It is a glittering Friday night in early August. I am 23, traversing Soho with a group of girlfriends, a mini Margarita MOTH can in hand. I am scantily clad in a vintage Italian cami top with bow details sewn into the low cut neckline, a white ruffle mini skirt and denim pumps that borrow inspiration from Diesel but were purchased from Bershka for £22.99 because, I regret to inform you my dear reader, I do not have casual-ability-to-spend-ludicrous-amounts-on-shoes-type-of-money (yet). The air is hot with sex and second-hand cigarette smoke and the blush pink cardigan I brought in case I got cold is wrapped up like a burrito and shoved inside my brown crochet, shell embellished shoulder bag. Our heels clatter on the concrete and we are beautiful and it is so warm and we are so young and the pleasure of it all almost amounts to its opposite: pain. It feels like a scene out of a book I used to love when I was younger.
Recently, I have been thinking about the intersection between literature and fashion. Take the ultra feminine 60s style in Valley of the Dolls, the Coco Chanel inspired luxury in Rebecca, or Anna’s glamour and physical charm in Anna Karenina. A more contemporary example is the ample sartorial refences in Cleopatra and Frankenstein, and of course we can’t forget perhaps the most apt congruence of fashion and writing: The Devil Wears Prada.
My favourite part of reading a book is the hallucinogenic effect it has on my mind, where entire cities and faces and events are constructed from mere symbols inked to a page. This commonplace magic is heightened when fashion and fiction converge, as author’s craft characters that readers can dress, animate and envision in their imaginations. Patterns, shapes and shades come alive; the pulse of an intangible rhythm is given physical form.
As Katja Horvat writes for Not Just a Label, “both fashion and literature occupy a fetish for fantasy inside the minds of so many people/ Literature has given the fashion world some of its most enduring icons/ and these iconoclasts were firstly fashioned with a pen, yet they continue to catalyse inspiration for many designers, stylists, and readers.”
To me, the combination of these two disciplines is the most wonderful form of synaesthesia. This is a perceptual phenomenon in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to involuntary experiences in a second sensory/cognitive pathway. Have you ever thought something just tasted purple? That would be synaesthesia. When I read fiction about fashion, I can feel the textures in my hands and hear the fabric swishing against my skin.
Take a quote from Coco Mellor’s debut novel: “She found the dress she did wear buried at the back of an overpriced vintage store on Perry street, a liquid silk slip/ When she slid it over her head, she felt as if she had taken a knife to the surface of the sky, skimmed a little off the bottom, and worn the peel.” I feel like I can almost taste the fabric of the dress; like I can drink its aquatic properties and azure colouring.
Another example of the blending of perception is found in Mellor’s newest book Blue Sisters: “her outfit was suspended on a velvet hanger with a Polaroid of her taped to the hook. It was a halter-neck ball gown with a flared skirt the shape of an upside-down martini glass. The fabric was the palest confectionary pink, like the underside of a kitten’s paw. Across the artfully draped bodice, a network of silver beaded branches sprang heavy with sparkling cherry blossoms.”
Such descriptions make my senses coalesce in the most divine burst of pleasure. I can hear the swish of dresses and crystal glasses clinking and a tiny cat meowing, and I can smell all the flavours of spring- light notes of rose, magnolia and vanilla. It makes me feel alive and powerful, to be able to tap into sensations with such evocative radiance, merely by deciphering black letters off a cream paper page. Don’t let anyone tell you you aren’t magical, when you can do that!
And arguably, 21st century culture is making the intersection of literature and fashion even more prominent. Take the phenomena of the ‘Literary It Girl’, defined in an NYLON article as a new generation of savvy, young, female writers who are “beautiful, stylish, and social, with a certain je ne sais quoi. But what really makes them influential is the creative ways they stage and elevate their work — both on the page and in persona.”
Of course, there has been a wave of backlash against this trend, with critics stating that artists should be anonymous, that their work should speak for itself etc. But as Allie Rowbottom wrote in an Instagram post regarding her identification with this new social construct, “I have been conflated with my body since the age of twelve. That such conflation has become both a burden and inextricable from who I am is an internal conflict that cuts to the quick of my relationship with womanhood, a relationship that informs my writing.”
As a woman, there is no way to escape the pressure of the patriarchy completely. But what we can do is mould, sculpt and bend it to our advantage. I like to think of it as being ceramicists in an unfair system; though we cannot change things entirely, we can create something beautiful out of the mess we’ve been given. There’s always a way to make light of adversity, and that’s exactly what literary It Girls are doing: reclaiming control of their physicality in a way that benefits them.
Unfortunately, the opportunities for exposure women writers get are often tied to their looks. Think of Andrea in The Devil Wears Prada. When renowned journalist Christian Thompson offers to look at her work it is not because he sees some invisible brilliance in her. No, quite the contrary. He helps her because he finds her attractive and hopes one day he will be able to sleep with her in exchange for professional favours.
So isn’t it time women writers reap the rewards of how they look, instead of being punished for it? After so many decades of male voices marginalising female ones, of men hating women for desiring them, of generally thinking of female intellect as lesser-than, I think it’s about time women repossess the narrative.
Fashion is all about self-presentation and, in a world where women are judged so heavily in this regard, it seems fitting (excuse the pun) that female authors are transforming this curse into a blessing.
As I’ve matured, I can honestly say that I have both profited and paid for being thought of as attractive by men. I will continue to write, to pour my soul into my work, and this inevitability will not prevent my other fate: that I will continue to be judged based on my appearance and garment choices. Fashion and literature will go on bouncing off each other, like light refracting through water, as women and their sartorial decisions will carry on influencing, informing and inspiring their words.
As always, with love,
Jade.
wait i love this so much u have such a way with words !!!
love this!!