Why are we ashamed of Fashion?
Someone asked me today if I was into fashion.
For a moment I paused — I didn’t want to give a resounding YES! I didn’t want to come off as an extreme consumerist, concerned only about appearances. To be clear, I am most certainly not the person shopping everyday for the latest trend. I actually very much dislike going from shop to shop looking for “whatever”. Just as an illustration, it took me three years to purchase a second pair of blue jeans because I simply cannot stand the stretchy, will-rip-in-three-months fabrics that are currently circulating. It takes approximately 3,781L of water to produce the cotton that goes into a pair of jeans and the jeans themselves. I take that quite seriously. Therefore, my jeans, along with most other pieces in my closet, must have a minimum lifespan of two years and at least 50 wears. I can happily announce I did find another pair of what I call “traditional denim”, that was also purchased from a brand that focuses on transparency (thanks, Everlane). The next purchase on my radar is a unique pair of repurposed denim wide legged jeans — but that’s another story.
And because the universe does not play dice, 20 min after the initial question was posed to me, I come across a quote by Miuccia Prada from an interview with The Wall Street Journal (Instagram and fate, I tell you). If her surname does not give a good indication of who she is, allow me to elaborate: Miuccia Prada is the owner of her namesake fashion house Prada, having taken over the family business in 1978 at age 29. A member of the early Italian women’s rights movement in the 70s, she is also the head designer and owner of a second fashion house more personal to her, and based on her own closet — Miu Miu, so called after her own nickname. As the first to introduce nylon to luxury fashion, she pushed the boundaries of what defined luxury, in parallel to how Duchamp’s Fountain pushed the definition of art. Yet, just to note, on the overlap of fashion and art, Miuccia is still not as Dadaist as one would consider Martin Margiela, for example (coincidently, Marcel Duchamp is one of my favorite characters of the art world, but that is yet another story).
Oh, and she has a PhD in Political Science, just on the side.
Miuccia’s quote read:
“What you wear is how you present yourself to the world… Fashion is instant language.”
Well, that resonated with me like hell. But I still felt basically ashamed to say that I did care about it so much, to the point of researching for two months for my ideal pair of white boots, that would seamlessly fit to whatever else was in my closet. This seemingly irrelevant question, really touched something at my core that I didn’t expect — Why did I hold myself in contempt for something I obviously cared about? Why was I ashamed?
The road to my shame started being paved long before I came to be, I realized.
From a very long time, in most societies, women have been placed in a very constraining box when it came to our place in the world. During the early 1800s, men and women’s roles became more sharply defined than at any time in history. In previous times, work roles had been more in sync, where men and women worked alongside each other, growing crops or in the family business. Living ‘over the store’ made it easy for women to be part of the business while also attending to domestic duties. As times progressed, men started to commute to their workplace more often than not. Women were now left at home overseeing the domestic duties. As this divide became more poignant, women were increasingly considered less capable of dueling in the “real world”, which meant that they were best and only suited to the domestic sphere of life. We were to worry about the children, curtains, hair, doilies, and shoes. Our accomplishments were to be confined to music and art and curtsying — that is, if you were of a certain class and also living mainly in a western society. Our brains couldn’t handle much else, said the patriarchy (Yes, it did. It was in charge of the world, and it was it that laid the rules. Let’s just accept it). And so it became that these were the things that were associated with being a woman, as determined.
With the feminist movements of the 20th century emerging, and as it became self evident that women could do more than choose china patterns, factions in womanhood started appearing. We were feminists. And we were anti-feminists. Women who performed athletic activities such as horseback riding and cycling were permitted to wear trousers, which made them seem more daring, and forward thinking. (It is worth noting that while celebrities in the 20s and 30s rocked the Dior pantsuits, everyday women would get fined if they wore such attires in their normal lives). But there was this reciprocal condescendence between “traditional” women, and the ones pushing the societal norms. The argument being that God/nature made women best suited to stay at home, and dedicate themselves to the task of supporting the husband and the family. The other side of the argument was a focus on education and a career. One of the best illustrations of this struggle in more recent times (1950s), is the film Mona Lisa Smile. Do watch.
Fast forward to the end of the 90s, the end of the century, and the same divide is still present and still (semi) subconsciously enforced. The whole concept of the working women who wears pants and has short hair was still a bit subversive. A “good woman” was still the one with the doilies and the curtains. And these women were also attacked — take Hillary Clinton’s “tea and cookies” comment in 1992, which when read out of context, echoed a feeling that was still present on the feminist camp — that women who stayed at home were somehow stuck or inferior because they did not choose to “breakout” of their metaphorical chains of domesticity. But then here’s a punch against the other side: women of the US Senate, weren’t really allowed to wear pants on the Senate floor until… wait for it… 1993. Here is a timeline of laws and restrictions on women’s attire, if you believe I’m being harsh.
Men told women what to wear, and in doing so, decided who we were, to them and to each other — “a tomboy” who wore more masculine clothes, or “a girly girl” who liked pink and skirts. The former is supposedly stronger and more intelligent than the latter, putting fashion at the center of our divide.
My personal relationship with fashion has certainly changed over the last few years, really influenced by that partition. I believe it began during my time living in Denmark starting in 2012 — #copenhagenbae, as one of my best friends dubbed me, was the hashtag I Instagramed while there. The danes and the whole of Scandinavia has impeccable taste in fashion and design. Danish fashion is all about clean lines, immaculate structure and black. All black everything. I’ve always had a penchant for wearing black (ask my poor mother who would force me into The Children’s Place as a child because they would likely not carry any black items). Fashion wise, I felt right at home.
Recently fashion has become a mark of confidence. Never will I claim my self confidence or worth comes from what I wear. This is always going to come from who I am and who I choose to be.
Or so I once thought.
There is a balance to be struck here. Some of my self confidence is reflected in wearing my hair in its natural form, something that hasn’t always been accepted. It also comes from the certain power I get when my shirt is perfectly tailored; from the extra spring in my step when my outfit is perfectly monochrome. Or when I know my 5in heels wont blister my feet. All of It feels even better when I know I’ve made my purchase from an ethical brand. How many people can say they literally embody their values?
The other side to the confidence equation is a combination of the extremely fearless women in my family that have shaped my person. From my aunt Lola, a hard geophysicist and a staunch devotee of Dior’s blue mascara; to my own mother, the most giving and resilient person I know, who loves Mary Janes and Circle Skirts a la 1950s.
Taking this further into myself, I also have learned to connect to my country and African culture through fashion. African designers are now creating the most spectacular pieces based on traditional prints, designs and experiences — I mean, if you have yet to encounter Maki.Oh, MaXhosa (“Xhosa” begins with a click) and Lisa Folawiyo, do yourself a favour and check out their collections. I am very proud to say that there has been a new marriage of modern and traditional, which I am all here for. For a while there was a certain disconnect between African fashion and the youngest generations, who grew up in an in between world, influenced by Western cultures, but still rooted in very strong traditions (a topic for next time). To be fair, most African countries spent a good part of the 50s, 60s and 70s fighting for independence, so there was little space then to translate our traditional fashion into a modern language.
Still, the younger generations of African designers, influenced by both worlds, are creating what I can only describe as pure, beautiful, creative, artful fashion bliss. Afro Futuristic fashion is no longer in the future.
But I digress…
I’ve spent the first paragraph of this essay basically defending myself, bullet proofing my shopping habits and trying to distinguish myself from people who have a love of shopping. Subconsciously, yes. But basically, my prejudice was showing. Hard.
I was almost reinforcing the stereotypes that “these people” are airheads, vane, somehow “less than” and can’t worry about anything of substance (an image of Amal Clooney immediately came to mind. The living, breathing embodiment of the opposite of this stereotype). This stigma that a love of clothes is synonym with denseness, that has caused women to turn on each other, has been perpetuated for long enough. And I am the victim and the perpetrator. It is as they say, “divide et impera“. Divide and rule. Divide and conquer. Society has done that well, and for a long time women were conquered. And it was this conquest of millenia, that led me to my shame of fashion.
Until today.
These thoughts are in no way original. In fact they are quite trite. But it is undeniable that fashion has ushered empowerment through the ages. It has adapted to make women more comfortable in the lifestyle they wished to pursue, whatever it may be. Fashion to me is also a means of empowerment, of culture, of owning who I am, and who I still aspire to be. Yet, we still shy away from who we are, what we like for fear of being labelled.
Miuccia kicks in once saying stating:
“I don’t think there is a look for an intelligent, militant woman. She can wear anything she wants”
This should have been a bit obvious, but it really isn’t (let’s not kid ourselves though — there is a time and place for bootie shorts and sequined pants). Without ever thinking much about it, fashion has become my weapon of choice to break down the first barrier when I walk into a room. You will see a black woman with big hair (because honestly, that’s just how it grows out of my head) and possibly bright lipstick (orange lipstick is a true test of self-confidence, as I recently found out). At that moment, you can choose to decide who I am, and pass me off as frugal, or you can wait until I open my mouth and truly find out what I bring to the table.
So, to all of your afraid to wear a slightly higher heel for fear of being objectified in the office (I’ve been there); or if you just don’t enjoy body hugging clothing but feel that a pencil skirt is required — quit it. Test this out with small steps. Today a higher heel during your killer presentation. Or a pair of wide legged pants for that lunch meeting.
Dye your hair pink. Match your neon shirt to your neon nail polish. Wear all black, that baggie t-shirt, or make the pantsuit your staple.
How you choose to present yourself is in no way a measure of your intelligence. Period.
This fellow woman is shedding her preconceptions.
She is fully on your side, whomever you choose to be.
