an attempt to convince his readers, along with himself, that life was worth living despite all the ****. After he abandoned that project, I carried a lack around with me. When Alexander McQueen killed himself sixteen months later, it shocked me. McQueen was someone whose work I had been following for longer than Wallace’s, but my relation to McQueen and his work was not so profound that I felt his suicide in my bones.
McQueen’s inner darkness is now evident in his work. After he hanged himself, he was memorialized as a tormented artist, not unlike Wallace. Judith Thurman, writing for the New Yorker, described McQueen as a designer who used couture as a “medium for self-revelation” and a “form of confessional poetry.” She called him an “archetypal Romantic.” This was in her review of Savage Beauty, McQueen’s barely posthumous blockbuster exhibition at the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. That show was the first opportunity I had to see McQueen’s clothes up close and it was so devastating, I cried right there in the Met, surrounded by strangers (McQueen’s Met show was so popular, the lines lingered into the hours and you were obligated to shuffle through a space at capacity). At 661,509 counted visitors, Savage Beauty became the eighth biggest show on record at the Metropolitan Museum, following obvious hits like Mona Lisa (1963) and Picasso (2010), and showed what an appetite there was for fashion in the museum.
Fashion can be art. It is psychology, sociology, history, identity (religion, sexuality, gender), politics, and commerce. It is the material of the everyday and a vehicle for profound human performance; shelter and superfluity. Fashion—garmenture—is, literally, significant. So why is it so hard to talk about? This is a question that I have grappled with my whole life. When your favorite childhood game is dress up and you grow up in a feminist household that sees fashion as capitalist frivolity, when that game follows you, obsessively, into adulthood, a crisis is inevitable; there still exists this notion of being “too smart for fashion.”
We are at a point in cultural history when once disparate mediums and fields of production are collapsing into each other. We look at paintings on screens and print digital photographs onto t-shirts. Film, music, literature, painting, sculpture, photography, along with “new media”—like the blogroll or interactive video, even holograms—are all just avenues, often cofunctioning avenues, used to 1. explore thought, 2. create beauty, and 3. accrue capital. Fashion is part of this network. Think artist collaborations, museum exhibitions, filmic costume design, and the rise of the fashion film. And yet, outside of the academy (where the study of fashion is flourishing), fashion still has trouble with the “explore thought” part. We don’t yet have much in the way of a popular critical discourse on fashion. It’s about time (and I’m repeating myself here) we integrate fashion into our elitist tradition of cultural criticism (and, hopefully, actually, dilute that elitism somewhat.)
Here is what I want to know: How come it took a suicide and the museum for me, an avid fashion consumer, to understand the depths of McQueen’s work? Why, in a field bloated with words, with innumerable fashion magazines and blogs, is most everything stagnant and disposable? Why, when I speak with dedicated fashion types, do I—I of all people—continue to be surprised by their intellect and breadth of knowledge? More productively: How can we write and think critically about fashion? And can we imagine new ways of looking at it?
In researching this piece, I consulted with several esteemed fashion writers, including Valerie Steele, the current director of the Museum of the Fashion Institute of Technology and pioneer in the academic field of fashion studies; Jenna Sauers, writer, Jezebel fashion editor, and co-founder of The Model Alliance; Sarah Nicole Prickett, the woman I always wanted to be when I grew up—a friend, feminist femme, and prolific writer on many topics, including fashion; Serah-Marie McMahon, editor and founder of the Worn Fashion Journal; and Darrell Hartman, a New York-based journalist whose travel/leisure/fashion/culture writing is regularly featured in The Wall Street Journal and on Style.com, as well as in Art Forum, Book Forum, The Financial Times, and The Daily.
I want to thank all of these incredible people for their time and thoughtfulness. As grateful as I am, though, I’ve also caught myself cursing them. Not the-people-them, but the conservations we had, and only with regards to their impact on getting this piece done. Because with every conversation, I grew more overwhelmed and tripped out on my chosen spirit journey, caught in the infinity net of questions like “what is fashion?”. There are no simple answers to the questions I have proposed. Each interview was so rich, it could have been an article unto itself. What follows is essentially a list of those ideas that, between interviews, repeated and converged. Where original, I’ve cited the idea with the person but this was truly a collaborative effort.
We start with query No. 1, the deconstructive one: Why does most writing on fashion suck? “We are into the Baudrillardian post-fashion phase,” wrote Sarah Nicole Prickett in her essay Said Language to Fashion: OMG I Die, “in which fashion exists for fashion’s sake and clothes are mere copies of copies of signifiers, communicating emptiness at worst and self-satisfaction at best.” In mass market fashion magazines—what the masses not interested in fashion think fashion is—language is dead. Words are thriving, type is on the page, but meaning is null. This season, grey may be the new black, but what is black? Back in 1967, semiologist Roland Barthes made a study of this tautology of magazine copy in The Fashion System. He presented the idea that fashion is a language: garments and poses are vested with meaning that we put on to communicate, that we can read and write. Fashion magazines claim meaning on behalf of garments (bold shoulders=power dressing) with little to no exposition. When this equals that in boldface copy, the historical and social dynamics of that equation are lost. The language of fashion gets reduced to acultural idiom and empty metaphor; made stupid. Military chic…
Darrell Hartman told me that Hamish Bowles, International Editor-at-Large for Vogue, was one of the most “knowledgeable, cultured, and refined” minds he’d met. That I believe. I believe that Bowles probably knows what black is in the “blank is the new black” equation. I don’t believe we’ll be reading that stuff in American Vogue, though, which prefers to show me socialite shopping trips and other things money can buy. Money is probably the biggest impediment to my idea of quality fashion coverage. Fashion is big business and largely commercial. One, there’s an already established audience for magazines like InStyle. Two, fashion content, in print and even online, as Jenna Sauers pointed out, is enmeshed with advertiser interests. (Hartman made a great point, which is that it’s imaginable to have a bad review for a film next to an ad for that film in say The New York Times, but that the same does not hold for fashion media.) Not all fashion needs to be discoursed. The majority of fashion production is banally commercial, designed by a team for an imagined audience of consumers. Michael Kors may not merit Artforum analysis, but should Alexander McQueen, Hussein Chalayan, Rei Kawakubo, Walter Van Beirendonck, and the like be stuck with what Vogue considers coverage? Definitely not.
Money alone doesn’t resolve the question of why fashion isn’t subject to the kinds of high criticism that other forms of visual culture (film, art) are. In terms of numbers, the film industry and the art market are equally as enterprising as fashion. The art world—bastion of the kind of elitist theorizing I want for fashion—likes to pretend it’s not. The art world is idealistic, invested in maintaining its integrity, reverent to philosophy and tradition (irreverent art is still reverent). Fashion is more concerned with the now, nay, the next. The business of fashion is tied to what Hartman called, “fashion’s meta-calendar.” Pre-fall, Fall/Winter, Couture, Resort, Spring/Summer, Couture—the deadlines are merciless and non-negotiable. To participate, you abide by this schedule. Not only does the ethic of constant renewal—we are always one season ahead—not support reflexivity in fashion criticism, simple logistics (like next-hour deadlines during Fashion Week) make researching and writing anything of substance difficult. In the time it takes to talk about it, the trend will have already passed. Next!
“In order to criticize you have to be there, and in order to be there you have to be in,” Sauers tells me. The fashion world values exclusivity. Yes, the internet is democratizing; live-streaming runway shows, front-row bloggers, blah, blah (see: Lady Gaga’s V editorial blasting The New York Times‘ old hat Cathy Horyn). Seeing the défilé in person is different though, wearing the dress is different though, and fashion insiders like to remind us of this. “I have been both amused and irritated over the years by fashion academics who write unreadable piffle about a world they do not know,” writes Colin McDowell of The Business of Fashion. ”Few are invited to the shows and none have gone through the apprenticeship of watching hundreds of shows per season, some of which are unbelievably bad. This is the equivalent of a cricket commentator who goes only to the Oval and knows nothing of local cricket greens.”
Anyone can go to the museum, walk into a gallery, buy a movie ticket. Fashion shows are invite only. Fashion’s exclusivity is self-reinforcing, hegemonic. The same few photographers shoot all the major campaigns. The same set of designers lend clothes to the same stylists and celebrities who are photographed and reproduced in the same magazines and blogs. Generalization, but probably 95% true: You can’t just write about high fashion, you have to live high fashion. Go to the parties, wear the clothes, hang with the models. (Derek Blasberg is exemplary of this.) If you’re not in, the insiders won’t hear you. And once you’re in, you’re unlikely to publicly backstab your new BFFs. It’s not that the fashion world isn’t critical. But without a real critical stance, we get a critical eye. Matters of taste are voiced (“Ew, I hate that”) more than knowledge is shared.
Darrell Hartman writes about menswear, and a great deal about heritage revival wear, a trendy knowledge-based economy where boys nerd out about things like archival Americana shoelaces. He cites this as a space where good writing on fashion is happening. When I bring this up with Sauers, she interrupts—“that’s such a dude thing.” A hetero-masculine pose: dudes can’t enjoy fashion for fashion’s sake, so they turn it into something more.
This brings me to the last negative I’ll address. “Fashion has often been relegated to being a woman’s domain, something historically not deemed worthy of critical thought,” responds Serah-Marie McMahon of Worn, when I queried her on the dearth of good fashion writing. Valerie Steele echoed this thought. In a recent interview, the scholar opined that fashion has often been denigrated for its association with feminine vanity (think Madame Bovary). “It probably has something to do with the whole Judeo-Christian-Islamic idea that fashion has to do with … covering up nakedness,” Steele claimed. “It’s not just plunging necklines or rising hemlines, but the mere fact of decorating your body at all, which is viewed as somehow troubling.”
All of the above complaints—of fashion’s commerciality, interest in novelty, protected exclusivity, and history as frivolous femininity—have to do with fashion’s hegemonic form. Steele, Sauers, Prickett, McMahon, and Hartman are evidence that this is not all there is. So as we start on query No. 2, the constructive one, of can-we-write-productively-about-fashion, the answer is unequivocally, obviously, yes! And it is already being done here and there, you just have to look for it.
While the consumerism and invite-exclusivity of the fashion system aren’t going to change anytime soon (it’s both too institutionalized and too economically forceful, and if the 20th century taught us anything, it’s that you can’t fight the system), what we can do is seek out and promote those cracks in the system, those areas of resistance, which show fashion to be something more. We can do as the great art critic Dave Hickey tells us, and take, “that ever-available American option of throwing up one’s hands and slipping into the invisible fissures that run through this society like fault lines across California.” And so we arrive at a reading list.
Judith Thurman, the writer on McQueen I opened with, came up repeatedly as one of the great fashion writers of today. Thurman writes mostly for the New Yorker, a publication which Valerie Steele noted has “always been good at getting smart women to talk about fashion,” going back to Lois Long and Jenna Sauers’ favorite, Kennedy Fraser. Thurman talks about clothes with the same precision, hauteness, and humor that fellow New Yorker writer Anthony Lane brings to film.