One shimmering foot in front of the other, she fluttered onto the stage. She was donned in yellow like the life-giving sun, but her shoes … they were breathtaking! Oh yes, we liked those Balenciagas — you know, the ones that look like socks.
On December 19, 2018, Michelle Obama set out on the Brooklyn leg of her book tour — with an emphasis on leg. Her glittery, gold, thigh-high Balenciaga boots made a statement: hear me, see me. Obama opted for an ostentatious outfit that contrasted with her traditionally modest garb as First Lady. This decision was of particular significance because black women are so often told to be cognizant of the clothes they wear, lest they come off as controversial, loud, or showy. In her book Becoming, Obama discusses how fashion is racially coded: “As a black woman, I knew I’d be criticized if I was perceived as being showy and high-end, and I’d also be criticized if I was too casual … It was a thin line to walk. I was supposed to stand out without overshadowing others, to blend in but not fade away.”
In the age of fake news, authenticity is of utmost value, and identity politics dominate our newsfeeds. But what does authenticity mean, especially in fashion? Fashion makeovers are exhilarating because they let people mold and morph into different personas. But simultaneously, as society pushes people to be ‘real,’ fashion must follow. This leaves the fashion industry grappling with a million-dollar question: How can we sell authenticity? The answer that fashion professionals have found is a concerning one; the fashion industry tries to artificially produce authenticity and subsequently promotes the appropriation of displays of class and culture. Through an emphasis on authentic, real lifestyles, companies co-opt individuals’ identities and commodify vulnerable populations. It is time to rethink the implications of embracing authenticity.
Now, Don’t Get It (Afro)Twisted
For more privileged members of society, “authentic” expression is easy because the clothes they wear define what the world values. But for marginalized groups, fashion is made political, as their clothing is deemed unsophisticated or unprofessional — even though it may reflect important aspects of their cultures and identities. Hoop earrings epitomize this phenomenon: suddenly a mainstream trend, hoop earrings were long worn by people of Latinx or African-American descent and perceived as “trashy” for decades before being adopted by high fashion.
Anything that adorns people’s bodies can act as a marker for a myriad of traits, including socioeconomic status, race, ethnicity, sexuality, or personality. So to succeed in society, people typically choose to wear whatever will grant them the most benefits. But fashion is always political, and for some people, there seems to be no way to win. Congresswomen Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D-N.Y.) learned this lesson again shortly after her election in November when she was criticized for being inauthentic. After walking to work in a black coat, Ocasio-Cortez was the subject of a critical article written by Washington Examiner staffer Eddie Scarry: “Hill staffer sent me this pic of Ocasio-Cortez they took just now. I’ll tell you something: that jacket and coat don’t look like a girl who struggles.”
His implication was that she could not possibly advocate for the working class while wearing clothes he deemed as high-class. In addition, Scarry dismissed Ocasio-Cortez’ presentation of herself as an advocate of the working class as inaccurate or manipulative. This same message is reinforced by brands and styles that are touted as high-fashion when worn by famous people and celebrities, but are undervalued or stigmatized on people of lower social status.
Let Me Walk a Mile in My Own Shoes
Class appropriation is loosely defined as the commodification of the lifestyle or uniform of the working class. This definition is not easy to unpack, however, because fashion is by nature about selling people the markers of lifestyles that may not even be their own — hence the tremendous popularity of the New Yorker tote and the other accoutrements of the millennial pseudo-intellectual uniform. Supporting the notion of fashion as a symbol of lifestyle, social theorist Georg Simmel first suggested that fashion acts as a tool to aid in individuals’ social adaptation and immersion into society and noted that social classes tend to unionize with fashion. “When fashion reaches the lower-class masses, it is no longer high fashion.”
Therefore, what class appropriation means is the practice of high fashion co-opting the clothes of people that live a working class lifestyle and then re-coding this clothing as high fashion — at least when it is worn on rich bodies.
Vetements, a fashion label owned by Demna Gvasalia, the creative director of Balenciaga, used the DHL logo on a polo shirt that resembled the uniform of DHL delivery people. As one would assume, none of the models worked for DHL, and neither does Gvasalia. Balenciaga then sold a bag that was almost an exact replica of Ikea’s blue 99-cent shopper bag — but this time, with a $2,145 price tag. Ikea responded playfully: “We are deeply flattered that the Balenciaga tote bag resembles the Ikea iconic sustainable blue bag for 99 cents. Nothing beats the versatility of a great big blue bag!”
The issue with these practices is that they reiterate a system in which the wealthy have the leisure of choosing these styles according to preference, and of being celebrated as trendy for the same pieces that may be stigmatized on poor people. These accessories turn lives into costumes — but the reality is that one cannot conceal their class as easily as these models take off their DHL ‘delivery’ shirts.
Might this, though, be a good thing? A way in which fashion can become more diverse by appreciating and paying homage to cultural and class diversity? Unfortunately, this is wishful thinking.
Movin’ on up
These conversations are particularly lively on college campuses around the United States, where politically minded and fashion-conscious students alike are looking for ways to make sure expression doesn’t turn into appropriation. Harvard is no exception. In an interview with the HPR, Vermont native Ethan McCollister ‘20 described the difficulty associated with defining or changing class appropriation: fashion is unapologetic, and does not usually check with the groups that are being commodified. “A lot of people in rural areas don’t know about streetwear. And not many people even wear Timberlands, because they are expensive. There is internal significance to [familiar brands like] Carhartt, these things are representative and descriptive of a way of life — and it’s blue-collar.”
Many affected groups, furthermore, do not have the social capital to protest this appropriation, furthering the power imbalance. And since there are few whistleblowers, designers are rarely held accountable for appropriation in fashion. The problems go beyond the details of the industry, though; McCollister sees fashion as a mirror for issues of class and power, just like other art forms like rap music.
“To listen to rap and think the origins of rap were in 2008 and not know the importance to that community … [is like] not knowing a jacket has a particular class meaning. Authenticity has a similar place within all these power structures. It’s about social capital and class when you’re adopting the characteristics and important pieces of a lifestyle that has less economic capital.”
Many people agree that this mobility of class in fashion is an important concept to be aware of. But in an interview with the HPR, Alex Zhang ‘20, who works for an Asian media brand as well as an Asian streetwear brand, explained that evaluating individual displays can still be challenging. “I do not know if society has reached a consensus on authentic participation in cultures. Because, especially in hip-hop, the question is: are you authentically hip-hop, are you of the culture? Or are you just eating off the work of others?”
What does this idea, of ‘being of the culture,’ mean in reference to class appropriation? Using cultural appropriation, a more familiar practice, can help to understand class appropriation and why it matters.
Putting on Our Work Boots
For those affected by cultural appropriation, it is simple: the people of that culture decide who can wear their traditional garb, no questions asked. While that might seem like a no-brainer, the issue is far from resolved. As a Nigerian-American woman, I have been disappointed to see traditional African clothing co-opted by designers such as Stella McCartney and Asian-American immigrants mocked in collections called “Chinatown chic” and “migrant worker chic.” Plenty of moments like these have left me wondering — why is it so hard for designers to understand?
In an interview with NPR, associate professor of philosophy at Utah Valley University and author of Cultural Appropriation and the Intimacy of Groups C. Thi Nguyen explained that “each culture gets to give permission to share a cultural tradition — or not.” But this simple, respectful guide for fashion designers still places the onus for deciding what is acceptable in fashion on vulnerable populations. As Nikole Naloy, founder of Fig. Magazine, Harvard’s first fashion magazine, explained in an interview with the HPR, “People are fascinated by different cultures and as this global industry grows, they have yet to figure out how to mediate the desire between wearing traditional design from China, for example, and not appropriating the culture.”
When victims of appropriation become whistleblowers or patrollers of their culture, they must constantly defend their right to determine who wears their traditional clothes. The issue of appropriation often arises when companies do not feel a need to ask for permission; instead, they believe that status and exclusivity legitimize their right to sell whatever they want. Or, maybe instead it is a more nuanced discussion: What is a cultural symbol and what is a depiction of a way of life?
A Fresh Lineup
This notion is where class appropriation and cultural appropriation intersect: at the crossroads of legitimacy within a cultural group and authenticity. In an interview with the HPR, Ashley Akaeze ‘20, photographer and aspiring fashion designer, argued that “people can authentically want to look fake. Fashion has always garnered inspiration from marginalized bodies and has used that as a template to dilute and sanitize and sell it back to people and that’s what people respond to.”
Upon further analysis of the high-fashion industry and the trend of dressing of a different class, Akaeze mentioned, “There is this new romanticism and fetishization of looking poor.” She continued, stating that people following designers that depict class in this way, “would only do that if that if poverty was not the reality of you or the people you know,” as consumers familiar with poverty would better understand “the possible impact” of these styles.
The romanticization of the lifestyle of the working class that Akaeze describes is a relatively new cultural phenomenon among today’s wealthy; the upper class has begun to opt for inconspicuous markers of wealth instead of conspicuous ones. In her book The Sum of Small Things: A Theory of the Aspirational Class, sociologist Elizabeth Currid-Halkett traces the evolution of what she calls the “aspirational” class, showing how “the power of material goods as symbols of social position has diminished due to their accessibility.” Instead of gaudy, showy, overtly wealthy pieces, the aspirational class has started to opt for fashion that reflects status and education — like an NPR tote bag or recyclable shoes. The statement that this clothing makes is that flashy clothing does not matter, as knowledge is more ‘elite’ than money.
In response, designers have aimed to produce clothing that represents this laid-back, effortless lifestyle — often characterized by yoga pants and athleisure. While acknowledging the importance of freedom and creativity in the fashion industry, it is also important to remember that these trends can be insensitive to the actual challenging lifestyles that people live—the ones that people cannot just strip away by taking off work boots or ripped, paint-splattered jeans. Culture is not a costume, and neither is class.
Getting Our Ducks in a (Corn)Row
So what conclusion can be reached? Is there a such thing as authenticity in an industry as calculated as fashion? We know now that when the desire for authenticity and a “simple lifestyle” is funneled through the exclusive fashion industry, people are left locked out instead of empowered. It is difficult, but important, to reconcile the 3 A’s: appropriation, appreciation, and awareness.
For Naloy, fashion is at a “critical moment” — as society explores conversations about inclusion of all genders, classes, and cultures, fashion will have to find a way to keep up. Her solution is simple yet effective: collaboration. According to Naloy, “The fashion industry should focus on making these collaborations between lesser known designers from other countries and fashion houses.”
It might just be that simple: involve newer designers from diverse backgrounds and give them a seat at the table. When founding Fig. Magazine, Naloy wanted to bring these conversations about fashion, race, gender, class, and sexuality together. Her vision for the magazine is to spark conversations that the fashion industry is not yet having. The first fashion shoot for Fig. Magazine dealt with global warming and climate change; Naloy wants to prove that “designers aren’t making pointless clothing, they make clothing that speaks to an issue.”
Naloy discussed some rising designers who are molding the fashion industry into a more inclusive, socially conscious space. Dapper Dan is an African-American designer from Harlem who repurposes luxury fashion house logos like Gucci and Louis Vuitton into hip-hop streetwear and who is now endorsed and financially supported by Gucci. Pyer Moss, a designer who focuses on activism and created shirts with the slogan “Stop calling 911 on the culture,” now partners with Reebok. And Virgil Abloh, founder of Off-White and artistic director of Louis Vuitton menswear, produces fashion inspired by his upbringing as the son of Ghanaian immigrants in the outskirts of Chicago.
Moreover, companies like VFILES act as social media platforms in which new designers from around the world can share their ideas, collaborate, and sell designs, while also serving as whistleblowers for colonial or hegemonic practices in the fashion industry.
With the importance of awareness and respect among fashion consumers, is there still a place for authentic fashion? The fashion industry needs honesty. But it is also important to be cognizant of the power dynamics inherent in fashion that influence our understanding of the very idea of authenticity. The more we foster greater awareness of the social hierarchies ingrained in the notion of authenticity, the more we can push for real, honest expression in art and fashion that doesn’t come at the expense of vulnerable identities.
Image Credit: Unsplash/Fancycrave