Fashion Week, at present, has been declared a “circus.” Street-style photographers, where once there were two or three, have multiplied into an often-indistinguishable paparazzi mob. Charges of “peacocking” or, to go with the circus analogy, “clowning around” have been levied against those that are deemed overdressed to deliberately bait the street-style paps. Then there are the accusations that outfits are constructed out of unattainable samples or displaying disingenuous style. It all boils down to one thing: Street style isn’t “real” anymore. Whatever “real” means.
But who is presiding over this council of stern judgment that decrees one outfit to be genuine or not? And what exactly is wrong with showcasing the more outré side of your personal style during Fashion Week—a time when we are all present to celebrate the most outré and directional collections that will shape our seasons? It’s always been a weird dichotomy for me that an industry that revels in the most avant garde of creations on the runway can then turn on those who dare to wear what we’re all lauding anyway. There’s one standard for a creative designer and another for “real” life, which apparently demands functionality and wearability. It’s why fashion-speak is peppered with vernacular such as “toned down,” “dressed down,” and “easy to wear.” Moreover, the criticism from within the industry comes from a general disdain for today’s look-at-me selfie-fueled culture at large.
Whilst trudging through the microcosm world of fashion shows, looked upon like a peacock or a clown, I can only think that beyond the industry’s judgmental eagle eye, the sea of change, brought on by street-style imagery and its subjects, is bigger than one can imagine.
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We have choice, and lots of it. Those who wish to express themselves through color (guilty), print (double guilty), genre clashing (triple guilty) can. The sources are sprawling—high fashion, high street, thrift, antique, Etsy, e-boutiques of independent designers from Tokyo to Mexico City. The connections are real, not virtual. Through my Instagram feed, I might find a designer who has tagged a picture with my handle and then order something from them within five minutes.
For the wearer, there’s sartorial pleasure in this mad mix, but for the consumer of the resulting street-style imagery, the routes of inspiration are endless. The most daring of Comme des Garçons pieces that seemed daunting on the runway are suddenly standing on the sidewalk, in a tangible context, might inspire someone to take a gander around Dover Street Market. A vintage kimono might mingle with Dries Van Noten’s take on chinoiserie and send someone on a merry hunt on eBay. The Prada spring 2014 collection, which was as loud as they come with its rainbows, embellishment, and face motifs, might spark DIY versions of painted-face dresses and cutoff tube socks by teenaged fashion junkies. A young designer, whose clothes happened to be snapped on a street-style It girl, suddenly picks up a stockist or two. The final destination of these street-style JPEGs aren’t desktops, blogs, Tumblrs, or social-media channels. It’s the moodboards of fashion designers and the wardrobes of fashion enthusiasts all around the world, and thus the dialogue becomes two-way.
The noise of a few grumbling industry insiders is merely distraction from the real conversation that is going on in this wider fashion landscape. It’s a conversation that keeps fashion, as ever, always changing and evolving.
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