That’s So Vogue: The Silent Influence of Queer Culture on, well, Everything
There is a girl that I follow on Instagram. I am sure that all of us, to some extent, are guilty of the following: I went to school with her well over 10 years ago, uttered perhaps less than a hundred words to her during our shared scholastic experience, but upon seeing her name suggested in my Instagram algorithm and after a deep, brain-numbing, arthritis-triggering stalk, I hit follow. Why? Just liked her outfits, really.
This was back in 2016, and I’ve noticed with a slow-growing interest that she’s one of those mysterious girls who somehow knows a fashion trend before it’s even a trend. How does it happen? Do they confer with Alexander McQueen and Prada via pigeon so as to prevent Missguided and Cosmopolitan’s social media sniffer dogs from hunting down their trail? But anyway, I digress. I took note of her undersized cat-eye sunglasses in 2017 and was unsurprised when they suddenly became the epitome of a wavey garm the following year. I saw her sleek, elegant hair kept out of her face by a thick, black jersey headband paired with a boxy black sweater, flares and black Filas during a photography trip to Romania, and then saw dozens of variations on this outfit in every shop window last winter.
Today, however, was different. During my daily morning scroll, I saw visual proof of her latest adventure to the Henry Moore Institute. She was glamorously crumpled up in the corner, androgynously showcasing her new personal style: pleated slacks, a loose-fit tee, and a square-shouldered, oversized check blazer. This outfit did not instil the usual emotions in me (see: wow, I love it, how has no one thought of this outfit before, I’m inferior, I’m so poor, etcetera). Instead, I felt disconcerted as a subconscious thought that had been growing in the undergrowth of my brain finally gained enough momentum to bubble up to the surface and pop into recognition.
If you’re wondering where major fast-fashion companies get their ideas from, it’s from social media influencers (see: Kardashians) and catwalks (see: every Fashion Week ever). If you’re wondering where the latter get THEIR ideas from, it seems to be an oddball of inspiration derived from their experiences. One experience that seems to be extracted from consistently is the queer community.
Let me explain.
First off, I am queer. I love belonging to such a global, diverse and strong community that has as many facets as it does. Look upon the surface of it and you will see flamboyance, rainbows, glitter, and dance parties. Look a little deeper and you will uncover the smaller nooks where the sub communities dwell. Let’s look at one: androgynous queer women.
Let’s take a few steps back in time to around the 1930s and 40s. World War 2 is over and has caused a tidal wave of socio-cultural transformation. Women — formerly designated to be domestic servants — had been recruited as blue collar workers and were introduced to many freedoms during the war. Positions as mechanics, gardeners, drivers, and medics were taken by women whilst their male companions took position in the trenches. Hard work called for a wardrobe upheaval, and suddenly, stockings and skirts were being swapped for slacks. This absorption of masculine culture was empowering, and for many women, provided an avenue to explore another part of themselves that had previously been put on a shelf too high to reach.
If you are to look at photos of underground gay clubs during this time, you will see many a girl in more traditionally masculine dress. They pose for the camera with their hips slightly jutted out, their hands casually in their pockets, their sleeves rolled up in a display of macho muscularity. They contrast their femme counterparts who immediately come across as softer and more genteel, with their open, floating skirts and their permed updos complimenting their dresses.
The traditionally more everyday-formal wear of the times bled into queer culture massively, with women making quite the statement when deciding to don a suit instead of slips and stockings. Just as the way gay language operates today — with the dialects and accents changing only to reflect our ever-morphing culture — these subtle and also straight-away-obvious signs served as a signal to other queer women. The language of the LGBTQ+ community has always been a double edged sword, aiming to invite like-minded people to join, and serving as a warning to straight people to just… perhaps… not try it.
Although fashions change, many styles and statements that feature as cultural and political landmarks for queer people stick, more immune to the passing of time than some heteronormative-based trends. See the cementing of modern drag in the eighties, and then see how many gartered, corsetted, pop-coloured and smoky-eyed individuals there’ll be tonight in Soho. Open shirts, suspenders, harnesses, bright makeup, piercings, and more have stayed consistently visible in gay bars and nightclubs as a testament to our resilience.
Due to the cyclical life-span of fashion trends and also the slow settling of a mainstream non-binary culture, many genderqueer people seek aesthetically-oriented solace and validation in the more contrasting, traditional styles for men and women of times now passed. When transitioning, many trans women find the wearing of a long-hemmed dress a powerful, liberating moment. For trans men, wearing clothes that emphasise their flat or flattened chests and lack of womanly curves can be just as freeing. Although modern-day fashion is far more accepting of women wearing more or less anything they feel like (whether it be skinny jeans, skirts, dresses or loose trousers and baggy t-shirts), men are still incredibly compartmentalised in what is seen as socially acceptable dress. This is harmful to both poles of the gender spectrum. For men, the suppression into wearing a limited wardrobe in order to not appear ‘feminine’ in any way is toxic and also complete bullshit. An interesting addition to this phenomena is that queer women do not have a huge choice of symbolic modern clothing if they want to present more masculine. I am not saying these problems are equal — men deserve to be raised feeling that they can wear whatever they want without it being associated derogatively with identity/sexuality/femininity. These entire issues regarding a dress code depending on your genitals is a massively superficial cultural debacle that serves very few. However, potentially in response to this amalgamation of gendered clothing in the modern day world, many genderfluid women take inspiration from the roots of mainstream, almost socially-acceptable yet still radical ‘cross-dressing’ — our lovely, pre, during and post-war ladies.
A fantastic example of a woman doing exactly this is Christine and the Queens. See how with her debut album she exudes a continental, sapphic energy, that despite its’ minimalism — or possibly because of it — sent a slow but powerful ripple through queer culture. Clearly this time was also incredibly transformative for Christine, as she then bounded forwards with her new album in 2018: simply titled ‘Chris’. Metamorphosis had happened, and although it could’ve been mistaken as an corporate affair — a rebrand to capitalise on the queer community — only one listen to the album gives you an almost painfully personal yet inspiring look into Chris’s mind and identity, and a feeling of gratefulness and privilege that she would share it with you. To match her new masculine persona that would sing about sex, horniness, and disdain at being called a girlfriend, she appeared in photos artfully slouched over a chair in neutral-coloured slacks and shirts, the buttons undone dangerously low (I only use the word ‘dangerously’ because I have to go to work, Chris, and there are only so many cold showers I can take). Her long, wispy hair had been replaced by an unapologetic, sultry, slicked-back short cut, nowadays morphing into a softer and more experimental mullet. Sequin blazers and tight t-shirts were swapped for shirts fit for a vintage shop in Peckham, suit jackets, and slacks upon slacks… Interestingly, the exact same clothes that seem to be starting to pop up on my instagram.
What is one person’s symbol of liberation is another’s sign of just looking cool and joining in on the fun. See: London Pride Parade, undercuts, gluten-free diets, and androgynous clothes. I do feel a fustration that I worry is wrongly-placed. Perhaps this girl I follow on Instagram is secretly on a similar journey, and the outfit I saw today shall be the first of many new androgynous looks. They could be queer. I could be committing a disgraceful act of hypocrisy and pointing my finger and saying she shouldn’t be dressing like that as she’s not one of us. I don’t want to be that person. People have done that to me and I know how heart-breaking it is.
Instead, I want there to be an open dialogue with critical thought and self-awareness when it comes to fashion, trends, and where they originate. It may sound trivial to those who do not understand, but the constant take-take-take from a minority group does erode the core of strength and visibility of its inhabitants.
It sometimes feels like the hard-fought, still-ongoing battle for LGBTQ+ liberation is trivialised when what queer people were once harassed and alienated for pops up in mainstream popular culture. Our language — a verbal and physical mix rising from the flamboyance of drag queens, the cool nonchalance of androgynous folk, and everyone and everything in between — is stolen and thrown into the heterosexual spotlight and before you know it, vogue-ing and death drops are either used for comic relief or are imitated with absolutely zero idea of their origins (search ‘Harlem ball culture if you too, have no idea). Meanwhile, ‘Yasss Queen’, ‘Slay’, and ‘Not today, Satan’ are plastered in glittery fonts all over mason jars and canvas prints in homeware shops. Men and women could, and would be arrested for dressing in clothes that didn’t conform to their sex (search for the ‘three article rule’ in the US). Nowadays, androgynous clothing is haute couture among youth, and is a safe-yet-radical fashion edit for companies such as River Island, Depop and Urban Outfitters.
The first Pride was a riot; the fiftieth was a corporation-funded street party where straight people attended for the ‘fun vibes’ and an excuse to day-drink in town whilst half-naked. Pulse Nightclub in Orlando was victim to a shooting in 2016 — just 3 years ago, during Pride Month. Straight people flock to LGBT clubs because the music is more upbeat, girls are less likely to get sexually harassed, and the general consensus is that the night is just more fun. I understand some of these reasons. On the surface, these places seem safer.
A little remembering and recognition into why these events and spaces exist would go a long way. Straight people have been compromising our opportunities, freedom and lives for centuries and now only want in because they’re seeing how much of a great time we have without them. For years, the LGBTQ+ community has had to hide in order to survive. Now, it feels like we are one of the backbones to modern culture — which is fine, besides the fact that no one besides the queer community is aware of it. There is nothing wrong with wearing a suit when you’re a straight woman, or watching Ru Paul’s Drag Race if you’re not a Queen yourself, or attending Pride if you’re an ally. Just be knowledgable and considerate of LGBT history and who took those first steps before you dip into it, and understand and respect why we wear, do and say these things. As my absolute role model and hero, the loose shirt and slack-donned Chris, would say — Damn, what must a woman do?
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