007: Supplemental
Women dressing women, a utopian dream, my vanity and I
The weather report:
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As I slowly emerge from an extended period of self-imposed confinement (more on that below), and I’ve found myself thinking about the Bengali writer Begum Rokeya’s feminist utopian story, Sultana’s Dream. Written in 1905, the story’s imagination exceeds what we could even conceive of today: set in Ladyland, women and girls run everything and men are relegated to confinement, the inverse of the reality at that time. There are flying cars, solar power has been harnessed for agriculture, and women are liberated in the intersectional sense of the term.
I became very curious to know where the men were. I met more than a hundred women while walking there, but not a single man.
'Where are the men?' I asked her.
'In their proper places, where they ought to be.'
'Pray let me know what you mean by "their proper places".'
'O, I see my mistake, you cannot know our customs, as you were never here before. We shut our men indoors.'
'Just as we are kept in the zenana?'
'Exactly so.'
As a child I was deeply familiar with Begum Rokeya’s works and even resented them a fair amount: in our Bangla language classes at school, we were tasked with memorizing and reciting poems written in the language, many of which were penned by Begum Rokeya. I thoroughly disliked the humiliation of mumbling a poem before my peers, more so because I hadn’t a clue what most of it meant. This is the importance of context, to situate one no matter how young or old in the depths of meaning to foster appreciation and respect for the craft. Now I read Sultana’s Dream at least once a year, and marvel at how I and my educators failed to honor such a true revolutionary.
See
Last week my best friend came to visit, and at the very moment I’d received a text from her to let me know she’d arrived, my face began to burn. Not a metaphorical “I’m so thrilled my best friend is here!” burn, but a literal, creeping-fire-under-my-skin burn. It turns out I’d had an adverse reaction to a retinol product I’d been using, and for the duration of her stay I looked like a saucy Italian American meatball.
It’s times like these you can either throw in the towel or embrace the ridiculousness of being a mere mortal. One day during her stay, when I was most resembling an abstract painting (cheeks up to my forehead, lips meeting my eyes) and realized I couldn’t set a foot out of the apartment without setting forth a city-wide panic while simultaneously combusting, I decided to curate some films for us to watch to match the mood. Think woman on the verge, the plight of beauty and vanity, freaky delights.
We started off with Mommie Dearest, and as a first-timer, I couldn’t help but feel that it was rather exploitative? Though I have no strong feelings about Joan Crawford, chiefly because I'm unfamiliar with her body of work and maybe I will one day become a questionable parent myself, I am a bit weary of posthumous retellings of the life and times of famous people, usually from the lens of an intimate scorned. I did feel rather seen by Joan Crawford as depicted by Faye Dunaway, with cold cream slathered on her face going stark raving mad as Eucerin seeped into my pores.
Next up was Kika by Pedro Almodóvar, a film about a sweet and chaotic makeup artist named Kika who resuscitates the dead son of a man she once slept with her gift of makeup artistry and gab. The son falls in love Kika, there’s a car chase, a bullet-subverting Jean Paul Gaultier jacket with a caged bralette, heartbreak and deceit: all the trappings of a solid film with when your face has gone south, and north. The costumes were designed by Jean Paul Gaultier, resulting in bizarre and stunning looks wherein breasts are not objects of desire but rather agents of power that inspire fear.
Since my best friend’s departure, as in I didn’t drive her away, she just returned to her home, and in keeping with the theme of the week, I re-watched another Almodóvar film, as no one does the unravelling of the human condition in such an aesthetically pleasing manner quite like him. This time it was the The Skin I Live In, another Gaultier collaboration. Unlike many contemporary films and shows where sets and costumes are not characters in and of themselves – take Shiv Roy in Ted Baker for instance – Almodóvar seamlessly weaves design legends such as Noguchi, Sottsass and the Memphis movement, Prada, Dries Van Noten, and Gaultier as integrated conduits and extensions of each characters creative and personal expression. A Gaultier black full-length bodysuit! A Noguchi coffee table! Escaping confinement! I absolutely must recreate this!
Honorable mention: Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn’s tour-de-force performances in Death Becomes Her.
Do
I briefly left my self-imposed confinement last week to visit the the Met Costume Institute’s fall exhibition, Women Dressing Women. I often bristle at turns of phrase like “Women Dressing Women” or “Women Supporting Women” or “I’m With Her!” (have mercy) because it undermines the complexities that exist for women, in their relationships with other women, and, as in the case of Women Supporting Women, inherently implies that in order to be Good Feminists we must champion the Woman, regardless of social and political implications, thus eliminating any scope for intersectional feminism.
What was I talking about again? Oh, yes. It was terrific to see up close some designs I have honest to god dreams about: Grace Wales Bonner’s exquisite take on the New Look for Dior’s Resort 2020 collection; a set from my favorite and Cathy Horyn’s least favorite Prada collection (“I don’t want to look like a stuffed duck”). I was also happy to see the works of Ann Demeulemeester, Sonia Rykiel, Vivienne Tam, and Norma Kamali, but felt that women designers of color were underwhelmingly, and unsurprisingly, underrepresented. It would have been wonderful see a design by Grace Wales Bonner from her namesake line, although perhaps the principle of ones were applied here, as is the custom reserved for people of color: one design by Grace Wales Bonner on view is sufficient, though there was ample Schiaparelli. I would have also included the intentional works of Ruchika Sachdeva, whose clothing line Bodice has received numerous accolades, including the Woolmark Prize.
It was also interesting to see this exhibition, Women Dressing Women, a celebration of select women designers, in the midst of New York Fashion Week, when designers such as Proenza Schouler and Batsheva were sending down near-carbon copies of designs by Céline and Norma Kamali, respectively, without an utterance of an homage, not an editor batting an eyelid (ad revenue is terrible for the complexion!). A version of Kamali’s Parachute design is also on view at the Met. Azzedine Alaïa was known to have recreated certain works of Alix (Madame Grès, also on view at the Met), but he knew better to celebrate and pay dues to his foremothers. He often cited Alix and Grès as inspirations, and his own collection of Alix dresses have been exhibited at Fondation Azzedine Alaïa. I don’t think it serves to pretend that we have invented some new way of thinking, particularly in the fashion industry, when even gloves for the feet exist. The industry would be more fulfilled and respected if credit were given where credit is due, when past and present and futures are honored.
If you live in New York, today is the last day Lina Soualem’s documentary film Bye Bye Tiberias is showing at the Firehouse. Soualem traces displacement, identity, longing and loss through the lives lived of four generations of women in her family, and tells with stunning poignancy the complex and delicate relationships between mothers and daughters.
Ta!
Also, just added Kika to my watchlist cause omg??
Our saucy Italian American meatball!