Unrequited

 It’s just a certain look my mother gives me when i try on a new dress or adopt a manic hairstyle. Parental impulse wants to say I look nice, but a somewhat discerned expression can’t quite choke the voice behind her eyes, screaming “you might love fashion, but it doesn't love you”. And mother’s always right; after 20 years of clothing disasters, magnified to the point of post-traumatic-stress blackouts, I must admit, my love of fashion is completely unrequited. Our relationship is an eyesore of incompatibility; we don’t match aesthetically, it won’t hold my hand in public, rolls its eyes when I talk and I boil with envy when I see it on other girls.

However, despite the complexities that occur when lacking an inherent “style” gene, I do love fashion and need it by means of a delusional infatuation. It’s a sick, one sided, eccentric passion that I cling to like a bitter, jealous lover. I know fashion like no other, I know it in my own way; I know it is not about clothes, it’s not about dressing well, looking good or any of that superficial façade. Fashion is escapism, through which personal expression transcends the mutual bullshit of the “fashion community”. The relationship is neither a part of my life, nor an extension of my being; instead it is coloured and crafted by the moments that shape me. It is gathered by my continuing story, matures with my mistakes and lights the path to my future. It is my machine, driving my voice, my words and delivering a message, ever-changing with my fickle ways.

At its core, fashion moves through a pulsating body of art. It beats rhythmically with music, literature, world history and the throes of popular culture. It is the undercurrent which leaves a lasting visual portrait of the societal movements and historic junctions, forming the architecture of our collective existence. Furthermore, fashion binds generations whilst awarding them with their own entity; what are the seventies without punk’s uniform of ripped tartan and bondage appendages? What are the 1990s without Riot Grrrl dresses liberated by aggressive sexuality? And what would last decade be without Hedi Slimane and his black skinny jeans?

The most celebrated effigies of fashion’s holy kingdom are the designers who make clothes to eclipse practicality with depth and innovation. McQueen’s “Plato’s Atlantis” is just one example of vision distorting the lines of fashion convention. Intertwining questions of mythology and creation amidst apocalypse, the designer saw the words “ready-to-wear” surrender at his feet. Nevertheless, McQueen’s legacy is just one page in an expanding archive written by the likes of YSL Opium, the Chanel pantsuit and Hepburn in Givenchy. It is an archive embellished by clothes but not dominated by them.

I, myself, am an annoying contradiction of embracing the bullshit with a resenting tone. I admire well dressed women with enviable desire, but at the same time, I begrudge the “fashion industry” and its shallow press upon us. My unhealthy neurosis won’t permit any attachment to physical beauty and justifies the cause with the knowledge that beauty is degenerative, can’t stimulate conversation and won’t bring true happiness- but maybe I’m just bitter about being left out.

I breathe fashion without clothes and style and am inspired by its depth of virtue. Throughout the years, fashion has given me non-conformist identity, it rescued me from a debilitating mental illness and provided brighter prospects when my path was bleak and dimly lit. Fashion is my saviour and a kind of tapestry but it is by no means a definition. What I have come to learn is that Fashion and Style are two separate bodies that co-exist from time to time but can thrive independently, with ease. A beautiful collection may be motivated by best dressed lists but an iconic one will guide you past the “visual” towards something real and lasting.

So yes mum, I know I look ridiculous; clothes might be for wearing but fashion is for feeling.