012: What's On The Inside
What do our clothes reveal about themselves beyond the surface?
A friend recently asked for my opinion regarding a potential purchase. The object in question was an unassuming long black wool dress that tied at one side, but it was what it held on the inside that excited me. Designed by Dries Van Noten for his Fall 2015 collection (and I promise I won’t wax poetic about the designer yet again), the interior hem was of brocade in a decadent red and gold combination. I responded to my friend with resounding approval, delighted by the prospect of her wearing it about the city, something so personal worn so close that no one else would be readily privy of, strangers perhaps only catching a glimpse as she crosses her legs upon taking a seat on the subway, or the swiftest glimmer as she crosses the street in a quick stride, the crosswalk signal flashing amber, and long after they crossed paths, the strangers’ curiosity would linger. This made me think of the adage, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.
Private joys are an increasingly rare phenomenon, and to invite one to explore the inner lining of a garment and what lines our inner selves is an intimate and sacred act. It’s no big secret that the temptation to mine and divulge the innermost workings of our lives and ways of being to a massive faceless audience for personal gain can be insurmountable, with sizable rewards in the short term but minute in the long run. Logos and status symbols take center stage, and even wealth that is allegedly stealth and luxury that is quiet shrieks at a piercing octave. For so much of clothing and accessories, there is very little beyond the surface: luxury fashion has become more and more about pleasing external spectators, rather than crafting pieces to delight the individual and forging intimacies between patron, object, and designer.
A few years ago, my husband and I began our honeymoon in Rome. For the occasion of our first full day in the eternal city, having recovered from jet-lag and exhaustion (the night before I had almost fallen asleep face-first in a bowl of pasta wearing a thrifted black Gucci tent dress), I wore an early 2000s sleeveless silk Prada shirtdress of modish prints in green and purple, conservative in cut but liberated in color. The dress was put to good use throughout the first day and for days to come in the oppressive late Italian summer heat, until eventually it had absorbed so many unique smells that I could not further subject unsuspecting victims to. Inside, the supple ivory silk lining, already witness to who knows how many lives before my own, finally surrendered. Upon returning to New York, I took it in for repairs, and after opening up the patient for further examination, the seamstress explained to me that the lining of the dress originally had not been sewn but glued on. The dress, she told me, had most likely been a sample. But it moved me to think that such thought had once been given to the content of the fabric lining the dress, one not even meant for sale.
A plain silk lining may not be thought of as something groundbreaking, but it gives me pause when compared to far too many pieces in my closet that are either entirely unlined, or are weighed down by thick and stifling polyester that produces enough static cling to generate sufficient electricity to power my apartment. A well-lined garment enhances its structure, and ensures longevity and less turnover, which explains why vintage often holds up better than the clothing of today, as corporate-owned brands grab at every penny and cut ever-essential corners for grotesque profit. A well-lined garment also means that the designer or brand has put thought and care into conceiving the client’s life lived and how the garment will evolve with time. To have this grasp on reality and to honor the client commands reverence for the designer.
Over the winter, I bought an outwardly rather ordinary-looking grey coat by Dries Van Noten (I promise this will be the last time, but I also want to illustrate just how few designers really think of their creations from the inside out). What drew me as I was perusing a rack of fantasies at Bergdorf Goodman wasn’t its dull greyness, but instead a flash of electric silver from within. I pulled it off the rack for closer inspection, and was thrilled to discover that the coat’s interior was lined and gently padded with a crushed bright silver material surprisingly comfortable to the touch. Unless I walked around like a chicken or with my hands over my head (seen below, and not very practical), few would be aware of this silver lining. I have a special fondness for pieces by designers who think about a client’s reaction as their wares are slowly revealed to them: the iridescent brown lining of a sunny green cashmere Jil Sander swing coat from the 80s; the shocking orange faux-fur lining of a vintage Bonnie Cashin leather coat; dresses and tops and skirts seamlessly lined with humble cotton or silk or soft viscose that don’t stifle but swing.
Fashion has become a pursuit of overexposure and instant gratification; very little mystique remains when all intrigue is borne on the outside. What is forgotten is that how and with what we adorn ourselves – most importantly – is an act of eliciting personal joy, a choice we make to fulfill no one but ourselves. The inner workings of the clothes we wear is as significant in this, if not more, than their facade. This does not mean that all our clothes must be resplendently lined with silver and gold brocade and neon fur in order to derive pleasure from them: even a simple but thoughtful lining that makes one feel held, uplifted and buoyant is capable of producing such private magic. It is, after all, what’s on the inside that counts.
“…an early 2000s sleeveless silk Prada shirtdress of modish prints in green and purple, conservative in cut but liberated in color.”
Love this sentence