From Coco Mellors to Allie Rowbottom, the intersection of fashion and literature is getting much richer — and more human.
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 miniskirt, 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. More contemporary examples include the ample sartorial references in Cleopatra and Frankenstein, Ottessa Moshfegh’s journal entries for a Proenza Schouler runway show, and of course, we can’t forget perhaps the most apt congruence of fashion and writing: The Devil Wears Prada.
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.”
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.
To me, the combination of these two disciplines is the most wonderful form of synaesthesia. Take a quote from Coco Mellors' 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 as if 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 Mellors' 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.
But taking fashion seriously as a creative interlocutor is not just done because it’s something pretty and fun to describe. No, it is a worthy, dare I say noble, quest, and I believe the importance of writing on fashion cannot be understated. Using it as a narrative symbol provides a medium through which authors can discuss heavier themes. Take Joan Didion’s use of clothing in Play It as It Lays, where Maria Wyeth and the colour white are repeatedly linked to express the protagonist's desire to start anew, as well as illustrate the apathy and white nothingness that has become Maria’s existence. Through the examination of aesthetics, something that may ostensibly seem vacuous, writers can dissect the intractable and rather nebulous themes of gender, capitalism, and modernity.
This ties into the recent phenomenon of literary “It Girls,” 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.”
Yet arguably, this new social construct is the ultimate reflection of how patriarchy still seeps into modern literature. Allie Rowbottom articulated her experience of this two-edged sword for Byline, relaying how “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.”
I do not aim to be reductive here, either, because as it is not incorrect to say that female novelists are writing about fashion to reclaim patriarchal control, it is also just one edge of a multi-sided prism. Fashion instructs us in both real life and the novel, and it is easy to assume that writing about fashion is an aesthetic pose rather than a narrative one. This is also not to mention the typification and necessity necessary to appear as an effortlessly cool and proficient novelist — especially if you are female.
As a woman, there is no way to escape the pressure of the patriarchy completely. 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 that women writers get are often tied to their looks, even in fiction. Think of Andrea in The Devil Wears Prada. When renowned journalist Christian Collinsworth 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 them? 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. 🌀
Jade Serna is a writer and aspiring journalist from London, England. She can be found on Instagram @jadesernaa.
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