Monday, June 28, 2010

Not The Point



Fashion is not the point, it's advertising masquerading as art. It's besides the point, celebrating the worst vices of our society; snobbery and class fetishism simultaneously, racism and exoticism at once, wealth, brutality, greed and jealousy, aesthetics with no real intelligence, sound bites, bullet points. It is a dehumanizing merry-go-round, populated by exhausted whores, neurotics, terrified and ravaged seventeen-year olds, the desperate and deluded of the demi-monde.

Clothes do not have souls, the quantum leap from bolt of cloth to Bond Street blouse does not imbibe the garment with value through magic, but rather skullduggerous charlatanery. Fashion is the clothes that drape the zeitgeist, but it is phony, literally a dressing up in clothes from a designated, censored dressing-up box, in the spirit of the times, to try and mimic it, to capture the intangible, physically.

Words are not physical, they are literal, and there is room in the lexicon for the reader to complete what she is reading and conjure up the image (of which the words are merely the starting place) and project it on the backs of their eyelids. Fashion however, is only ever what it is. You can recontextualize it, historicize it, cross-dress it, deconstruct it, but it remains the sum of its parts, a collection of lifeless objects, no matter how exquisite. Bodies give fashion life, and in that respect it is parasitic. But, it is never satisfied to clean that teeth of the shark it swims with, instead it must break out and consume the host organ it feeds on. The body then becomes subsumed to fashion, exists only to flesh out the lines regardless of the discomfort. Fashion is an autocrat on the arched backs of his serfs. It bestows no dignity, preaches no humanism, desires only itself, loves only the cold, hard, empty sound of coins in the register.

Clothes of course are different things. When divorced from, ignored by or outside of fashion they are potential, identity, possibility, expression, bliss.