by Francesca Granata

Expanding the narrative of “Made in Italy” is one of the goals that Michelle Ngonmo set for herself when she started the Afro Fashion Association in 2008. Born in Cameroon and raised in the Northern Italian city of Ferrara, Ngomo was the president of the Afro-Italian student association at her university and it is through this work that she started to realize the wealth of talent in fashion among Afro-Italians matched by a bewildering lack of opportunity. With the Afro-Italian association, Ngonmo created a platform to showcase and advocate for Italian designers of African descent. Her project gained greater visibility in the wake of the Black Lives Matter protests in 2020, which led Ngonmo, in collaboration with designers Stella Jean and Edward Buchanan, to take the industry to task and ask for concrete change. From then on, Ngonmo started the “We Are Made Italy” fashion shows highlighting Afro-Italian designers under the auspice of the Camera Nazionale della Moda and has just launched “Unseen Profiles,” a professional platform to aid the industry in hiring Italian BIPOC creatives. 

Of course, the concept of African fashion is in and of itself a problematic construct. As Erica de Greef and heeten bhagat have argued, it would be improbable to find commonalities in design produced in as vast a continent as Africa, with its different cultural traditions and climates. However, acknowledging these complexities, Ngonmo uses the umbrella term “Afro” as a method to advocate for designers, almost always Black, who are left out of the narrative of Italian fashion. Advocating for an understanding of Italian society and its fashion as pluricultural, the Afro Fashion Association also contributes to debunking the dangerous myth that Italy has been historically monocultural, white and Catholic—a notion, which has been advanced with particular force by the Nationalist parties in Italy. For instance, Ngonmo’s hometown, Ferrara, provides evidence of both Italy’s long multicultural history and its dangerous Nationalistic side. As recently as the beginning of the twentieth century, Ferrara was home to a thriving Jewish-Italian population, the majority of which either fled or was killed as a result of the 1930 “leggi razziali” racial laws.

Ultimately, Ngomo is helping to rewrite the concept of “Made In Italy,” that ubiquitous national selling point—and in a country where fashion reigns supreme, thus challenges the national narrative. Ngonmo spoke over Zoom from her home in Milan; the interview was conducted in Italian.

Fashion Projects: How did you come up with the idea of the Afro Fashion Association?

Ultimately, Ngomo is helping to rewrite the concept of “Made In Italy,” that ubiquitous national selling point—and in a country where fashion reigns supreme, thus challenges the national narrative. Ngonmo spoke over Zoom from her home in Milan; the interview was conducted in Italian.

Fashion Projects: How did you come up with the idea of the Afro Fashion Association?

Michelle Ngonmo: When I attended university, I was the president of the Italo-African students association at my university [in Ferrara]. Thanks to this position, I was able to organize a number of events which involved people in positions of authority, such as rectors at universities across Italy. This experience allowed me to travel all over Italy and come into contact with a great number of Afro-Italian students and students from Africa, who had studied either design and fashion and yet upon graduation were doing something completely different, very humble jobs such as housekeepers and waitresses. I started asking myself: “How is it possible that out of 100 people I met, there is not one that after their university studies was able to enter this world?” So I started hanging out with them and asking them a lot of questions. I came from a background in communications and journalism, so it was natural for me to start asking questions to understand the reason behind this phenomenon. Eighty-five percent of those I talked to said that they were never even called for a job interview. So I told myself, “Okay, this reality remains invisible, let me try to do something about it. Why not create a platform that can promote this type of creativity which is part of our everyday and of the society we live in?” And that’s how I started. I received a lot of pushback at the beginning. I self-funded it so I started with very little money and from there I started the Afro Fashion Association. I called the association “Afro Fashion” instead of “African Fashion” because I wanted to promote hybridity rather than making people’s origins the focus, because Italian society is hybrid. I started it in 2008.

FP: So it has been a while. How was your association received at the beginning? Has there been a shift in the reception/embrace of your work in the wake of the BLM movement gaining international recognition?

MN: As I mentioned, I encountered a lot of closed doors at the beginning. I tried to contact Italian fashion organizations either via email or in person, but I never received a reply. I am not sure whether it is because they were not interested in the concept or they did not believe that Italian fashion could in fact be multicultural. When in 2020, in response to the Black Lives Matter movement [and the death of George Floyd], all the Italian brands placed the black boxes in their social media accounts, I called Stella Edwards and told her, “You know what? If you look in the Italian fashion landscape, the only member [who is Black] is you.” And she answered, “You are absolutely right, we have to do something about it.” She is in a prominent position, so she could do more, since she could gather the attention of the press, etc…. And it’s something which, I think, requires a lot of courage. Because when you make these choices you could lose buyers and investors. Stella, however, has a lot of courage and force of will, so the two of us, together with Edward Buchanan, wrote a letter and addressed it to the president of La Camera Nazionale della Moda [the association that promotes Italian fashion] asking, “Do Black lives matter in Italian fashion?” Because as I mentioned, all the brands and the Camera della Moda had placed the black squares on their social, but we wanted to say, “Okay that’s great, but here we are having some difficulties. So let’s focus on the homefront and on Italian society.” And from there things started to happen. Stella, like her name suggests, really is a star. So it was thanks to her that at last the lights started to shine on our reality. And so from the question we started with “Do Black lives really matter in Italian fashion?” we ended up with “We are Made in Italy” to say that we are part of Italy, which is not simply an all-white Italy, but it is made of different races/shades. But besides that, we also produce Made in Italy, so the fashion industry should start to consider this more diverse, hybrid side of Made in Italy.

FP: When I read about your project and the name of the fashion shows you organized We Are Made in Italy of course I thought it was in response to the way Italy is often imagined as culturally religiously and racially homogeneous. That is, predominantly Catholic and white, particularly within the right-wing and nationalistic parties. I was wondering whether the situation is changing, and whether fashion can help in this change? Because together with food, fashion is so central to Italian national identity, much more so than in the U.S. Italy imagines itself as a fashion nation. Is that why you chose to work in the fashion field?

MN: There are the three Fs that describe Italy: Food, Fashion and Furniture. At the time I started the association, I didn’t really meet many Italo-African chefs, but in fashion there was so much talent available. And yes, fashion is this incredible means of communication in Italy. It really sets the tone and makes the rules. So choosing fashion to start this process of raising awareness was absolutely a conscious choice.

FP: Do you think the concept of Italian fashion and perhaps Italy more generally is changing? Is it no longer so homogeneous, but rather pluricultural?

MN: I think that small steps are being taken. We cannot expect change to happen in a day or a year. It’s a change that will need its own time, but yes for sure it’s starting. At first there was an instrumentalization of the issue and the way the media covered it. I wrote an article about it recently but I would like to say that fashion is not simply “showcasing,” otherwise designers never enter the market. Our credo is, Great, let’s show that we have this talent, these designers in Italy, but we also have to prepare the industry to include this type of creativity, which is part of the fashion that’s made in Italy. I don’t want to diminish the importance of having these designers included in the official calendar of Milano Fashion Week, and the change that happens from it.  From September 2020, when we started the We Are Made in Italy initiative, we have received circa 1,000 curricula of designers who are Afro-descendentas and are based in Italy, who prior to our initiative did not believe they could have a future in Italian fashion. In fact, in the January issue of Vogue [Italia] there is an article with my interview that speaks about this. In response to this reality, we created a platform called “The Unseen Profiles” where we gather for the benefit of the industry CVs of BAME[1] people in Italy. Because very often, when we speak to the industry in Italy regarding the lack of diversity and inclusion, they answer that they don’t have access to resumés from a diverse pool of talent, but in actuality there is a great number of people trained in the field that cannot wait to start working.

FP: Can you tell me a bit more about the We Are Made in Italy fashion show?

MN: The We Are Made in Italy fashion show takes place twice a year (in February and September). We showcase five designers that we select and mentor. We started in September 2020, and the same group that showed in September 2020 also did in February 2021. Then we selected a new group for September 2021 and we are preparing the show for February 2022 with the same group. So we give them a chance to show both the summer and the winter collections.

FP: You used the word “Afro” instead of “African,” as you said, in part not to make reference to an entire continent. Of course, there are a great number of different cultures, traditions, and climates in this enormous continent that is Africa, so it’s hard to speak of an “African” fashion. Why did you use this umbrella term “Afro” instead of saying, for instance, Cameroonian or Nigerian fashion?

MN: To me, the term “Afro” makes reference to a style, whereas Africa is a continent made of 54 countries and I did not have the presumption to represent 54 countries. Often we speak of African fashion, but it’s like saying European fashion. What does it mean exactly? Little to nothing. In European fashion, you have Italian fashion, French fashion, etc, so it’s pretty much the same thing in Africa, even though with Africa we might refer more to geographical areas to indicate similarities. I chose the word “Afro” because I wanted to make reference to the style as opposed to the countries. The style could make reference to colors, prints or certain kinds of cuts (because various regions of Africa have different cuts). So that’s why I chose the word “Afro.”

FP: What are the plans for the future of the “Afro Fashion Association”?

MN: With the association, we are now offering a number of services which reflect the background of our team. We collaborate a lot with universities. We organize Fashion Labs, workshops that can last from ten to thirty hours. We started to develop these initiatives both in Milan and Rome, with the Politecnico of Milan, the Universitá` Cattolica in Rome and its center Modacult and with the Universitá Roma Tor Vergata. Besides that, we coordinate the first department of Fine Arts in Cameroon. And the association is growing little by little. Like I mentioned, we are launching “Unseen Profiles,” the new project of the association—a platform to allow companies to have access to resumes from BAME candidates. It is the first platform of this kind, as previous ones really focused on promoting their talent, whereas this one is focused on professional development to also change the narrative. We have arrived at a moment in which we have to focus on people’s capacities rather than their ability to bring testimony. Many times people ask me to tell them my story. But I believe if we want to change the narrative we should focus on people’s knowledge and skills on what these designers are doing, in the same way we do with white designers in Italy. When other people are interviewed they ask them about their work. I wonder why at times people expect from me the story of the “The Little Match Girl,” as if I came from a migrant boat and should be a source of pity. That’s not my experience. I came from a mom and dad who work as teachers and I should not be written about as someone who instills pity in people. “Oh look she is black, but she is making it.” If we need to change the narrative we have to talk about BAME designers in Italy in the same ways we talk about other designers and concentrate on their work.

FP: Do you think there’s a certain paternalism in Italian society?

MN: Oh my God! I didn’t want to use that word, but yes, there is a lot of paternalism towards BAME people in Italy.

FP: Talking about their work, the designers included in the We Are Made in Italy fashion shows all seem to pay a great level of attention to both craftsmanship and textiles—which are touted as attributes of both “Made in Italy” and “African fashion”? Do you find this attention to craftsmanship and textiles to be a characteristic of Italian designers of African descent?

MN: Well, yes some of our backgrounds reside in the handmade and the focus on details. For example, in the particular case of Cameroon, which is the country that I know most, the textile industries and fashion production at the industrial level do not exist, so you have people who have to rely on the handmade and work with great care. “Everything has to be perfect!” It is a knowledge that we have shared for generations. My mom, when sewing something, does it again and again, five or six times, because everything has to be perfect. So there is this heritage of with the material. So you will see many of these designers working with materials, even though they don’t necessarily work with them by hand. An example of this is Joy Meribe, one of the designers of We Are Made in Italy, who now shows on her own—she, in fact, opened Milan Fashion Week in September.

FP: Is she the same designer whose work I saw at the Museum at FIT, who used hemp fibers to make dresses?

MN: No, that’s Claudia Giséle Ntsama! One thing you should know is that there are great achievements with We Are Made in Italy. Claudia not only had her work acquired by the Museum at FIT, but is also now working at the Maison Valentino, which is a perfect match for her. We have another designer, Karim Daoudi, who has been able to find investors to produce accessories with his own brand. And there is Joy Meribe, who, as I mentioned, is now working as a designer full time, and is showing as part of the official calendar of Milan fashion week. And another designer, Mokodu, has started to work in France and collaborate as a costume designer for films. So we have worked to make sure these designers enter the industry. Going back to Joy Meribe, who was born in Nigeria, she incorporates handmade embroidery and prints that represent what Africa means to her—which is not necessarily the Wax prints. For the last collection, it was prints of the village where she grew up. So it is thanks to their culture that they create a hybrid Made in Italy, because these designers bring a creativity coming from two cultures rather than one.

FP: So it’s about the promotion of a Made in Italy that is flexible and changes over time to incorporate the changing face of Italian society and as you say it’s not monocultural. Ultimately, the concept of Made in Italy itself is relatively new and a postwar phenomenon. But do you think fashion still circles around Milan? Do you think of Milan as a cosmopolitan city in terms of fashion?

MN: I might be biased, but for me, Milan is central. Compared to Paris or London (which are the two cities I visited the most in terms of fashion weeks), I believe Milan remains the most cosmopolitan city in terms of fashion, but it is not fully aware of this. If they could embrace this side, this cosmopolitanism, it could be even more central. Other cities have been smarter and have embraced it more.

FP: Right! Some years ago, a lot of U.S.-based critics wrote about how there were no new designers in Italy and it was always the same names that circulated, whereas Paris was more open to new designers, to diversity and more cosmopolitan. And perhaps the issue was that Milan didn’t embrace its pluricultural side.

MN: Yes, but let’s hope that now they have finally started. For instance, the city of Milan has asked us to take part in a new project and contribute a piece to the Museo delle Culture (Mudec) for their permanent exhibition, in which we talk about the new Milan. So I drew the dress and asked a multi-ethnic lab to realize it to tell the story of Afro-Italians.

[1] BAME: A term primarily used in British English that stands for Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic.

I'm thrilled to announce the publication of the new book I edited, Fashion Criticism: An Anthology , due from Bloomsbury on February 25. The book anthologizes the wealth of writing on fashion from the late 1800s (it begins with an Oscar Wilde piece) through today. I'm particularly excited with the writers whose work we were able to include, among them today's great fashion critics (Robin Givhan, Judith Thurman, Guy Trebay, Vanessa Friedman, Lynn Yaeger, Suzy Menkes, etc), writers not always associated with fashion (Judith Thurman, Hilton Als, Angela Carter, Bebe Moore Campbell) and some wonderful surprises (including Susan Sontag and Eve Babitz, both originally writing for Vogue).

I will be in conversation with the New Yorker critic and writer Judith Thurman for the book launch on Wednesday, February 24th hosted (virtually) at 7pm EST by McNally Jackson.

The event is free and open to the public, but attendees must register in advance on the McNally Jackson website

This book started a while back (too long to mention!) after we dedicated the third issue of Fashion Projects to fashion criticism. I realized how overlooked the field still remained despite the wealth of writings on fashion in a range of publications. As Robin Givhan of The Washington Post—the only critic to win a Pulitzer prize for fashion criticism— succinctly put it, fashion criticism is “a victim of terrible sexism,” which comes from “both men and women.”

by Tzuni Lopez Montgomery

Dr. Jonathan M. Square is a historian whose work devotes a pronounced attention to the sartorial practices of enslaved subjects. His long-term digital archival project, Fashioning the Self in Slavery and Freedom, appears on Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter, and YouTube, and has prompted the development of two limited run magazines of the same title and two conferences called “Fashioning the Black Body in Bondage and Freedom” (2017) and “Community Curating: Stitching Together the History of a People” (2017). He is currently a faculty member at Harvard University where he has taught the classes “Black Beauty Culture,” “Black Visuality In the Digital Age,” and “Fashion and Slavery,” and was formerly a faculty member at Parsons School of Design where he taught the class “Fashion and Justice.”  He has curated three shows on Harvard University’s campus including Odalisque Atlas: White History as Told through Art (2019), Freedom from Truth: Self-Portraits of Nell Painter (2019), and Slavery in the Hands of Harvard (2019).

We met on ZOOM, as this interview occurred during COVID-19 social distancing restrictions while I was in Los Angeles, CA and he was in Brooklyn, NY.

FP: Can you maybe speak to Fashioning the Self for people who are unfamiliar with the project? 

JMS: So I founded and edit the digital humanities project Fashioning the Self in Slavery and Freedom. It’s a curated platform that explores the intersection between slavery in the fashion system, and I use a variety of social media platforms. The project so far has amassed close to eleven thousand followers just on its Facebook. On Instagram it’s about seven thousand. And the followers are academics, curators, costume designers, artists, and also just interested laypersons. 

FP: How did you develop this to begin with?

JMS: Well, the reason why it’s expanded so much is because the project initially just started with me sharing a lot of archival images of enslaved or formerly enslaved people. And I felt like I was cheating, I felt like I was just taking information that other people had created in the past and just sort of building a platform based on that. And I wanted to create original content. And that was the impetus behind the magazines. So not only do I want to share knowledge that’s already created, but I want to create my own knowledge and share it with the public.

It started while I was doing the PhD at New York University. I actually, in a weird way, fashioned myself into a fashion scholar while I was doing the PhD. By the time I finished, I was identifying with the field of fashion studies. And the project, Fashioning the Self in Slavery and Freedom, was actually an outgrowth of a course that I created. And when I created this course, I also created a Facebook page for the course as a way for students to engage with the course material outside of class using social media. And the course was cancelled because of low enrollment. But I had already set up the Facebook page. And I was like, “You know what? I’m going teach the class anyway using social media.”

FP: It’s more accessible in that way then, that’s great.

JMS: I felt sort of empowered by social media in a way that I don’t think would have been possible a decade ago. And also, when I teach, I like for there always to be some sort of outward facing component. I teach a class called “Black Beauty Culture” and in that class, for two semesters in a row, students created an online magazine. And I’ve often had my students curate pop-up exhibitions for a class. So, I’m always trying to include some sort of element that’s facing outward.

FP: I love the idea of teaching pedagogy being the starting point. Do you feel like the mold that you created originally for the Facebook page—that has now existed on so many other surfaces—has retained that same class oriented structure?

JMS: Absolutely. I feel like at the end of the day, over anything else, I identify as an educator. And even at times when I identify as a writer or a curator, I think the point of my writing and the point of my curation—or any of my creative pursuits—is to educate. So that’s always sort of the core of what I’m doing.

FP: Speaking of curation, can you maybe speak a bit more about the curatorial projects you’ve brought to life?

JMS: So last year I curated two shows that were on Harvard’s campus. One was called Slavery in the Hands of Harvard. And in that show I paired archival materials and documents that are in Harvard’s permanent collection, and I paired it with contemporary art. And the archival materials and documents that I chose sort of touched on Harvard’s connection to slavery. And I chose contemporary art pieces by artists whose work grappled with the legacy of slavery in some respect. So it wasn’t so much a fashion exhibition, even though there were elements of fashion theory in the show, if that makes sense. I also curated two solo shows of the work of a historian now artist—Neil Irvin Painter.

FP: So your primary historical focus tends to orient around fashion, and a lot of these large-scale institutions don’t tend to preserve fashion to the same extent. What history do you feel has been lost on account of the de-prioritization of fashion within those spheres?

JMS: Yeah, it’s interesting, Harvard has no fashion collection that I know of. And for students at Harvard that are interested in fashion, they actually suffer a little bit, because there’s really no place for them. They end up either doing art history or a humanities major. But it’s a shame because fashion is a key component to understanding history. And in my particular case, it’s a key component to understanding the history of slavery. And I feel like if you don’t consider the genesis of the fashion system—and in particular, the growth of the ready-made clothing industry—then you’re missing really important information about the development of slavery and its relationship to global capitalism.

People focus on slavery in academia. There’s a robust group of scholars who specialize in the history of slavery in American universities, but there’s less focus on fashion outside of art schools or fashion schools. And I think what’s lost is individuals. It’s easy—and I have to say, I’m really guilty of this too—to focus on structures, to focus on the economy, to focus on the government, to focus on networks of capital, and forget about human beings. But you know, slavery was a system that was made up of individuals with unique personalities who woke up and got dressed every morning. Enslaved people rarely had access to the press or to governmental bodies, but they had access to their own bodies and how they styled their bodies. And so I think there’s a lot of political information that’s encoded in how enslaved people dress themselves.

I feel like anything associated with the body is seen as base within academia. So if you study intellectual history, you know, you’re an economist or a political scientist, or a philosopher, anything about the “life of the mind.” Anything lofty, that’s considered worthy of academic inquiry. Anything associated with the human body is considered base, even though the mind is part of the body. Things like food studies or fashion studies get sidelined because they are considered effects of the economy. Fashion is just an effect of capitalism, they think. Fashion is just an effect of regime change, they say. Instead of it being in dialogue with each other—like fashion is shaping the economy. Food is shaping governmental regimes. Like it’s a dialogue, it’s not just a governmental imposition. So I think, yeah, the focus on fashion reorients the conversation by saying that it’s actually central to understanding something like slavery. Because if you’re not considering the genesis of the fashion system, then you’re not really understanding the history of slavery because fashion, to this day, is based in coerced labor.

FP: Do you feel like that’s the case within the curatorial context as well? Has there been much attention devoted to visually representing the enslaved experience within an exhibition space?

JMS: Ooh, that’s a tricky question. It’s tricky because pieces worn by enslaved people—there’s very few surviving pieces in fashion collections. I probably know of all of them.

 FP: Really? 

JMS: It’s probably, like, thirty-something pieces spread out throughout the entire country. Because, I mean, for most enslaved peoples, clothing was used for utilitarian purposes. And of course they had special pieces that they wore on Sundays, or on holidays, or on time off—but those pieces weren’t preserved in fashion collections. So to have a fashion exhibition of clothing worn by enslaved people would take a lot of effort. I would love to do it. Honestly, I think a lot of pieces—I mean, you would have to be very careful. They wouldn’t be able to be put on mannequins because they’re just too delicate. But I think what you can do is recreate pieces worn by enslaved people.

FP: You’ve previously said that a large part of your fashion interests is predicated on the fact that “fashion is one of the few arenas in which slaves could possibly exert a modicum of control.” If you’re utilizing the historical documents of the oppressor, as many collections tend to prioritize this point of view in the objects they’ve acquired, how do you manage to empower the viewpoint of the enslaved person? Especially when you don’t have access to sartorial material?

JMS: Yeah, I really like this question. I feel it lies at the crux of me as a scholar. It’s my daily struggle. Because, you know, I literally think about the experience of enslaved people on a daily basis. But, you know, most of the time, I don’t have access to any written testimonies or interviews with these enslaved peoples. And all we have is images—rarely a garment—so I have to grasp for straws. But I also think there’s a lot of opportunity in that, instead of thinking of it as a problem. I think it’s actually generative. So I try to let the objects speak for themselves. For example, in the Zealy daguerreotypes, there’s a lot of information that you can glean just from looking at the eyes of the sitters. Because the enslaved subjects of Zealy’s daguerreotypes weren’t able to leave any written testimony about their lives, you have to really do some critical seeing and close visual analysis, which is at the heart of what I do. But your question is really important, and I think a lot of scholars of slavery think often, about this question of agency, and resurrecting the stories of enslaved people. It’s something I try to do in my work, not just in my curation but in my writing, in my teaching, on Fashioning the Self.

FP: Within your Slavery in the Hands of Harvard show, you were using the university’s own collection, and needing to work through their own framework and the things that they prioritize. But you were able to create this reflective environment, where it was able to shine the mirror back onto the institution itself using its own objects. Can you maybe speak to that reflective process a bit and talk about how you chose the specific objects that you chose to showcase there?

JMS: Well, my process for curating the exhibition, I had two means of doing that. One was my own research. The other was my own reading on the topic and really important conversations.

So, in terms of with my own research, I did a lot of readings on the Zealy daguerreotypes, which were a series of photos that were taken of enslaved men and women on a South Carolina plantation. They were commissioned by a Harvard professor named Louis Agassiz. He hired a photographer who was based in Columbia, South Carolina whose name was Joseph T. Zealy. And Joseph T. Zealy photographed these enslaved peoples and sent them to Louis Agassiz, and Louis Agassiz essentially used them to back up his racist ideas about how, people of African descent were inferior. And they were archived at Harvard, and they were essentially forgotten about for decades. And they were found in an attic in the 1970s. And since the 1970s they’ve been the source of a lot of scholarship on visual culture and slavery.

And also I just had a lot of really powerful conversations with scholars and artists; so for instance, I spoke with the artist Nona Faustine, and we were talking about the Zealy daguerreotypes. And she told me, “you know, I read a book called Delia’s Tears, which is about one of the enslaved women who was photographed by Joseph T. Zealy. That was one of the inspirations for the series that I did.” So, I included one of her pieces in the show

I did a studio visit with the artist named Noel Anderson. And I told him, “You know, I’m curating this show on Harvard’s connection to slavery. Do you have anything that might work for this show?” He said, “I don’t, but I have an idea for a piece I can create.” He created this piece titled “Henry/Renty” for the exhibition. On July 16, 2009, Harvard University professor Henry Louis Gates was arrested at his Cambridge home by police officer James Crowley, who was responding to a 9-1-1 caller’s report of men breaking and entering the residence. Gates was arrested for disorderly conduct, charges which were later dropped. The arrest sparked a national debate about the persistence of racial profiling, regardless of age, educational attainment, or prominence within scholarly communities. Anderson took this incident as a point of departure for this piece that explores power and control of the photographic image vis-à-vis black men. Though over a century and a half apart, the piece exposes continuities in discrimination in the African American experience.

I also spoke with a scholar named Caitlin DeAngelis Hopkins—who at the time was the Harvard and Slavery fellow—Harvard has since defunded this program, unfortunately, but I think they’re probably going to put more funds in it now given the conversations about race and representation that are happening. I think there’s more impetus around studying this connection. But at the time, they had a fellow, whose sole purpose was to study the University’s connection to slavery. And I met with her several times, and she actually told me about a lot of things that I didn’t even know about, even though I’d done a lot of research on the University’s connection to slavery. So for instance, she told me about the tuition bill that was paid for with sugar in the 18th century—and I actually hadn’t known about that document. So, I actually included a reproduction of that document in the exhibition, and I paired it with a reproduction of Kara Walker’s Sugar Baby installation.

I also created a piece, an artwork in the show, and I took my diplomas, and I painted over them. So, I had a conversation with myself (laughs) for the exhibition.

FP: I love the idea of curator as artist as well, and so the fact that you inserted yourself into this actual exhibition through your own work: what was that experience like? 

JMS: I’m not a trained curator. I’m an academic. So, my method of curation is very unorthodox in a lot of ways—I just sort of do it organically. But I’m also a creative person, and so, I don’t know, one day—I’ve always held on to my diplomas. Not because I have some sort of attachment to them, but just because it’s something that you’re supposed to do—I don’t really care about it, it’s just a piece of paper to me. It’s the process of doing the work to get the diploma that meant more to me than the actual diploma. But I’ve held on to them, they’ve gone from apartment to apartment in a little sleeve. And I slid them under my bed. And I was just sitting there, reflecting on being an African American man, having three degrees, being a professor, and knowing that these universities have this problematic history that they’re not really grappling with in any substantive way. One day I just pulled them out and started painting over them and I created these pieces. And I actually tried to draw a connection between diplomas and freedom papers carried by enslaved peoples.

FP: I feel like that carries such a strong affective nature, especially when considering who would be coming in contact with the work at an institution of higher education.

JMS: It’s funny, people were horrified when I would give tours of the exhibition and I’d say “I actually created this piece, and these are my diplomas I’ve painted over.” They’d ask me if they were copies. I would tell them that they were my actual diplomas to their chagrin.

FP: I love that. I feel like people apply a weird sanctity to them even though it’s really about the knowledge you gain from an institution rather than having the evidence that you’ve gone through the curriculum. Well with the conversations that are erupting on the mainstream on account of the Black Lives Matter movement about contemporary structures like the prison industrial complex, how do you see sartorial codes of resistance being represented in our contemporary moment?

JMS: Yeah, it’s interesting, because I feel Black lives are trending right now. But they’re not trending—, they’ve always been trending for me. It’s not a new thing. You know, every day is Juneteenth on Fashioning the Self. I’ve been doing these posts before this current moment; I’ll continue doing these posts after Black lives aren’t trending. When the novelty wears off. But I have to say that one thing that I’ve noticed is that I’ve gotten greater visibility. And that people are listening closer. So it’s sort of forced me to take my role as an educator and public intellectual more seriously.

[In regards to sartorial codes,] I see two things happening. I’m seeing some Black Americans retreating to what might be called respectability politics. So, for instance … in Omaha, Nebraska there was a march staged and several Black men in suits led the march. And part of me thinks that’s problematic because being a Black feminist, I actually think it’s Black women who have led the charge in most radical movements. So I kind of took umbrage with these Black men wearing suits and sort of leading the charge … suits won’t protect you from bullets. I feel like that lesson has been learned decades ago … I understand where they’re coming from; you have these ideas about Black men and we’re going to counteract that by wearing the suit which has long been associated with cis het maleness and respectability. So I get the impulse to do that, but I just don’t think—and it’s long been proven—that it’s not effective. Wearing a suit is not going to protect you from state sanctioned violence. And then, of course, I think on the other side, I think people are sort of leaning into their Blackness. And embracing the sartorial ingenuity of the African diaspora, whether it’s wearing prints that reflect African heritage in some respect, or wearing head wraps, or wearing something that’s a visual cue to African pride or African diasporic pride. So I see two sides, two sort of camps that are developing. 

FP: Do you have any new plans on account of the “new COVID world” where a lot of life is more enmeshed in the digital realm?

JMS: You’ve probably noticed that I’m very active on social media. And I’ve always been a big proponent of digital humanities projects. I think I’m almost like a higher education abolitionist if that makes sense. I want to democratize higher education, I think it should be accessible to everyone. I hate that people don’t go to school because it’s costly. I think that’s a shame. And I try to share the information that I have in my classes and make it available online. For example, if you go to my website, most of my syllabi are web based, and you can see what I teach in my classes, and you can click on the links and be sent to the readings. So you can almost take the class yourself if you want to. So I’m really trying to radicalize my pedagogical practice. And I think social media is really instrumental in that. But also, it’s a double-edged sword, I have to be honest. I think social media doesn’t always lend itself to thoughtful reflection and critical analysis. I am an aesthete. I’m a visual person, like I’m a material person. So I get—I get Instagram. I get Facebook, but what frustrates me about it is that everything has to be driven by a compelling image. And in the case of enslaved people, sometimes there’s some amazing stories, but sometimes there just isn’t that beautiful, compelling image to go along with it. And so, you know, there’s been times when I’ve worked really hard on a post or a YouTube video, but it wasn’t attached to an object or an image, and it just didn’t get the traction just because there wasn’t that visual element.

I’m really into radical approaches to higher education and expanding the conversation. I’m inspired by other academics, but I’m also inspired by artists, and I’m inspired by curators. I feel social media lends itself to those kind of conversations in a way that higher education doesn’t. I’ve been taking my IG Lives and posting them on YouTube in an attempt to create my own stand-alone institution.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Because, you know, I really love the idea of working for myself. And, I mean, honestly—in a world capitalist system, there really is no such thing as working for yourself. But, you know, a lot of these institutions are problematic in some way—and for a number of reasons, I’ve questioned being affiliated with them or being attached to them. And sometimes I feel more comfortable being attached to a platform like Facebook, or Google, or YouTube. Even though they’re problematic too. They’re problematic. But I don’t come face to face with it the way I do in institutions. So I’ve been really interested in building a more robust online presence.

The exhibition “Otherworldly: Performance, Costume and Difference,” which I co-curated with Charlene K. Lau, is currently on view at Parsons’s Aronson Gallery at 66 Fifth Avenue. The exhibition brings together costume and documentation of performances by Machine Dazzle, Narcissister and Rammellzee.

The opening reception is Thursday, November 21st, 6-8pm. The exhibition is part of the Performa 19 Biennial and was made possible with generous support from the Coby Foundation, the School of Art and Design History and Theory, the MA Fashion Studies and the Sheila C. Johnson Design Center.

“Otherworldly: Performance, Costume and Difference” examines the political work at the intersections of costume, fashion and performance produced by three artists: Machine Dazzle, Narcissister and Rammellzee. 

These New York-based artists work and have worked at the convergence of disciplines, giving birth to new personas through the act of extreme self-fashioning, masking and renaming themselves. The alternative worlds they have created collapse the division between performance and performativity, art and life, real and make-believe. Their work plays off the notion of the Gesamtkunstwerk (total work of art), in which disciplinary borders between fashion, art, performance, theater, dance and music merge to generate a unitary work. Such collaboration is a visual manifestation of politically- and socially-engaged practice, where difference—whether cultural, racial, gender, sexual or otherwise—is upheld. The artists in this exhibition construct their own worlds whereby they can realize and negotiate non-normative identities and perform Otherness. In this sense, “world-making” is political and presents alternatives and possibilities for new utopias.

Machine Dazzle is an artist known for his creation of elaborate costumes (for genderqueer playwright and performer Taylor Mac, among others). He crosses borders of design, music and performance on and off the stage. His maximalist creations speak to notions of camp and drag queen culture to create, in Hilton Als’s words, “a new kind of surrealism.”

Narcissister is an artist and performer who troubles fixed identities while engaging her culturally and racially hybrid self through the use of masks and elaborate costumes. Using grotesque humor, she challenges racial and gender archetypes and stereotypes in her graphic performances.

Rammellzee was a prominent figure in the New York Street Art scene in the 1980s alongside Basquiat and Keith Haring. The American artist is known for his graffiti and mixed-media sculptures, as well as a pioneer of early Hip Hop, recording Beat Bop with K-Rob in 1983. 

Join us for a panel on fashion curation Saturday, March 9th from 2-5pm at Parsons School of Design (65 West 11th Street Room B500, New York, NY 10011). The panel celebrates Hazel Clark and Annamari Vänskä's highly recommended book Fashion Curating (Bloomsbury, 2018) and the new issue of Fashion Projects, which covers the same topic.

The panelists are:

Marco Pecorari, Ph.D. Assistant Professor and Program Director, MA Fashion Studies, Parsons Paris 
Sarah Scaturro, Head Conservator, The Costume Institute, The Metropolitan Museum of Art
Simona Segre Reinach, Associate Professor of Fashion Studies, Bologna University
Karen van Godtsenhoven, Associate Curator, The Costume Institute, The Metropolitan Museum of Art
Annamari Vänskä, Ph.D. Adjunct Professor of Fashion Research, Department of Design, Aalto University 

Moderated by: 

Hazel Clark, Ph.D., FRSA, Professor of Fashion Studies and Design Studies, Parsons School of Design
Francesca Granata, Ph.D., Assistant Professor of Fashion Studies, Parsons School of Design; editor of Fashion Projects

Thank you to Valerie Steele and Tanya Melendez for letting us coordinate the event with the Museum at FIT “Exhibiting Fashion” Symposium on Friday, March 8th

Kaat Debo is the director of the ModeMuseum (MoMu) in Antwerp, Belgium. She has worked at MoMu since the museum’s establishment in the early ’00s, curating Patterns (2003), Beyond Desire (2005), Unravel: Knitwear In Fashion (2011), and Madame Grès: Sculptural Fashion (2012), among other exhibitions. Through the years, MoMu has developed deep connections with the local fashion scene, playing a key role in establishing and shaping a local fashion identity. Debo has collaborated with several contemporary Belgian and Antwerp–educated designers on critically acclaimed solo exhibitions, including Bernard Wilhelm: Het Totaalt Rappel (2007), Maison Martin Margiela: ‘20’ The Exhibition (2008), and Walter van Beirendonck: Dream The World Awake (2011).

I interviewed Debo at MoMu’s offices in Antwerp’s Mode Natie complex, which, alongside the museum, houses archives, a library, and the offices of the Flanders Fashion Institute.

Fashion Projects: You did not study fashion. How did you get into fashion curation?

Kaat Debo: By accident. I studied literature and philosophy. One of the reasons why I didn’t study fashion theory or fashion studies is that it just doesn’t exist in Belgium. And 20 years ago, fashion curation wasn’t taught in London or the United States, either. My first love was actually theater. I worked for two years on a Ph.D. at University of Antwerp in the Theater Studies department, then I realized that pure research wasn’t my cup of tea.

After that, the story is quite simple: I saw an ad in the newspaper that said they were looking for a curator for the newly opened fashion museum. I applied and somehow I clicked with Linda Loppa, who was then the director. She decided to hire me despite the fact that I didn’t have any experience in the museum field or in fashion curation. So I learned by doing it. At the time, Linda didn’t have experience in the museum world, either. She had been the director of the fashion department at the Royal Academy in Antwerp and director of the Flanders Fashion Institute.

Maybe we were a little bit naïve, but we took the liberty to experiment. We also made a lot of mistakes, but you learn a lot from mistakes. For me personally, the connection was that I specialized in contemporary dance and the body is central in dance just like it is in fashion. Also, the feeling of immediacy exists in both fields. So I felt that my background in theater studies really helped me with fashion curation.

FP: You’ve been at MoMu since 2001. How has the field of fashion curation evolved since then?

KD: It has evolved a lot. When I started, fashion was not very popular in museums. It wasn’t a priority for large institutions. If you look at the Metropolitan [Museum of Art] now, fashion exhibitions bring in a lot of money. Back then, fashion exhibitions there were mounted in small galleries and put together with small budgets. There was research, but little attention was given to the way the clothing was presented, exhibited, mounted on mannequins. I think what was missing was the idea that it is very complex to display fashion in a museum. Fashion is not designed for a museum, nor for static display.

In the past 15 to 20 years, a lot of attention has been paid to exactly that issue: how to maintain the dynamics of fashion within the museum context. There’s also a lot of theoretical reflection on fashion curation now, which didn’t exist 20 years ago. That’s very important for the sérieux in the field and also very exciting, because there is no right or wrong way to display fashion. It’s exciting to see how different curators approach their practice.

FP: Here at MoMu, you have a very collaborative approach. You’ve also done quite a few exhibitions with living designers, which of course facilitates this kind of approach. Can you tell me a bit about your experience with collaborations?

KD: It was a very natural thing for Linda and I to do because fashion is a collaborative field. Fashion is teamwork, it relies heavily on networks. Fashion designers work with stylists, photographers, graphic designers, art directors, musicians…. Fashion is very open to other creative fields. That’s what I love about fashion: the openness.

We saw the possibility of collaborating with living designers as a privilege. You can’t necessarily do it when you work with historical work—you can’t ask Rubens what he thinks of an exhibition! It’s also to make sure that the story the exhibition tells is visually as strong as the original story. When we did the exhibition on Dries van Noten, for instance, he designed the different rooms and created the show’s Baroque atmosphere.

It works best when the designer is willing to begin from your research in order to create something three-dimensional and visually appealing. I think some curators are afraid of collaborating with designers because it’s not always easy. It’s about finding a balance and gaining their trust. Of course, they have to be open to your research, which often contextualizes and analyzes their work. Sometimes I feel a little bit like a psychologist! Another aspect is that designers often work with the same team of people for years, people they trust and who understand their vision. So it’s key to involve the designers’ own networks, as well.

FP: It seems like you’re integrating the openness you see in fashion in your approach to curation. I’m thinking, for example, of the Margiela retrospective, where you translated the trompe-l'œil technique he’s known for into the set design and the structure of the museum itself.

KD: Fashion for me is not only about collections, with the garment as the end result. Certain curators or museums have this approach to fashion, which I think is perfectly valid. But I see fashion as much more than garments or collections. It’s also about how they are communicated and presented. There’s a whole world around the collections. In the past years we have also witnessed a shift away from garments and towards accessories and perfumes, so the clothing is no longer necessarily at the center of the creative process for many fashion houses. That’s something that I don’t want to ignore. If you want to present a designer’s vision you need to include all these aspects.

We have worked with Margiela again for Spring 2017 exhibition dedicated to his work for Hermès. And again, it’s about so much more than the garments. It’s about his vision of luxury. It’s about tactility, the body, and comfort. Of course, we show that through the garments, as well. So I think my approach is holistic.

FP: You’ve mentioned the idea of tactility in Margiela’s work. I know that you have a collection of ephemera and a “study collection” that is accessible through the museum’s library. It seems like you’re paying a lot of attention to fashion’s materiality, which is even more interesting given how important the digital has become.

KD: Absolutely. The study collection is something new. We launched it a couple of months ago. We think it’s important for designers, students, curators, and anyone interested in fashion to interact physically with the garments. Often it’s only through touch, smell or by looking at the inside structure of a garment that you really come to understand certain things. You can’t study fashion history only through books. A lot of big museums are not opening their collections to young researchers—I understand why, it’s very time-consuming and you need people to be there. That’s why we started the study collection. You have to make an appointment, but it’s easily accessible through our library. We have 1,000 objects, both historical and contemporary, and we’re still building it up.

Within an exhibition it is much more complex to deal with tactility. It’s something that often frustrates me, because people can’t really touch the objects. We once did an exhibition on Yohji Yamamoto and the concept behind the exhibition was “the shop.” In the middle of the exhibition, we had actual fitting rooms and there were people who helped you try on garments. Visitors could then really understand the Japanese concept of ma, the space between the body and the garment, and see how you could wear the garments in different ways.

For the exhibition on Hermès, tactility is also central. Comfort lies in the materials: in the high-quality cashmere, wool, silk, leather. You can see how exquisite the materials are when you look at the garments on mannequins. You can tell they are beautifully made garments, but they also look very simple because it’s all about essential cuts in great materials. That’s very hard to communicate. You can do it in writing, but I think the writing in an exhibition should support the visual display. The visual display alone should already tell you a lot. You can have fabric samples, but again, it’s not the same.

I think in this sense fashion curation is also about solving a lot of practical issues. For examples when it comes to mannequins, we wanted to show the Hermès clothes in a dynamic way. Martin [Margiela] wanted mannequins that could put their hands in their pockets, so we had to develop and order arms with flexible wrists. We work a lot on decisions like these. We are very experienced in the mannequinage, which is the mounting of mannequins. I think that if that’s not done right, the final result might end up looking laughable.

FP: Going back to the idea of tactility in relation to the digital turn, I saw the interactive wall downstairs. It’s a huge touch-screen wall that allows you to browse the museum’s archives by keyword, designer and year. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Could you tell me more about your thoughts on the role of digital technologies in fashion curation?

KD: For me, the digital is one of the key issues in the future of curation. We’ve been working on digital strategies for two years. The digital realm offers a whole new way of thinking about the museum. But I think the digital world is not going to replace the physical museum exhibition. It’s about finding a balance. The development of digital technologies moves so fast, and constantly. On the other hand, museums move at a much slower rhythm. So I want to find a way to combine those two rhythms: that of the museum, so that people have the opportunity to look at an object for ten minutes or two hours, to learn how to look at something in depth; and that of the digital, which offers new ways of curating our objects. There are endless possibilities. For me, the issue is to make choices that are relevant.

Other kinds of museums use digital technologies in a very interesting way, but I haven’t seen it used in fashion museums in very inspiring, enriching ways. We also have to engage with digital technologies in order to appeal to younger audiences. Which shouldn’t mean that we offer digital content like you do on Instagram, but that you try to bring them into the museum and its rhythm. This is challenging for younger audiences, because they’re exposed to this constant superficial feed of images. We want to teach them how to look at a single object, to go deeper in that object or in the work of a single designer, and to make connections between that designer’s work and previous eras in fashion history or between fashion and other disciplines.

FP: I had a conversation with [Met conservator] Sarah Scaturro a couple of years ago, and she mentioned the possibility of acquiring the code of an Iris van Herpen’s 3-D printed dress. What are your thoughts on collecting and curating digital artifacts?

KD: Yes, I know that the Metropolitan was considering acquiring the algorithm of one of her dresses. But it’s like asking a designer to give you a pattern.

FP: Which reminds me, you’re the only museum to have done an exhibition on patterns.

KD: Yes, in 2003 and that’s also the one exhibition I wish I could do again. I love patterns, I think they’re beautiful artifacts. They tell a lot about a designer’s philosophy and the garment itself. But at the time, our network wasn’t big enough and we didn’t get a lot of designers we wanted. So we should maybe give it a second try. But it’s quite tricky. For example, Veronique Branquinho recently donated her entire archive and patterns to us, but we had to negotiate an agreement that states that we are not allowed to show patterns to a third party without her written consent until after her death. Patterns are like a recipe—like asking a chef to reveal their secret ingredient. These days it’s not an unusual request considering how much is shared, or that we have open source softwares and so on.

We have also been collecting videos of fashion shows and fashion films for a long time, but it has become difficult for a fashion museum to collect all these digital artifacts because the pace of production has accelerated so much. Designers create extra digital content almost every week, be it behind-the-scenes, fashion shows or interviews, and post it on social media. Fifteen to 20 years ago we collected press clippings and we had a degree of control in that sense, but now it’s impossible to collect all these digital artifacts. You’d need a team of people who only do that.

FP: From your collaborative approach and collection policies it is clear that MoMu has a strong connection with the city of Antwerp and the Belgian fashion scene. How do you see the relationship between fashion museums and the industry? How has it evolved?

KD: When it comes to collaboration and sponsorship, it’s something that we negotiate differently for every exhibition. The first thing we always do is discuss our curatorial approach with the designer, the management team, or the fashion house. We try to have an open conversation about how we can collaborate together. We are very clear that, at the end of the day, it is MoMu that has the last say. So we curate the show, but often involve designers as co-curators. What we don’t do is include objects for commercial purposes. In our case it’s easier than for larger institutions in London or New York, because Belgian brands are too small to sponsor a show, so it’s never happened that a designer could afford to pay for his or her exhibition. If a fashion house is paying for an exhibition, there’s a different power relationship. Then again, just because designers don’t pay for it, it doesn’t mean that you don’t have these kinds of conversations anyway. It is still about achieving a balance between what you want and what they want.

I personally don’t mind if a designer translates our research into a three-dimensional display, as long as the core of your research isn’t touched. If you want to know if it’s okay for me that fashion houses pay for their exhibitions, the answer is that I don’t mind as long as you have that kind of conversation and a contract that states these conditions very clearly. Just to give you an example, we did an exhibition with the Belgian leather goods company Delvaux to celebrate their 180th anniversary. I didn’t mind doing an exhibition to celebrate their anniversary. Of course, I knew they would use the exhibition for their own marketing strategy, but it doesn’t mean that we have to adapt what’s on display for that reason.

FP: As the curator and director of a fashion museum, what do you think of the proliferation of fashion exhibitions across non-fashion museums and spaces?

KD: A lot of non-fashion institutions underestimate the work that goes into fashion curation. Fashion curation entails interpreting the body into a three-dimensional, static display. I’ve seen a lot of museums and galleries that have done fashion exhibitions because it’s quite cheap. You don’t pay the same insurance you pay for art pieces. They also attract lots of visitors, so it’s quite good for marketing purposes. However, often they settle for the cheap mannequins and end up with mannequins that have completely wrong body shapes, with big breasts or short trunks. A good mannequin, which unfortunately is quite expensive, has correct measurements and proportions.

Last year, the Musée des Beaux Arts in Brussels did its first fashion exhibition, which I consulted for. The first thing I told them was that they needed to make sure they had good mannequins. We loaned them some of ours, but they had many looks so they ended up buying 40 or 50 new mannequins. They went for the cheap ones. Imagine a look by Ann Demeulemeester, which is designed for an androgynous figure, on a mannequin with big breasts. The clothes didn’t fit and those mannequins were too short, so the clothing looked horrible. The designers were furious.

The cheap mannequins also had faces that weren’t particularly nice, but they only discovered that after unpacking them, which they did only two weeks before the show. You need more time. It’s not like hanging a painting on the wall. Sometimes we work on fitting a single dress on a mannequin for days. Anyway, they ended up covering the mannequins’ faces with plastic bags. It looked quite strange.

Many designers have a body type and for Belgians it is usually an androgynous body for both menswear and womenswear. You have to think about that. You can put a garment on a body in 1,000 different ways and all these different modes of display communicate different things to an audience. That requires experience, which a lot of these institutions just don’t have.

I think it’s disrespectful to designers to show their garments in ways that do not communicate their vision correctly. That doesn’t mean that I’m not open to different ways of curating. I’m aware that we curate in a different way than the Metropolitan, the Galliera, the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, or the V&A. I think it’s enriching to see how different institutions curate in different ways.

FP: I generally find the proliferation of curation, or perhaps of “the curatorial,” quite interesting, especially when it happens outside of museums. For example, with a platform like Pinterest it seems like everyone can become a curator, in a way.

KD: The whole concept of co-curating with the audience is a very fashionable one. It’s something that we are thinking about: are we going to embrace it and how far are we going to go with this? I can imagine asking visitors to share images of a piece on display that they happen to own, to understand how they wear it and combine it with other garments. But again, the challenge is to understand if it’s relevant or if it’s just going to be another stream of images that doesn’t add anything to the conversation.

FP: You’ve already taken a step in that direction with the Margiela exhibition, where you asked a long-time collector to show how she wore the pieces. That’s a relevant way of communicating designer fashion to an audience that isn’t necessarily familiar with it.

KD: I really like the idea of wardrobes and people’s personal stories, how people combine clothes and how they live with them on a daily basis. We did that for the Margiela exhibition because for me it was important to show that his work is not just designed for the catwalk, but it is ready-to-wear produced and sold in shops. With other designers you have showpieces that are never going to be produced and sold. Perhaps 80 percent of the collection is just for the runway and what you see in stores is completely different. That’s why I insisted that we show this is not the case for Margiela. That’s why I wanted to include people’s wardrobes in the exhibition. People need to understand that this kind of clothing is actually worn.

Alex Esculapio is a fashion writer and PhD candidate and lecturer at University of Brighton, UK. Alex’s doctoral thesis assesses the implications of the concept of emotional durability, a term that describes approaches to product design that aim to encourage, nurture and sustain long-term relationships between users and objects, for contemporary fashion practice and discourse.

Valerie Steele returns emails with superhero speed­—a hallmark of life’s true enthusiasts, so determined to avoid being bogged down by the little things—and signs off as “Val.” The first time this appeared in my Inbox, it felt as if Rei Kawakubo had invited me over for pie. The director and chief curator of New York’s Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology, Steele has authored more than 20 books (including The Corset: A Cultural History and Fetish: Fashion, Sex & Power) and launched fashion’s first scholarly journal, Fashion Theory. She is the mastermind behind many of the most important costume exhibits since the 1990s, including “Paris Fashion,” “Gothic: Dark Glamour,” and the recent “Proust’s Muse, The Countess Greffulhe.” Slight and elegant in black, she exudes a clarity and intellectual enthusiasm that explain her success and her lack of pretense. She has been described as “the Freud of fashion” and “a chick wonk with a hearty laugh.” Both are eminently true.

We met at F.I.T.’s Chelsea campus inside Steele’s office, a simple, book-lined room that has played host to some truly grand ideas.

Fashion Projects: When you were a Ph.D. student at Yale, you were studying fashion when basically nobody else was doing so. What did you imagine you would be doing at this stage of your career?

Valerie Steele: Most people in graduate school then assumed that they would become professors. I was convinced that fashion was a valid topic, so I just sort of plunged ahead. And I was somewhat surprised to realize it just wasn’t possible to get a real teaching job with this kind of specialization.

FP: But you ended up at F.I.T.

VS: I was an adjunct here for 11 years. I was also an adjunct at Columbia and N.Y.U. and Parsons and Cornell. You name it.

FP: Had you done any curation when you started at the museum?

VS: I had done a little bit because I worked on a show about Barbie and fashion. And of course, I’d been teaching in what was then the Museum Studies, Costume and Textiles Department.

FP: So you knew your history, but what about the process of curation?

VS: Well, in some respects, the process of curation is like the same work you do for a book. You do research, you come up with a hypothesis, you test it. On the other hand, you’re telling a story with objects rather than with words and arguments. Although you’ll certainly have text—labels and wall text and probably a catalog—you really have to tell the story with objects, assuming that people are not going to read the text.

FP: Is there a trick to that?

VS: The organization of the objects is obviously important. The way you get them to speak to each other so that people looking at a group of objects begin to get a sense of what’s going on. The choice of objects and the arrangement of objects is the way you tell a story. It’s not a book on a wall. You’re conveying the message in another way.

FP: Through arrangement?

VS: Through choice and arrangement. I learned a lot from Fred Dennis about arranging and presenting objects. I also learned by looking at the work of other curators, particularly Judith Clark. Her “Malign Muses” show was a real epiphany for me; it was a new paradigm in presenting clothes. She studied architecture and had a very creative and novel approach to organization and presentation. It helped me create a much more theatrical ambiance. It had a real impact, for example, on “Gothic Dark Glamour.” I started seeing even more clearly the importance of creating a mise en scène, of actually having little vignettes that will help tell the story.

FP: You’ve said that “Gothic” is one of your favorite exhibitions. Why?

VS: It was a turning point. I wanted to explore how both [designers and goths] were responding to a whole history of literature, art, and music. For example, there was an open coffin with a vampire-like Thierry Mugler outfit and costumes from the film about Dracula—so you could get that vampirism was something that lead into this imagery of the gothic.

How do you build large sets and have them create a sort of feeling of claustrophobia, of paranoia? Of things about to disintegrate? I worked with a really good art director, Simon Costin, who worked a lot with Alexander McQueen. I’d say [to him], “Well I want you to try to present the ‘psychology in stone,’”—but, as it were, in cardboard. I definitely want a ruined castle. He came up with this idea of huge, disproportionate walls at angles that dwarfed the figures and then had the mannequins looking away from each other, so no one was relating. That was important. I told him I wanted a laboratory. He did this laboratory with rubber walls and faces pushing in through the walls like hallucinations. I said, “Can we do a graveyard?” And he came up with this fenced-in area where we had mannequins inside the fences, again to get the sense of despair, decay, paranoia, and claustrophobia.

FP: Recently, you have done a couple of shows featuring individual collections, specifically those of Daphne Guinness and Susanne Bartsch. What problems can arise when you work on this type of exhibition?

VS: The same ones as when you do a show about a living designer, who may have his or her own vision of how he or she wants to be seen.

Daphne was just pure heaven to work with. I was the one who pitched it to her and she was very modest and said, “Oh, no, no, I can’t have a show.” And then she came to see a show [at F.I.T.] and she turned to me and asked, “Are you serious about doing a show?” I said, “Yes. Look around. There are 80 dresses. You have 80 dresses don’t you, Sweetie?” She opened her closets here and in London.

Susanne pitched the show to me. Normally we don’t take outside shows, but schedules had changed and I needed something I could do quickly. I went to the Chelsea Hotel and she started pulling things out of boxes and out from under the bed. The more stuff she pulled out, the more excited I got.

She had a very clear vision of what she wanted in the show—for one thing, she wanted more. This is always a problem when you’re working with designers. Susanne was still smuggling stuff into the show the morning it was opening! She put accessories in paper bags and tried to smuggle them in. With Daphne, it was really easy—all I had to do when accessorizing was say, “No real diamonds!”

FP: Fashion has become a hot topic for exhibitions. What do you think about this emerging popularity?

VS: It’s great that people feel like they’re capable of understanding and appreciating fashion in a way that they sometimes feel intimidated by historical art, contemporary art, or even history shows. Everybody from toddlers to teenagers to old ladies—everybody feels like they can understand it.

On the downside, almost every curator feels like he or she is capable of doing a fashion show, regardless of how much or how little they know about fashion. I remember one person was doing a fashion exhibition and I said to her assistant, “What makes her feel that she can do this show?” Her assistant said, “Well…she wears fashion.” I said, “Well I go to contemporary art galleries, but I wouldn’t say that I could curate a contemporary art show.” And these shows can sometimes be sort of an array of pretty dresses. Literally, there was one [called] “50 Fabulous Frocks.” I’m thinking, Really, this is a show? This seems so idiotic.

FP: What impresses you about the world of fashion curation today?

VS: There are so many people who want to be curators. I remember a colleague of mine saying that one of her students wanted “to be Valerie Steele.” She just laughed and said, “That position is taken.” But people shouldn’t just wait and hope for a job at a museum.

All those years that I was an adjunct I had this little cartoon from The New Yorker that showed a guy escaping from a bank with a bag full of money. He stops to talk to a passerby and says, “I’m only doing this to support my writing.” For a lot of the adjunct work, I was saying, “Well I’m writing my books.”

Nowadays, you can create shows online. Judith Clark rented a teeny little space inside an office and started putting on amazing fashion exhibitions [in London]. Through that people started hiring her to do shows and organize museum collections. So you have to put yourself out there, you have to show what you can do.

FP: I’d imagine it’s very different today from when you started.

VS: Well, Mrs. Vreeland was doing theatrical things in the ’70s. They weren’t historically accurate, but they did move things away from a sort of antiquarian specialist interest into something that people could relate to as fashion.

Lisa Santandrea is a writer and fashion historian who teaches at Parsons School of Design. She currently runs the public workshop program at the Soho retail headquarters of The RealReal, the luxury consignment website. 

Harold Koda, the eminent curator of costume who recently retired from the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute, moved to New York in 1974 to study the art of the Ivory Coast. In a sudden change of events, he instead ended up interning at the Met with the ulterior motive of becoming the protégé of the Costume Institute’s legendary Diana Vreeland while immersing himself in the fabled New York of Halston and Martha Graham. But before encountering Vreeland, who was away during the off-season, Koda landed in a socialite “sewing bee,” beginning what would be a lifetime devotion to the study and care of dress. Later, he joined the Edward C. Blum Design Laboratory (now the Museum) at the Fashion Institute of Technology as Associate Curator, before returning to the Met’s Costume Institute, ultimately as Curator in Charge.

At both the Met and FIT, Koda curated together with Richard Martin, working on exhibitions that brought together the showmanship he had learned from Vreeland and the historical accuracy he acquired through his painstaking study of objects. As Curator in Charge of the Met’s Costume Institute from 2000 through 2016, he oversaw the meteoritic rise of relevance—both in terms of audience and scholarly import—of fashion exhibitions. His exhibitions at the museum included “Extreme Beauty: The Body Transformed” (2001), “Poiret: King of Fashion” (2007), and “Charles James: Beyond Fashion” (2014). He stewarded the Costume Institute through a time of significant growth punctuated by the renovation of its galleries and 2011’s watershed exhibition “Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty” (curated by Andrew Bolton). I spoke to Koda in the living room of his tasteful Park Avenue apartment, opera music playing softly in the background.

Fashion Projects: Why did you come to New York originally? You didn’t necessarily move here to work in fashion curation.

Harold Koda: My personal story is relatively eccentric and idiosyncratic in terms of what happens now, because the field was just not as developed and did not require certification or background. It was much more open-ended. I feel like I am the last person who got into the castle before the gates were pulled up and everybody had to be vetted.

I came to New York to study African and Oceanic art at the Institute of Fine Arts. But when I got there, they said, “Primitive art? Robert Goldwater [the primitive art specialist] died two years ago!” I changed my advisor to Colin Eisler, who is a Renaissance expert. So I switched to Renaissance art.

But something happened in my second year. My best friend and I were supposed to go to Saint Thomas. At the last minute, I bailed on her for all kinds of complicated reasons. And then the plane crashed. She died. So that precipitates a really….You know, I was in my early 20s. I had never lost anyone who was so close to me. The guilt, because my friend had just changed the flight to accommodate my schedule…but then I couldn’t go. It was a very complicated, emotional time. For a year, I was really in a state of deep depression but paired with a wild carpe diem audacity. I was so sad, but it made me impulsive. I decided I am not an academic. I am really not interested in all this stuff. I don’t like poring over Renaissance reliquary. What I care about is what life is now. For me, that meant Martha Graham sitting with Halston and Liza Minnelli and Elizabeth Taylor and Tennessee Williams all in the same place. That, for me, was what New York was about and what I should aspire to immerse myself in. But I am inherently a conservative person; I am lazy but calculating. So I decided to shift my museum internship, and I told [my advisor] that I wanted to intern with Diana Vreeland. He thought it meant that I wanted to become a curator at the Costume Institute. But in the back of my head, what I was really thinking was, “I am so gifted”—this was the 23-year-old me—“that Mrs. Vreeland will see my gifts and think, ‘My God this young man is the next Issey Miyake!’” That was my thinking. I was throwing myself in front of Diana Vreeland so she could discover me.

FP: So you started interning at the Met?

HK: Yes, but my internship surprised me. Because I had heard that it was [with] Mrs. Vreeland—but it was actually with a curator in charge of the department, Stella Blum, and a marvelous woman named Elizabeth Lawrence, who was in charge of conservation. I didn’t realize that once the December show opened, Mrs. Vreeland disappeared until the following fall. So I was there in the Spring and there was no Mrs. Vreeland, instead I worked for Elizabeth Lawrence. The Costume Institute was very, very different then. It was all of these privileged women—there were a few Jewish women, but really it was all social register, married. Not explicitly racist, but clearly there were parameters. The Jewish women who were there were the WASPiest women you could imagine. It was like a country club. As I remember it, there were almost 60 of them, doing the restoration.

FP: Were these volunteer positions?

HK: Completely volunteer.

FP: So these were well-to-do women?

HK: Yes. There was this one woman who was so elegant and she was known for the way she could iron. This is a woman who probably never saw the back part of her apartment. But she would take a turn-of-the-century petticoat—which would have six layers of handkerchief linen and each layer had multiple ruffles, but if you even moved the linen it would crease—and iron every ruffle. It would just be pristine. It was like an Ann Hamilton art piece.

FP: Did you feel you were an outsider?

HK: No. Everybody accepted me very quickly. Because there were so many women, they were split up into groups. It was like a sewing bee, so there were 13 or 15 people a day in this work room. Stella’s first assignment for me was to dress an 1880s dress. I had never taken any patternmaking or sewing classes, which I think is really important, but Liz [Lawrence] realized that I was good with my hand.

FP: So you started out with the installation and dressing of mannequins?

HK: I was a very hands-on person. That was before I met Mrs. Vreeland.

FP: What happened then?

HK: In the fall someone named Stephen de Pietri, who later became the first curator of the Saint Laurent archive, came in and saw me working and dressing. In a way that was very Stephen, he said, “You think you are going to get a job here? You’ll never get a job—they never hire anyone!” And then he left. I thought, “What an asshole!” He ended up being a really close friend. But soon, I was hired to work on a show: “The Glory of Russian Costume” [1976]. The only reason I got hired was that the Russian curators did not want volunteers touching their garments, so for the first time they needed someone who was actually working for the museum. That’s how I got my first job.

FP: What was it like working with Diana Vreeland?

HK: She was really at her peak with the “The Glory of Russian Costume.” In the mid-’70s, she was going full bore. She seemed ancient to me, but I realize I am older now than she probably was then. She was really visual. She was verbal in a kind of fun fashion language way, but she could not really say, “I would like you to do this.” Instead it was, “Empress Sisi had a Hungarian lover who was a gypsy and she would wear her hair down with him in a tight rope like the tail of a horse with a postilion….” What!? The most fun part was that she would describe a mood or idea and then you had to actually materialize it into something.

FP: When did you first meet her?

HK: We had dressed all of these serf dresses, which were the wealthy peasants in Czarist Russia—those managing the land. And they dressed in a way that was different than the nobility in the city, who were wearing Western Francophile dresses. They wore traditional dress in the richest fabrics. We arranged them in the lower galleries and Mrs. Vreeland was coming in. You could hear her on the terrazzo because she had very heavy footfalls, and there were all these other young women who were her posse—the grandchildren of her friends, very social and privileged. They were coming in and she sees the serfs and she starts pointing and saying, “What is this? What is this? They have no auteur, no éclat.” And she snapped her fingers. They were exquisite. But she came down the stairs and kept saying, “No éclat, no auteur.” I don’t know why, it just irritated me. Nobody was speaking—they were just taking this bullshit. I said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Vreeland, but the Russian curators have said that the hems of the dresses should fall 6-to-8 inches from the ground because they were small women. That is why they are not 6 feet tall.” That is what she had meant, saying they had no presence—I was just addressing why they were small. She turned around and said, “Are you Japanese?” I said “yes” and she said, “Don’t you realize the Russians hate the Japanese? Always have and always will.” And then she walked off. And I thought, What a raving ass! For the first few weeks, I thought all she did was destructive. There would be a beautiful dress of demi-mourning and she would start to touch it and she would leave it like this poor woman had been ravaged. There were many people who met her who would just dismiss her because they would see that side of her. But if you really studied it, which I did, you would realize that she was seeing something that wasn’t quite apparent. It was perfectly fine, but it was not extraordinary. So when the mannequin was redressed, inevitably it improved.

FP: How long did you work with Mrs. Vreeland?

HK: I did four or five shows for her. She kept calling me back for special projects.

FP: So this must have been four or five years?

HK: Yes, but it is only for the duration of the preparation for the show. It starts in September, because that is when she was back, and went through December. It was very, very quick. I loved working on the shows and part of it was teasing out what it was that she wanted. She really had this marvelous way of telling a story. For instance, when I mentioned the Empress Sisi thing, really what she wanted was Hungarian coins made into earrings. It’s so ahistorical, but what she wanted to allude to was the rumor that Empress Elisabeth had an affair with a radical Hungarian national. What I learned from it is that objects have stories, and those stories are what are so compelling to the public.

FP: Do you feel there was a move toward being didactic in the museum experience of fashion?

HK: Well, it had been didactic, and Mrs. Vreeland blew it out of the water. She was criticized for it by her contemporaries, but those were cries in the wilderness, because people really loved it. And the point that I learned from it is that you have to sell what you are doing. You can’t be passive. I remember working on the Diaghilev show [“Diaghilev: Costumes and Designs of the Ballets Russes,” 1978] under Mrs. Vreeland. We were working with a curator of Diaghilev’s costumes from the V&A. I said to him, “You’ll be astonished the first day the general public comes, because it will just be teeming.” He said, “Who wants that?”

FP: He wanted just an elite small audience.

HK: A privileged experience, not the democratic experience. Mrs. Vreeland was as elitist as it gets—but she liked the idea that if you were going to do something, it better blow your socks off and get you off the couch. The end game was how to make a subject seductive enough in the huge cacophony of cultural events in New York City.

FP: So you went from this experience with Diana Vreeland at the Met directly to curating at the Museum at FIT?

HK: It was 1979. Bob Riley was the director, but he needed a full curator. When I went for the interview, I was a dilettante. I had an art history background but nothing to do with fashion. I said to Riley, “For me, fashion history began in 1962 reading my mother’s Vogues and Harper’s Bazaars.” He said, “Well, at least you can read! Just read [Cecil Willett and Phillis] Cunnington.” The great good fortune that I had was that the collection had grown so much that it had to be edited. We were doing an assessment. I went literally through every piece of the collection with Bob Riley. And he was a terrible teacher and I had to be auto-didactic. For instance, we would take an 1870 bustle dress and then two days later we were taking out 1880s bustle dresses. Bob would say, “That is 1886.” And I would ask, “Why? How would you know immediately?” But he could not explain it, he would just say, “You just know.” So I started to examine it: The cut of the bodice is so different…if you looked, all the information was there. Now people who go into Costume Studies are not object-oriented. It seems to me a shame to go into curatorial practice and not care about the tangible object.

FP: So you learned costume history by editing the collection at FIT.

HK: That was my training: reading Cunnington and then going through every single piece in the FIT collection. So from Mrs. Vreeland I got the idea that with any exhibition you fail if you do not get people to see it, but unlike Mrs. Vreeland I wanted for it to be historically accurate. This was inspired by the Kyoto Costume Institute and what they did with historic costume. The Kyoto Costume Institute was called that because it is based on the Met’s Costume Institute, when Mrs. Vreeland was still working there. [Kyoto] took it a step further by keeping the panache, but getting rid of the ahistorical aspect. Once they set that model, we embraced it at FIT. You could still elicit an exciting visual response without getting into something that is not correct. It was basically merging Mrs. Vreeland and the Kyoto Costume Institute.

FP: In the early ’90s, you returned to the Met—you and Richard Martin left FIT to lead the Costume Institute. Your first show was “Infra-Apparel” [1993].

HK: With “Infra-Apparel,” it was sort of a template for something that even someone like Andrew [Bolton, the Costume Institute’s current Curator in Charge] is still doing. What Richard and I realized was that the demographic skews younger when it’s contemporary art—young audiences go to photography shows. It was clear that if you went to a Richard Avedon show, people looked young and sleek. It was surprisingly younger than if you went into a Rembrandt show. So to expand our audience we realized you had to have some contemporary hook. We always cared about the title, we always wanted to include something provocative and contemporary that established a linkage to art historical interest. With “Infra-Apparel,” we wanted to show that the chemise à la reine, which was so controversial when Marie Antoinette wore it because it looked like an underdress, had the same sort of potency as Gaultier’s halter for Madonna.

FP: So there was a parallel to bring the viewers to the past, to introduce the relevance of history to the viewer.

HK: The viewer comes because of the Madonna piece but then they are introduced to all these ideas: “Wait, it’s not something new—this kind of transgression and subversion of something possibly lurid percolating out into wearable attire, something intimate into something more formal. This has happened all throughout Western fashion.” Andrew does that a lot and it started because we realized that if you just do a show on 18th century apparel, you limit your audience.

FP: What was it like returning to the Met after being at FIT?

HK: Because it is a teaching institution with varied disciplines such as merchandising or graphic design, at FIT you could do anything. So we did shows about condoms, because that is dressing the penis. We did streetwear, the East Village….

FP: Did much of your work at FIT have to do with subcultures?

HK: Well, it could be about anything. “Fashion and Surrealism,” for instance, really brought our work to a larger public. “Three Women: Madeleine Vionnet, Claire McCardell, Rei Kawakubo” looked at designers that would be in any design collection. When I was a curator there, there was a gay illustration professor who died of AIDS and his surviving partner had a trunk of his clothes. He had kept clothing from when he was a student in the ’60s. He had a peace t-shirt that was done for the 1968 protest at Columbia, he had gay-clone things from the mid-’70s, all the way through the 1980s. So you had a gay person’s diarist representation of who he was, how he self-represented from when he was a late teen until he was a middle-aged man. It was this capsule of gay New York life. Gay culture now has become so diffused, but then it was so focused on certain tropes, at least dress-wise.

FP: And you acquired his wardrobe?

HK: Yes. It seemed to me that it belonged to the New-York Historical Society at the time or the Museum of the City of New York. But I wonder if any of them would take it. Everybody is focused on design rather than social history and we don’t do social history at the Costume Institute.

FP: When you went to the Met was it a big shift that the social history component was no longer there?

HK: It was more limiting coming to the Met—but they had all the stuff, the great works of art. You were in the context of an art museum, so there was the potential to collaborate.

FP: At some point in the ’90s, you left the Met—and fashion—to study landscape architecture at Harvard.

HK: I had done it for 17 years and I wanted to experience another thing. I wanted something that was interdisciplinary—and landscape architecture was just that. A little ecology, a little engineering, lots of aesthetics.

FP: But before long, the Met got you back.

HK: When I left, Richard was well. By the second year I was in school, I realized he was seriously ill—he had melanoma—and in the third year he died. Richard actually asked me to come back. I told him no—the only reason I stayed so long was because it was exciting for me to work with him. So why would I want to replace him? But Philippe [de Montebello, then the Met’s director] kept calling and asked me to vet the finalists for the position. They were all so different and brought different strengths and so I told him, “Philippe, you really have to decide.” And one day he called and asked what to do about deaccessioning [part of] the collection. Up until then I had been completely dispassionate, but as soon as he said that I was so shocked. I said, “Philippe, there are international standards to do this, but it is a very subjective process. You shouldn’t be talking about it with me—you should hear what each candidate has to say.” And he said, “Harold, you sound really upset! Would you consider doing it?” So we met and he offered me the job. I said I would take it with the idea that I would leave in three years. I could get the process started and I would secure a team. But then 9/11 happened—planning to stay three years, I stayed 17 years. Later I told Philippe, “You were so 18th century French and devious to do that.” 

FP: Your goal was to complete the assessment and partial deaccessioning project? 

HK: Yes—it was not my ambition to do shows. I am a believer in shelf life. Even Mrs. Vreeland by the end, she had a signature. But if you want vigorous interpretation of something, you need a fresh perspective.

FP: And yet your time as Curator in Charge at the Met saw the elevation of the field of fashion curation.

HK: So much of my career has been extraordinary good fortune. As Philippe would say, you have a trifecta at the Costume Institute: There is you and Andrew, there is the collection, and there is Anna Wintour, who was our rainmaker. As for the Anna Wintour part, we always fought against the external perception that she was generating the shows and that it was always predicated on some commercial [concerns]. There is a slight truth to the fact that she would influence our calendar. Like with “Goddess,” it was very hard for her to find a sponsor, so we had to defer it a little bit. But she never said, “Don’t do it.” She just needed time to support us. And if we didn’t have her there would be no Costume Institute, because with costume you need exhibition furniture, you need all the mannequins. To do it properly is extremely costly. We were able to do it because of Anna’s support and all of our sponsors. None of what we accomplished could have been done with money. And that is really part of the triangle: great collection, adventurous curators, and someone who can support their ideas. It was a really fortunate thing—a convergence of elements.

FP: At the same time, did having Anna Wintour and the party of the year put a lot of pressure on you to do innovative exhibitions every single year that could sustain the level of scrutiny?

HK: It’s really good to have somebody with the Taser. Some of the people who attend the party parachute in—they’re clueless—but the interest it generates in the show is fantastic. We want people to be engaged in what we do. We consider a failure if it is just 200,000 visitors. If we did no advertising, if there was no party of the year, we could get 900 to 1,200 people a day. In the general audience there are enough people who are interested in our shows. But we want 2,000 or in some cases 5,000 people a day. And those seem like very crass quantities to aspire to. But if you don’t quantify, you have no way of measuring your success.

FP: In the long span of your career, how do you think the field has changed?

HK: The general public is much more informed. There is a general level of expertise that has been heightened. With the proliferation of many more museums, there is also the requirement to have a distinctive voice. You have to up your game. But that’s a good thing. I don’t think there is ever going to be a surfeit of costume exhibitions. The bad thing would be if all of them are mediocre.

FP: Are you afraid that object-based knowledge is going away?

HK: Connoisseurship is out the window. Costume and textiles people have a problem of access. I was the last one before the drawbridge pulled up. I was very lucky to go through the collection. It isn’t bragging, but just because I have done it for so long, I can look and say, “This isn’t right—the proportion is wrong, it’s been hemmed.” And that’s connoisseurship.

Fashion Projects editor Francesca Granata, Ph.D., is Assistant Professor of Fashion Studies at Parsons School of Design and the author of the book Experimental Fashion: Performance Art, Carnival and the Grotesque Body (I.B. Tauris, 2017). She was a research fellow at the Met’s Costume Institute in 2007–2008.

The literature on fashion curation has greatly expanded in recent years, as the field has witnessed a meteoric rise propelled by the incredible draw of fashion exhibitions—most famously the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s 2011 blockbuster “Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty.” Recent assessments of the field include Judith Clark and Amy de la Haye’s Exhibiting Fashion (Yale UP, 2014) , which traces the history of fashion exhibitions, and Fashion Curating (Bloomsbury, 2017), co-edited by Hazel Clark and Annamari Vänskä, who are interviewed in this issue. These works build on earlier writings on the topic in two special issues of the journal Fashion Theory edited by Valerie Steele and Alistair O’Neill, both of whom are interviewed in this issue, as well as important work on dress museology by Lou Taylor.

Fashion Projects #5 explores fashion curation through dialogical exchanges with working curators from a range of institutions, both head curators at major museum collections and independent curators working in kunsthalle-like spaces. Harold Koda, who discusses his long-term engagement with the Met’s Costume Institute, most closely embodies a more traditional meaning of the word “curator” as a caretaker of a collection. Koda also had a unique vantage point, having entered the profession under Diana Vreeland at the Met in the 1970s, a pivotal moment for the increased dynamism of the field. Similarly, Kaat Debo is closely identified with the ModeMuseum in Antwerp, where she worked first as a curator and now as its director. Debo discusses the collaborative nature of her work, specifically when it comes to exhibiting living designers and the costly nature of exhibiting dress—something that is often underestimated by non-fashion specialists.

She also addresses the difficulty in striking the right balance between the materiality of the object and the digital engagement needed to relate to younger audiences. The centrality of material knowledge is also discussed by Sarah Scaturro, head conservator at the Costume Institute, who addresses the tightknit relation between conservation and curation in the realm of fashion. Alexandra Palmer, senior curator of textiles and costume at Toronto’s Royal Ontario Museum, discusses her own curatorial work for a large public museum, alongside her role as exhibition reviews editor of Fashion Theory, a position that has allowed her a preferential viewpoint. Valerie Steele, editor-in-chief of Fashion Theory as well as director and chief curator of the Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology, who came into the field already established as a writer and academic, discusses the points of connection and divergence between museums and academia. Much like Debo, she welcomes the proliferation of fashion exhibitions while warning about the importance of upholding academic rigor and the needed technical expertise in the curation of dress.

Alistair O’Neill and Maria Luisa Frisa, alongside Hazel Clark and Annamari Vänskä, address the emerging figure of the independent fashion curator, a role also pioneered by Judith Clark (interviewed in a previous Fashion Projects issue). The figure of the independent curator is a much more recent development in fashion than in contemporary art, and is certain to shape the field in innovative ways. O’Neill, professor of fashion history and theory at Central Saint Martins, has explored “alternative modes of exhibition” and curation “not bound by the museum” in the issue of Fashion Theory he edited, as well as in his own curatorial practice. In his Fashion Projects interview, he discusses exhibitions he curated for the Somerset House Trust including “Isabella Blow: Fashion Galore!” (2013), which exhibited much of the wardrobe of the late fashion icon, plus shows that eschewed actual dress altogether, such as “Guy Bourdin: Image Maker” (2014). O’Neill also has a word of caution regarding museums’ thirst for blockbuster fashion exhibitions, a practice that might take needed resources away from collection care, particularly at smaller museums. Clark (professor of fashion and design studies at Parsons) and Vänskä (a Finnish professor of art and fashion) discuss their curatorial practice alongside their recent research on the topic, which was jumpstarted by a symposium they organized at Parsons in 2013 and culminated in Fashion Curating: Critical Practice in the Museum and Beyond (Bloomsbury, 2017). Frisa, a pioneer in independent fashion curation, came from a background in art criticism to work on influential exhibitions starting with “Uniforms: Order and Disorder,” which she curated in Florence with Francesco Bonami and Stefano Tonchi in 2001.

In this issue, wanting to turn the tables and upend old hierarchies, Frisa discusses what contemporary art can learn from fashion. Noting how exhibiting fashion “provokes both a visual and bodily experience,” the Italian curator points toward the affective power of fashion in its intrinsic relation to the body. In fact, if fashion exhibitions, with their predominance of lifeless mannequins, have been often equated to a morgue, they can also be understood as a prime site for “interobjectivity,” theorized by film theorist Vivian Sobchack as our ability to engage with the materiality of objects as related to our own (University of California Press, 2004).  

Interestingly, many of the subjects interviewed make reference to one another, thus underscoring the relatively small network of fashion curation. Yet the network is fast expanding—and pushing the geography of fashion curation beyond its traditional Western capitals.

Naturally, one figure whose name is invoked again and again is Diana Vreeland (1903-1989), the legendary Vogue editor and doyenne of the Metropolitan Museum if Art’s Costume Institute. Our cover stars Vreeland—or rather, the sculptural representation of Vreeland as rendered by the late artist Greer Lankton. Fittingly, Lankton’s Vreeland doll now rests in the library of the Costume Institute itself.

by Jay Ruttenberg

Striped bodysuit for Aladdin Sane tour, 1973. Photo: Masayoshi Sukita. © Sukita / The David Bowie Archive 2012.

“David Bowie Is,” the museum retrospective of the singer that recently concluded its run at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago, featured virtually every artistic medium imaginable. Included works extended to music, film, video, fashion, and, in Bowie’s portraits of his Berlin running buddy Iggy Pop, painting. One display case featured the star’s long-retired cocaine spoon—a redundancy, considering the exhibition’s inclusion of his “Life on Mars?” video.

The show originated at London’s Victoria and Albert Museum and made its sole U.S. stop in Chicago, where it was greeted with the crowds and fanfare of a blockbuster. The outpouring of interest seems sensible: Absent from public performance for nearly a decade, Bowie is pop’s missing man. His mark remains everywhere; he is nowhere. “David Bowie Is,” which was produced with the subject’s cooperation, if not curatorship, made a resounding case for his significance. To view the exhibition’s many rooms detailing his work in the 1970s was to peak into the 1980s. The phlegmatic British vocals that would dominate a corner of ’80s pop and the nervous mutability of music and media that would define Madonna (to say nothing of Gaga) have roots here; arguably, so does Michael Jackson’s cheesy white Thriller suit. In one displayed video, 1979’s “Boys Keep Swinging,” Bowie appears as his own backup singers, garbed in the elaborate gowns and wigs of female drag. What seems shocking about the video, however, is the main image of Bowie ostensibly as himself, clad in the dark suit of a prototypical mid-80s yuppie. It’s this look—which, for the record, predates Bret Easton Ellis’s debut by six years—that appears to be the video’s true act of drag.

A museum show about a pop star inevitably runs into limitations. In an exhibition of a painter, visitors directly confront the subject’s primary source: the painting is the ultimate art. Even for a multidisciplinarian such as Bowie, the true art lies in his records and performances; the stuff inside display cases can seem secondary, if not trivial. But the aim of this exhibit, where headphone-clad visitors roamed as an army of enthralled zombies, was immersion. It was presented with high-minded care and, at least when covering the years that matter, the exhaustiveness of a box set. Over 400 items were on hand: photographs, handwritten lyrics, a monstrous set of keys from the musician’s Berlin apartment, even an old pocket map for the West Berlin subway. There were also more than 60 stage costumes, most fetchingly the pear-like black-and-white jumpsuit that Kansai Yamamoto designed for the Aladdin Sane tour. Even all these years on, we discover new sides to the pop star: Meet Ziggy Stardust, the world’s most glamorous hoarder.

But the exhibition’s showstopper was drawn from nobody’s closet. Rather, it was the famous video of Bowie performing “The Man Who Sold the World” on Saturday Night Live, in the waning days of the 1970s. The video deserved greater prominence at the MCA, if not an entire museum to call its own; it also would have benefited from the other two songs recorded for the episode. Nonetheless, the clip could move mountains. Bowie is accompanied by Klaus Nomi and Joey Arias, vanguard figures from the nocturnal club world, both clad in monochromatic Thierry Mugler dresses. The men carry Bowie to his microphone as if he is a children’s toy. Wearing a cardboard tuxedo that was designed by the singer and Mark Ravitz under the spell of 1920s Dada, Bowie sings with the bemused detachment of a Martian. Space alien analogies always fit Bowie—after all, we are talking about the Man Who Fell to Earth—but they seem particularly apt for the SNL appearance. At the taping, he was newly returned from self-imposed exile in West Berlin, introducing irrefutably avant-garde notions to a mainstream arena. (Not for nothing did Kurt Cobain cover this song in Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged set.) The ’80s—which thwarted the world’s rock stars where no drug or label chicanery ever could—were mere days away. Bowie seemed intent on ending his decade of dominance in spectacular style. The appearance is not an act of subversion so much as it is a sterling media performance—pop as art and back again.

Jay Ruttenberg is editor of The Lowbrow Readerand of its book, The Lowbrow Reader Reader. He has written for The New York Times,The Boston Globe, and other publications.

Album cover shoot for Aladdin Sane, 1973. Photo: Brian Duffy. © Duffy Archive & The David Bowie Archive.

Note the capitalization: fashion after Fashion makes an important distinction between “fashion” in the lowercase, and “Fashion” in the uppercase. While the big F connotes the commodity-driven aspects of the industry, “fashion,” with its little f, represents the processes of creativity and reflection that are not determined by commerce. “We wanted to bring a different sort of fashion exhibit to New York,” says curator Hazel Clark (Parsons School of Design, The New School). Indeed, the show (one of three fashion exhibitions currently on view at the Museum of Arts and Design) does not feature a single mannequin. Rather, Clark -- along with fellow curator Ilari Laamanen (Finnish Cultural Institute in New York), commissioned six works, each of which challenges and redefines how fashion can be experienced, interpreted, and subverted.

The exhibition opens with an installation designed to mimic a teenager’s bedroom in which every surface, from the walls and floor, to the bedspread, to the rug and table – is plastered with images from SSAW Magazine. Inspired by the ways in which the fashion industry is heavily image-driven, the installation suggests that you no longer need to be dressed to be considered fashionable. Through imagery, particularly through the unedited photos of SSAW, fashion extends from a privileged few to everyone.

Just outside the bedroom, Ryohei Kawanishi has constructed a designer showroom, complete with a look book, pattern samples, as well as a collection of garments on a shopping rack. An homage to Marcel Duchamp’s famed Fountain (1917), which questioned notions of authenticity and the very nature of art, Kawanishi asks the viewer to do the same of fashion.

Lucy Jones makes a compelling case for the importance of inclusive design with “Seated Design,” a video outlining her design ethos, and “Seated Sleeves,” a collection of twenty-six free-floating sleeves designed for wheelchair-bound bodies. Rather than designing for the standing body as is typical of the industry, Jones chooses instead to focus on bodies that are confined to wheelchairs or are otherwise differently-abled. The sleeves – each one different from the next – at times resemble armor and are incredible testaments to the many innovations being made for those who experience fashion in alternative ways.

Helsinki-based design-duo ensæmble asks viewers to consider the ways in which fashion is experienced with their installation, INSIDE. Designed to highlight not the exterior appearance of fashion, but rather the interiors of garments, the delicate sculptures of INSIDE comment on the intimate ways in which bodies shape and are shaped by clothes. A pair of polyurethane shoeboxes created in collaboration with Nathaniel Lieb shows the ghostly impression of the interior of a shoe, outlining the spaces our bodies must conform to when we decide to participate in fashion.

The most visually arresting challenge to fashion comes from designer Henrik Vibskov in the form of Harmonic Mouth, an installation which asks viewers to enter a blood-red cube containing four suspended, amorphous, yet elegantly designed red forms filled with sand. The cube is intended to represent the various spaces of fashion, though an accompanying film depicts haunting scenes of figures dressed in the nebulous forms, slowly disgorging their sandy contents within the cube, illustrating the ways in which bodies can bring life to clothing.

The exhibition concludes with a video by design team Eckhaus Latta in collaboration with Alexa Karolinski. A montage of interviews with individuals discussing issues of love, life, and identity while dressed in Eckhaus Latta’s fall/winter 2017 collection, the film is a moving and deeply intimate glimpse into the lives of individuals who represent a broad range of gender expressions, racial identities, ages, and body sizes. Interestingly, fashion plays a seemingly secondary role in the film, illustrating the ways in which fashion can become so inextricably linked with identity.

fashion after Fashion presents an alternative version of fashion that exists outside of a system that favors the lithe, gendered bodies who have the financial means to participate in Fashion. The exhibition highlights the ways in which fashion practices have expanded beyond commerce, touching upon how designers have become more critically and culturally informed. Moreover, it highlights the need for designers to continue to question the powers-that-be within the fashion industry and further to challenge how the very industry operates.

fashion after Fashion is on view through August 6, 2017 at the Museum of Arts and Design in New York, NY.

by Francesca Granata

I will be giving a lecture on my book "Experimental Fashion: Performance Art, Carnival and the Grotesque Body" April 6th at the Somerset House in London organized in partnership with the Fashion Research Network.

I am particularly excited to discuss the work of Rei Kawakubo, whose exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art is forthcoming. Most of my research on Kawakubo's work was, in fact, conducted at the Met's Costume Institute while I was there as a Polaire Weissman Research Fellow. Equally exciting was to research Kawakubo's collaboration with Merce Cunningham for Scenario at the Cunningham Archives, then located at Bank Street, and at the New York Public Library for Performing Arts.

For anyone interested in coming to the lecture and chatting afterwards about experimental fashion while sipping wine, please visit the Somerset House website, as advanced reservations are required.

Please join us for the launch of Experimental Fashion: Performance Art, Carnival and the Grotesque Body by Francesca Granata, Director of the MA Fashion Studies in the School of Art and Design History and Theory at Parsons, the New School for Design.

The author will be in conversation with German fashion designer Bernhard Willhelm and Charlene K. Lau, Parsons Postdoctoral Fellow in Visual and Material Culture.

The event details!

Thursday, March 16th, 6:30-9:00pm
Parsons School of Design
Wollman Hall, Eugene Lang Building
65 West 11th Street
New York, NY

This event is free to the public and a reception will follow.
RSVP by clicking here.

Experimental Fashion (published by I.B. Tauris) is a study of designers and performance artists, including Leigh Bowery, Rei Kawakubo, Martin Margiela, and Bernhard Willhelm.

The book argues that the proliferation of bodies-out-of-bounds in fashion at the turn of the 21st century was influenced by feminism's desire to open up and question gender and bodily norms and particularly the normative bodies of fashion. This proliferation was also tied to the AIDS epidemic and mediated the fears of contagion and the obsessive policing of bodily borders that characterized the period.

“We are not ‘black’ designers, but American designers, the way Bill Blass is an American designer,” visionary designer Arthur McGee once declared in a 1992 article for Newsweek, “…as soon as you categorize us, you can erase us.”[1] McGee, the first African American to run a Seventh Avenue design studio, is just one of the notable figures whose works are currently on view in Black Fashion Designers, the latest exhibition at the Museum at FIT (New York). Curated by Ariele Elia and Elizabeth Way, the show is comprised entirely of pieces from the permanent collection of the Museum, and explores the contributions of designers whose works span the last 70 years.

The Fashion Institute of Technology prides itself on being one of the first schools in United States to present an integrated fashion show, so it is not surprising to see the Museum take on the challenges of using race as a lens through which to view fashion. McGee’s dissatisfaction at being categorized as a black designer first is a common thread that ties together many of the individuals and garments on view. Moreover, the contemporary designers on view find inspiration among their predecessors, creating garments that often reference themselves in dialogue with the history of African dress and the African American experience.

The exhibition is divided into ten sections, the first of which, “Breaking Into the Industry,” focuses on designers who rose to fame during the 1950s when the fashion market was still heavily segregated. This section features two designs by Ann Lowe, one of the first prominent black designers in the United States. The ensembles not only stand as a testament to Lowe’s ability to revolutionize the way in which black designers were understood and praised within the fashion industry, but also highlight the extraordinary relevance of Lowe’s designs within fashion today.

Set in front of a traditional kente cloth pattern from Ghana, the “African Influence” section of the exhibition seeks to contextualize western black fashion designers within a greater historical framework of traditional African textiles and dress practices. This is perhaps best exemplified by a dress from Stella Jean’s fall 2015 collection, a vibrant celebration of African wax print textiles, though the curators have been quick to point out that the technique was originally developed in Holland and not Africa as many assume. Mimi Plange offers one of the most intriguing moments of the exhibition, a pink leather dress from her Spring 2013 collection in which the leather is sewn to mimic scarification traditions of West Africa. Plange, in a very contemporary mode, has designed a dress that speaks to and also challenges the dress practices of the cultures from which she descends.

Kerby Jean-Raymond’s designs for his label Pyer Moss are the focus of the “Activism” section of the exhibition, a politically charged glimpse at the ways black designers have used fashion as a form of protest. Though this section constitutes the smallest portion of the entire exhibition, it is undoubtedly the most powerful segment of Black Fashion Designers, particularly within the context of the current Post-Inaugural political climate. Following around-the-clock coverage of protests that have burgeoned throughout the past month, this brief portion of the exhibition speaks to issues that are urgently relevant to the contemporary moment.

Perhaps the most significant garment on display, however, is the one that stands beneath a spotlight at the entrance to the gallery: a dress from Patrick Kelly’s fall 1986 collection whose bodice is covered in a variety of buttons. In a 1987 profile of the designer, journalist Bonnie Johnson wrote that Kelly decorated garments with cheap buttons as an homage to his grandmother, who, when mending his clothes, often used the technique to “detract from having to use mismatched buttons.”[2] The garment acts as a celebration of black excellence, reflected throughout the entire exhibition. In many ways, the garment sums up the experiences of many of the designers on view in Black Fashion Designers: to turn their histories – however diverse, however challenging, and however complex – into art.

Black Fashion Designers is on view through May 16, 2017 at the Museum at FIT in New York, NY.

Notes:
Images Courtesy of the Museum at FIT
[1] "The Rainbow Coalition." Newsweek, July 12, 1992. Accessed February 22, 2017. http://www.newsweek.com/rainbow-coalition-200178.
[2] Johnson, Bonnie. "In Paris, His Slinky Dresses Have Made Mississippi-Born Designer Patrick Kelly the New King of Cling." People, June 15, 1987. Accessed February 22, 2017. http://people.com/archive/in-paris-his-slinky-dresses-have-made-mississippi-born-designer-patrick-kelly-the-new-king-of-cling-vol-27-no-24/.

I am thrilled to announce the publication of my book, Experimental Fashion: Performance Art, Carnival, and the Grotesque Body  (I.B. Tauris). Experimental Fashion is a study of designers and performance artists at the turn of the twenty-first century whose work challenges established codes of what represents the fashionable body through strategies of parody, humor, and inversion. The book argues that the proliferation of bodies-out-of-bounds in fashion during this period was influenced by feminism’s desire to open up and question gender and bodily norms and particularly the normative bodies of fashion. It was also tied to the AIDS epidemic and mediated the fears of contagion and the obsessive policing of bodily borders that characterized the period. 

Starting in the 1980s, the book investigates the ways designers such as Georgina Godley challenged the masculinized silhouette of the power suit and its neoliberal exhortations, while Comme des Garçons’s Rei Kawakubo questioned the sealed classical body of fashion, in part thanks to her collaboration with choreographer Merce Cunningham and artist Cindy Sherman. Fashion designer, performance artist, and club figure Leigh Bowery upended gender codes and challenged fears surrounding the bodies of gay men through the decade. The book also examines Martin Margiela’s “deconstruction fashion” of the 1990s and the way his work challenges norms of garment construction and sizing. It enters the new millennium through the work of Bernhard Willhelm, which shows the increased cross-pollination of fashion and performance art and the renewed interest in upending codes of masculinity. The book concludes by examining how experimental fashion—particularly in its grotesque and carnivalesque variety—moved from the margins to the mainstream through the pop phenomenon of Lady Gaga.

Naturally, there are countless people to thank for helping me with the book. These include Caroline Evans, Alistair O'Neil, and Elizabeth Wilson (my dissertation advisors at Central Saint Martins); Philippa Brewster at I.B. Tauris; Kaat Debo, who allowed me to do research in the ModeMuseum Collection in Antwerp; and  Andrew Bolton and Harold Koda, who granted me a one-year fellowship to do research in the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Costume. I could not be happier with the book! It can be ordered here.

For those in New York, save the date for the book launch on March 16th at Parsons School of Design at 6pm in Wollman Hall, Eugene Lang Building  65 West 11th Street, where I will be in conversation with fashion designer Bernhard Wilhelm.

by Roberto Filippello

In the face of current accelerationist tendencies in political and social theory pointing toward an intensification and repurposing of capitalism, the exhibition "Rik Wouters & The Private Utopia," on view at MoMu Fashion Museum Antwerp until February 26th, auspicates the return to a slow temporality that allows for the exploration of intimate connections with oneself and with others, suspending the pervasive mediation of the virtual into our everyday lives.

The exhibition commemorates the 100th anniversary of Rik Wouters's death. This Belgian fauvist painter (1882-1916) devoted a large part of his oeuvre to the exploration of serene and intimate domesticity through portraits of his wife Nel. His longing for a bucolic way of life, detached from urban frenzy, was informed by David Thoreau's transcendentalist inquiry into simple living as a conduit for personal introspection, and took artistic form in a series of unfinished canvases depicting scenes of harmonious homeliness.

 The exhibition, thanks to a multi-disciplinary curatorial philosophy, combines different media to dissect ideas, phenomena and aesthetics. Paintings and sculptures by Rik Wouters are displayed alongside ceramics, interiors and clothing by a number of Antwerp contemporary artists (BLESS, Atelier E.B., Berlinde de Bruyckere, Ben Sledsens) and fashion designers (A.F. Vandevorst, Ann Demeulemeester, Veronique Branquinho, Haider Ackermann, Bernhard Willhelm, Walter Van Beirendonck, Christian Wijnants, Dries Van Noten, Jan-Jan Van Essche, Martin Margiela, Marina Yee, Bruno Pieters, Anne Kurris) who have each in their own way addressed the desire to regain the secure intimacy of domestic life. Unfolding through seventeen thematic sections, such as 'Indoors,' 'Looking Outside,' 'Sculptures and Ceramics,' and 'Handicrafts,' the exhibition traces a visual narrative of how simple living has been translated into figurative and applied arts by artists and designers seeking shelter in an intimate creative environment, away from the turmoil of contemporary urban societies.

 A renewed interest in artisanal techniques such as weaving, ceramics, and dyeing, as well as the usage of materials found in nature, are the key principles of the so-called "slow movement" to which this exhibit gives voice. As a reaction to the industrialization of fashion and its often unbearable hectic pace, the designers featured hereby make objects that are imbued with affective potential insofar as they result from a pondered and lived-through handcrafting practice. Their personal corporeal interaction with the matter reflects a utopian longing for an authentic way of being, living, and doing in the world. Antwerp-based fashion designer Christian Wijnants, for instance, dyes wool by hand and assembles collages of fabric using various application techniques such as knitting, embroidery and crochet. This hints at a bodily doing that disentangles fashion-making from the maze of corporate regulation and outsourced production to focus on the intimacy of affective engagement with fabrics and textures.

Reframing one's life in Thoreau's woods or in Thomas More's fictional island society, however, is not the only way to materialize utopic living. Throughout the exhibition, utopia comes to coincide with the beauty of the already known, figured through the making of Dirk Van Saene's home crafts, Bernhard Willhelm's crocheted accessories, or through the night silk gowns of A.F. Vandevorst, Ann Demeulemeester and Haider Ackerman. In a sensationalist era where technologies set out to design posthuman bodies, the familiarity with domestic attire conjures a sense of safety and tranquillity freed from the obsession with aesthetic futurism. According to Roland Barthes, the mark of the utopian is the quotidian (Sade, Fourier, Loyola).

It is this kind of utopia that the exhibition ends up exploring: rather than advocating the 19th century idealist project of going back to nature, which was indeed dear to Rik Wouters, who moved to the edge of the Sonian Forest to live together with like-minded utopian artists. The exhibit seems to embody the concrete possibility of finding beauty and joy in the domestic setting. Utopia, as an affective structure, can be materialized through the regaining of what we already know in order to propel its yet undisclosed potentiality into the future. It consists of living with pragmatic and optimistic imagination: using the past, or the pre-existent, to act presently at the service of a better future.

Marina Yee, a member of the historically renowned fashion collective 'Antwerp Six,' which laid the foundation for current Belgian fashion culture, began to turn away from fashion's cyclical consumption in the 1980s and since then has worked at her own pace, focusing on sustainability and artistic development. In the exhibit, an oil painted replica of a 19th century camisole and a sculpture made of glass, silver, copper, wire and leather by Yee are on display. Bruno Pieters, with his collective ethical label 'Honest by Bruno Pieters' questions the norms and regulations enacted by mainstream fashion by sharing with the customer how the garments are manufactured, the hours required for their completion and the pay received by the seamstresses. These details constitute the core of his utopia for a sustainable future.

These designers share a creative practice grounded in the ambition to redesign clothes, interiors and all the objects of the everyday life beyond the unethical limitations posed by industrialization, imagining a future in which applied arts contribute to human and environmental well-being. Such a perspective is invested with the optimism of finding beauty in the creative process and of letting the consumer participate in it: while acceleration has failed to produce a collective sense of accomplishment, slow movement and sustainability foster a sense of belonging in which harmony may be intimately felt and shared.  

Roberto Filippello is a fashion editor and writer whose academic expertise lies at the intersection of fashion studies and queer theory. He is an alumnus of the Master of Arts in Fashion Studies at Parsons The New School, where he has taught courses on the history of fashion and critical analysis of fashion photography. His current research focuses on the articulation of queer affectivity in fashion and pornography.

Fashion is known for always being in flux, but the expression is commonly used to describe the fleeting nature of trends. By contrast, the exhibition ‘Mode In Flux’, curated by White Line Projects studio and on view at Roca London Gallery until the 27th of August, focusses on ‘notions of adaptability in fashion design.’ In doing so, it redirects the conversation towards design innovation and conceptual approaches.        

The exhibition includes the work of fifteen practitioners and studios from the U.K., China, Japan, Italy, South Korea and the Netherlands. The displays feature garments, images, and videos which are accompanied by explanatory text. Where garments are not available, access to additional content is provided through a QR code. By scanning the codes with their phones, viewers are able to watch videos and read in-depth information on the practitioners and their work. While this curatorial stratagem in no way substitutes the material presence of clothing, it nonetheless allows to see the clothes in movement as well as to gain an insight into the design process. This is particularly helpful as collaboration and multidisciplinarity are central to all of the projects featured in the exhibition.

‘Mode In Flux’ is divided into four sections. The first one, ‘Transformative’, presents multi-purpose garments that change according to the wearer’s needs. Among the showcased projects are Mason Jung’s 2009 ‘Transformation Series’, which includes ingenious suits that double as sleeping bags and blankets that double as trousers, both inspired by Jung’s experiences in school and in the army. The name Sleeping Suit conveys the designer’s witty approach to tailoring, which aims to ‘awaken’ the crystallised conventions of suit-making. The concept of transformation is further explored through a multi-functional polyester shawl from Issey Miyake’s ongoing ‘Pleats Please’ collection which can be worn as scarf, top or dress, and Eunjeong Jeon’s Jigsaw-Puzzle top which, as the name suggests, can be reconfigured by the wearer into different shapes. More radical approaches to the concept of metamorphosis are presented through visuals from Hussein Chalayan’s 2007 collection ‘One Hundred and Eleven’, an exercise in sartorial remembrance for which he designed transformational dresses that evoked silhouettes from various historical eras, and a 2016 project by a group of students from the Royal College of Art called Refugee Wearable Shelter, which consists in a coat that doubles as sleeping bag and temporary dwelling and is reminiscent of Studio Orta’s celebrated Refuge Wear series.

The following section, ‘Versatility’, focuses on clothing that adapts to different users. The military-inspired garments by Maharishi studio recontextualise functional details such as camouflage, internal carry straps and adjustable elements into modern urban garb. The concept of size-free clothing is explored by Chen Peng’s ‘Normal-In-Normal’ collection, whose oversized designs are created through 3-D body scanning and Michiko Koshino’s signature unisex inflatable jacket, a waterproof, transparent jacket in PVC that can be worn both inflated and deflated according to the wearer’s mood.

The third section, ‘Responsive’, features garments that respond to stimuli from the wearer’s body or the surrounding environment. Smart textiles dominate this part of the exhibition. Among the objects displayed are Grado Zero Espace’s prototype for their ‘Shape Memory Shirt’, whose woven titanium threads allow it to shrink up when heated and return to its original shape when cooled, Massimo Osti’s ski apparel for Stone Island, which changes colour at low temperatures thanks to thermo-sensitive microcapsules and Maria Blaisse’s 1996 ‘Moving Back’ top in EVA foam, a flexible material that stretches to create numerous silhouettes and returns to its original shape when unworn.

The fourth and final section, ‘Evolution: Adaptable Bodies’, explores future scenarios that challenge the limits of our body. The projects in this segment are speculative and diverse in approach, but all of them engage with the idea of an adaptable second skin that enhances, protects and expands the dermis. Ying Gao’s ‘Neutralité: Can’t and Won’t’ consists of two interactive dresses that react to the on-looker’s facial expressions. The two garments stop morphing as soon as the on-looker manifests an emotional response, thus forcing them to maintain a neutral expression if they wish to see the dresses change. The process was unfortunately shown only on video, which was a missed opportunity. ‘THEUNSEEN Swarovski’ turned the attention back to the wearer. Designer Lauren Bowker created a headdress covered with 4000 Swarovski gemstones which responds chemically to the wearer’s brain activity inducing different colour changes on the surface of the piece. The most forward-thinking project featured is perhaps Lucy McRae’s ‘Future Day Spa’, a personalised treatment that simulates the experience of being hugged by delivering controlled vacuum pressure to the body. The viewer can follow the one-hundred participants who signed up to take part in the installation in Los Angeles in 2015. Originally created to prepare astronauts for space missions, the Future Day Spa may be used in the future to help people who suffer with depression.

McRae’s project is a good conclusion to the exhibition as it brings together the many aspects explored in ‘Mode In Flux’, namely technology, the body and well-being. As a venue Roca London Gallery, designed by Zaha Hadid Studio, amplifies the future-oriented trajectory of the show. The dialogue between the practitioners’ shared desire to create a safe architecture for the body and the curvilinear, maternal elements Hadid is known for makes one hope that the future will be less cold and impersonal that most sci-fi fiction would have us believe. 

———

Alessandro Esculapio is a fashion writer and PhD student at the University of Brighton, UK. He holds an MA in Fashion Studies from Parsons the New School for Design. He co-authored the books Just Fashion: Critical Cases On Social Justice In Fashion (2012) and The Fashion Condition (2014). His current research looks at contemporary fashion practices that articulate the mnemonic function of clothing

For the fourth Fashion Projects print issue (Fashion Projects #4, 2013), Jay Ruttenberg wrote about how Bill Cunningham's work foreshadowed today's multimedia journalism.

Recent years have not exactly been a walk in the park for print journalists, a comically beleaguered species plagued by technological hurdles both real and imagined. Yet of all the indignities the modern newspaperman faces, perhaps the most absurd has been the lunge toward corny multimedia reporting. Publishers love to trumpet their hyperactive ventures into unfamiliar mediums. But from a reader’s perspective, most of this content proves inane. Wading into the website of even the strongest magazine or newspaper can be entering perilous territory: Music journalists natter endlessly over streamed songs. Slideshows tick on interminably, like the unedited vacation photos of a bore. Pasty film critics surface onscreen as if trapped by the light of day. Gifted journalists turn up in wacky videos that can verge on hack comedy routines.  

Of course, in rare instances this multimedia content can prove riveting. One suspects that as publications open their ranks to a generation of journalists who came of age under the Internet’s spell, such reporting will flow more naturally alongside its print foundation. In the meantime, readers must make due with sporadic triumphs. And when it comes to the realm of the web extra, few journalist heavies flourish like Bill Cunningham, the famed New York Times fashion photographer. 

Cunningham is an unlikely master of this medium. He is in his 80s—a dinosaur even by Times standards—and a suspected Luddite wed to actual film. He is said to have come by his Times web segment, a spinoff of his weekly On the Street article, reluctantly. His bedrock remains the two columns he mans in the Sunday Styles: the print version of On the Street (a patchwork of his street fashion pictures) and, to a lesser extent, Evening Hours (the society photos that encompass his less exciting beat).

On the Street is an unusually whimsical column—among the quirkiest and most personal features in the Times. Both its print and web versions are devoted to the photographs Cunningham takes of women (along with the occasional man or dog) stepping out in Manhattan, generally in parts north. Each column centers around a loose trend that develops in Cunningham’s eye as he putters around town on his bicycle: a sudden wave of plaids, vests, shirtdresses, stripes, young people walking the High Line’s ad hoc catwalk, Upper East Side dowagers who have made bold millinery selections, or women emulating Holly Golightly. In the paper, the pictures run small—he squeezes over 20 shots into half a page—with no captions or IDs. A brief paragraph at the center explains the week’s theme with classic Times sobriety. “Echoes of Ms. Hepburn’s boat necks are reappearing,” the Breakfast at Tiffany’s column states. “One wondered what Holly would look like today.” 

The multimedia version of On the Street takes this framework and blows it up. As the same photographs progress in a slideshow, Cunningham speaks of his week’s gleanings in a funny voice juiced with an old Boston accent and the infectious glee of a cultural enthusiast. “Something mahvelous has been happening when I’m out photographing people going to work on Fifth Avenue,” his Holly Golightly segment begins. “I saw young kids leaning against Tiffany’s façade, and they were having breakfast. And I thought, Wait a minute! … Look at these people! They’re reflecting Holly Golightly, 50 year later. It was very curious! And then I started to wonder, Well, what would the present-day Holly Golightly wear?” As the segment ticks on, he posits about a contemporary Holly’s continued affection for black while commenting on the specific looks of select subjects. 

The photographer delivers these pieces with a charming off-the- cough air. Apparently, this is no put-on. In Bill Cunningham New York, Richard Press’s fine documentary about the photographer that opened at Film Forum last year, Cunningham is depicted taping his weekly segment. He sits at a table, takes a few seconds to gather his thoughts, and then starts riffing into the microphone in apparent stream of consciousness. Whereas at other points of the movie the photographer is portrayed torturing his designer with painstaking layout decisions and deadline-bending edits, he approaches the online narration nonchalantly, as if he is gossiping with a friend. The effect is wondrous: Suddenly, the website of the world’s greatest news organization appears hijacked by an elderly eccentric, sounding off in a highly idiosyncratic manner about his field of expertise. In discussing his pictures, the photo journalist becomes part professor, part artist, part radio DJ, and part town nut. Digesting the segment is a wholly unique experience. 

Perhaps more pertinently, with his web columns the octogenarian achieves a goal that has eluded sundry younger journalists, availing himself of new technological possibilities without abandoning his original print mission or submitting to wanton Internet glitz. Rather, Cunningham uses the web to illuminate—and, arguably, improve upon—his work for the newspaper. The On the Street columns that run in the Sunday Times (and are faithfully archived on the website alongside the videos) speak to the fashion cognoscenti. To readers such as myself, unversed in the trade, their significance can grow fuzzy: What, exactly, unites these photographs? Why does it matter that this hodgepodge of Midtown office-workers are wearing scarves? Aside from the fact that they appear to be loitering outside of Tiffany & Co., how are these women channeling Truman Capote? It is with his web performances that Cunningham draws out the map. Within a few minutes, even a fashion ignoramus fully understands the week’s spread of photographs and is dosed with the photographer’s teeming zeal for his subject. The segment offers the perfect application of a multimedia feature. It is cultural criticism at its absolute finest.

In remembrance of the great fashion photographer and critic Bill Cunningham, we are showing some of his lesser-known work, which he did for Details magazine in the 1980s and 1990s. During those years, Details was strikingly different from its later Condé Nast incarnation as a men’s style magazine. The magazine centered on fashion and featured extensive coverage of the Paris shows, often exceeding 30 pages—both written and photographed by Cunningham.

It is in these pages that Cunningham coined the term “deconstructivist” fashion to refer to the work of Martin Margiela. Against commonly held beliefs that tie the term to Japanese designs from the early 1980s, it  was first used in the English language by Cunningham to refer to fashion, in an article he published in Details of September 1989 to describe Martin Margiela’s autumn/winter 1989/90 collection, which was shown in Paris in March 1989. Only retrospectively was the word used to refer to Japanese designers of the 1980s. (Francesca Granata, "Deconstruction Fashion" The Journal of Design History, vol. 26, 2)

Cunningham used the term in its literal sense of undoing, taking apart a garment and accompanied his written articles with beautiful images from the collections:

Martin Margiela, formerly a Gaultier assistant, in this, his second collection on his own, provided quite a different vision of fashion for the 1990s: a beatnik, Existentialist revival … The construction of the clothes suggests a deconstructivist movement, where the structure of the design appears under attack, displacing seams, tormenting the surface with incisions. All suggest a fashion of elegant decay.

    Bill Cunningham, ‘The Collections’, Details, September 1989, 246.

“When the average American thinks of uniforms, they immediately think of something constricting, stifling their individuality…” In the Uniformity exhibition currently on display in the Museum at FIT’s Fashion and Textile History Gallery, curator Emma McClendon explores the interplay between uniforms and fashion, attempting to challenge certain assumptions about their social function.

The exhibition is held in the gallery reserved for showcasing the Museum’s permanent collection, which consists primarily of American pieces. McClendon uses this constraint as an opportunity to explore not only the historical development of uniforms and their interaction with fashion, but also their unique cultural significance in American society, and the tensions they create with individuality, gender, and class.

Uniformity opens with a cross section of the types of uniforms on display in the rest of the gallery: military, work, school, and sport. These pieces are complimented by interviews with American fashion designer Thom Browne, and Stan Herman, whom McClendon calls the “uniform guru” behind such iconic looks as those for McDonald’s, TWA, and FedEx. 

The intention behind this, according to McClendon, is to provide viewers with an entry point for different ways of thinking about uniforms and uniformity in fashion. “One thing that I found very useful about Thom Browne’s interview is that he offers ideas that are a bit counterintuitive. He sees ‘individuality in uniformity,’ he finds confidence in uniforms. Rather than stifling individuality, when everyone is dressed in the same thing, the individual comes to the fore,” McClendon explains during a walkthrough of the exhibition, noting the contrast between Browne’s perspective and what she refers to as Americans’ “cultural resistance” to uniforms.

 Military uniforms dominate the first half of the exhibition. McClendon notes that they have had the greatest impact on not only fashionable aesthetics, but on those of other types of uniforms as well. The pieces in this segment illustrate the development of such fashion staples as the army field jacket, the Breton striped shirt, and the sailor suit, from their utilitarian origins in the military to their use in high fashion. They also provide context for the military inspiration behind some of the aesthetics of work and school uniforms in the latter half of the gallery.

Each type of uniform is displayed in the center of the platform, flanked by the fashionable pieces it inspired. This structure highlights the ways in which the visual codes of official uniforms are subverted through their use in high fashion. Masculine becomes feminine in the appropriation of military soutache embroidery into women’s fashionable dress, illustrated by a recent Ralph Lauren garment. Camouflage on a Savile Row suit calls attention, rather than concealing as originally intended. The utilitarian apron of working class service uniforms becomes purely decorative in delicate Chanel couture. 

Similarly, the exhibition illustrates how feminine uniforms -- once intended to signify respectability or at least professionalism-- become highly sexualized through fashion, as with the nurse’s uniform. Considered the first respectable profession for women in the 19th century, nursing required a uniform which conveyed as much. Uniformity displays two early nurse uniforms which drew their visual vocabulary from ecclesiastical dress, suggesting purity and modesty, while maintaining fashionable silhouettes which indicated that the wearers were ladies of a certain station. As McClendon puts it, “Modesty is the armor of the working woman in the 19th century.” Nurses’ uniforms eventually became sexualized in the 20th century; the women’s liberation movement and the entrance of men into the profession changed the field, and the nurse’s uniform was abandoned in favor of more unisex and utilitarian scrubs. According to McClendon, “Gender roles are a very important topic in considering where we are going in uniform design as we enter into this period of gender fluidity. This ideal of a woman’s uniform being becoming and her gender being clear is not necessarily what contemporary society wants out of a uniform.”

The last section of the gallery finishes with pieces exemplifying the increase in the importance of branding in uniforms and fashion, with the first McDonald’s uniform designed by Stan Herman in 1975, and a collection of school and sports uniforms and the fashion pieces influenced by them. McClendon uses a final video display of fashion performances by Chanel, Gaultier, and Thom Browne to illustrate how pervasive uniforms are in fashion, and how their meaning is dependent on social context and coding. Uniforms are inextricably linked with notions of authority, gender, and class. This is particularly evident in the Chanel performances set in a brasserie and an airport terminal. As McClendon points out, the audience’s attention is drawn to the models in uniform-inspired couture, while the backgrounds of the scenes are populated by people in actual uniforms -- who act as little more than set dressing.

Be they high fashion or official, individual or institutional, uniforms are in fact everywhere in American society. Uniformity provides an entry into making visible and unpacking the layers of social coding we use to simultaneously interpret uniforms and overlook their importance in our daily lives and in our fashion.