Every year, at the time of the London Fashion Week, regular as the first
cuckoo, come cries of fear and loathing about fashion. Social observers and
columnists – mostly women – announce, yet again, that fashion sucks. They
hate everything about it – its extravagance, its bitchiness, its eye-opening
prices, its manic neophilia, its very worldly unworldliness, its eye for PR
and profit, its indifference to the poor of the world (except as a source of
ethnic models), its corruption, its exploitation of women, and so on. They
talk with contempt of fashion victims and fashion mavens, and how daggy the
fashion editors look in the front seats at the shows. What is more, they
say, they are not actually interested in fashion.
I don’t believe them. Of course, there are things you can hold against the
fashion industry – from the hissy fits of misogynist designers to the
supremacist silliness of fashionistas, and all the greed and vanity in
between – though some of it is rather fun. But the industry is not the same
as the product; I don’t bother myself about back-stabbing and hysterics in
the organic meat industry when I buy a fancy pork chop. And the truth is
that almost all women, understandably, love fashion. A woman who says she is
tired of fashion is pretending, or else she is deceiving herself. A woman
who really is tired of fashion is a woman who is tired of life.
The way we look is an essential part of who we are and how we feel. And how we
look has always been extremely important to women and to men, time out of
mind, in all cultures. Whether you paint yourself in woad, have an exclusive
stripe of purple dye on your toga, a must-have bone through your nose, an
antique dodo feather in your penis shield, how you look says a lot about
you, in every culture.
It is not simply a matter of whether you’re wearing last year’s Manolos or
passing on this year’s Nancy bag. It makes a big difference to where you
position yourself, to your feel for the times, to the people you belong with
and the way people treat you. Nobody can afford to ignore that.
Besides, you can’t deny it. However you look, you cannot help but give out
powerful messages about yourself – some of them voluntary, some involuntary.
Fashion is, quite literally, what you make of yourself, how you fashion
yourself (including how you don’t bother to). Luckily, there is much you can
make of it: fashion is so many different things. There is couture and the
wildly imaginative and sometimes very beautiful excesses of top designers.
Then there is sub-couture, deuxièmes lignes, high-street
avant-garde, high-street rip-off, street-market indie and thrift-shop retro,
not to mention comfy, mid-market classics and mail-order sensible – all
influenced, at some stage, by high fashion. At its best, fashion is an art
form that transforms the craft of the entire clothes trade.
We have seen not only the democratisation of fashion after the second world
war – when mass production meant that working-class women could, for the
first time, buy cheap, fashionable clothes – but since then, pretty clothes
have become ever cheaper. We have also seen the diversification of fashion –
these days, there is never just one must-have look. So fashion, though
powerful, no longer has a style stranglehold on anyone; it means different
things to different people.
But what the puritanical critics seem to miss is the joy of fashion. It is fun
to try finding your way through all the wonderful and silly ideas when you
feel like it – and when you have the money. It is okay to ignore it, too.
But it is amusing to experiment with new ways of looking; it is entertaining
to gaze at the most beautiful materials and colours and the zaniest or most
classic shapes. There is something wonderful, if slightly guilt-inducing,
about searching for just the right shoes, then buying a highly impractical
pair that are too expensive but irresistible. There is something positively
erotic about the whisper of tissue paper when you take those drop-dead
gorgeous Vivienne Westwood ankle boots out of the box at home. Those are
shoes you will remember, along with all the times you wore them.
Choosing high-fashion lingerie when you have just fallen in love, hesitating
between provocative scraps of delicate silk and lace while dreaming of Mr
Right, is one of life’s great pleasures, silly though it may be. It is
exhilarating to find a perfect summer dress at Portobello Green market for
next to nothing. Above all, it is a great pleasure to buy and own something
exceptionally beautifully made that particularly suits you – and then to
wear it again, 10 or 20 years later, and leave it for a grown-up
granddaughter to discover.
I have a 25-year-old Azzedine Alaïa cowl-neck jacket, a 15-year-old Vivienne
Westwood horsehair jacket, some 10-year-old Cesare Paciotti
super-high-heeled brown lace-up brogues (about 10 years ahead of last year’s
fashion), a 1980s Marks & Spencer La Perla /Fortuny-lookalike black
camisole (which cost about £12), and two Yohji Yamamoto coats that I have
never stopped wearing since about 1989.
Then there is the Issey Miyake short black pleated dress that I bought eight
years ago and have lent to friends for special occasions, since (rather
unusually for him) one size fits all, and everyone looks a dream in it. Then
there are my huge, delicate Miyake scarves in silk, cashmere and strange
finishes, and my two five-year-old redand silver-fox-trimmed cardigans from
a Roberto Cavalli sale, and a green zebra-print dress with a hand-printed
chiffon overshirt by the People of the Labyrinths, or several slightly
offbeat Armani suits, all bought more than a few years ago and perfect for
looking businesslike. I often buy these things in sales, and though they are
expensive, I wear them so often and for so long, they work out as good
value: the best of yesterday’s fashion is never unfashionable for long.
I also own some Biba clothes from the 1960s (all too few), a Foale &
Tuffin fantasy trouser suit and a stylish 1940s tailored jacket made from
blue brocade curtains by my teenage mother during the war. It, too, is a
classic, and my daughter wears it today. All these things are pleasures and
treasures. To dismiss fashion – to disapprove of it – is to show how little
you understand of life, from anthropology to fun. Vive la mode.
NEVER COUNT IT OUT
BARONESS SUSAN GREENFIELD
Appearance is not a superficial concern. What you look like can have an impact
on your confidence and health. Men underestimate the importance of
appearance for women. It’s easy for a professional woman to end up wearing
something acceptable but not special, dressing almost as an honorary man.
I’ve never gone for fashion for fashion’s sake, but I’ve certainly made big
investments – or rather, I’ve justified them to myself afterwards as
investments.
ANDREA ROSE, DIRECTOR OF VISUAL ARTS, BRITISH COUNCIL
Fashion is like gossip, really, a bush telegraph about people, what they are
doing and what they are. Most people are intrigued and delighted by it, even
if they say they’re not. It keeps us plugged into the wider world. It is the
most material side of us, of course, but as the poet Williams Carlos
Williams said, “There are no ideas but in things.” It is an expression, in
stuff, of how we think about ourselves.
JULIA PEYTON-JONES, DIRECTOR, SERPENTINE GALLERY
Today, everyone is so much more conscious of design, and fashion is a part
of that. Anything that furthers design internationally is to be valued.
Fashion charts the time we live in. There are amazing architects who engage
with it – Zaha Hadid and her handbags for Chanel, and the American artist
Richard Prince and his bags for Louis Vuitton. For our Summer Party, my
outfit is always important: but I want it to be fun, not the focus.
JULIA GOLDSWORTHY MP
I’m in a job that’s traditionally very conformist. The smallest thing can
cause a stir. What works is small, rebellious statements: this year, I’ve
been foraying into bright tights and star features. They boost your
confidence – in the chamber, that’s really useful. But it’s a
double-edged sword: you will get personal comments, like “What does she
think she’s wearing?” You put yourself at risk. But if I’m wearing something
I feel great in, it will have a huge impact on my performance.
