Back to black

I have a closet just for black clothes. I also have another one for all other mainly dark colours and reds but these never feel so true to myself as black does. I can’t remember why I started wearing just black but for a long time it felt like the most stylish and comfortable solution to the morning rush of getting dressed. Chic, sophisticated people tend to wear black,  so I’m told by a million glossy magazines, books and film imagery.  Apparently, I also tend to look smarter dressed in black.  I can always try to project the existentialist intellectual that lives in me since my teenage years. I grew up during the post-punk, Gothic 80s and have never managed to be Goth even though I still nurture a special admiration for the whole commitment that kind of aesthetics entails. Some of my most glorious errors are a nod to this sumptuous dark world.

Albeit all the experimentation and character creations around my “cinematic self”, I have never been truly convinced that my clothes could become the visible form assumed by the way I chose to define my public persona. At least not in the sort of spectacular, larger than life way I envisaged.

As a spectacular sub-culture, Goth provides a unique insight into the experience of extraordinary “self-authorship” because of the dramatic and unconventional nature of the external self-constructions of individual identity through dress and personal grooming. Whether or not you are drawn to the “dark side of the human heart”, it is almost impossible to remain indifferent to the dramatic manipulation of appearance and the fantastic narrative that accompanies Goth fashion as an illustration of the  extraordinary dimension the stories one writes for oneself can attain, allowing space for the creation of a “historic utopia” as far removed as possible from everyday life.

As superficial as it might seem, fashionable self-construction is not only about “the look”.While designing an aspirational self, fashion “props” allow the individual to construct a personal “bricolage” which gives the access to their extraordinary self via their ability to transform, and in some cases contest conventional social categories through their glamorising discourses (Thompson and Haytko, 1997). While this might not be a characteristic of the Goth subculture alone, both its cultural pervasiveness and the recurring concern with the distinction between authenticity and depth on the one hand, and a fascination with surface and performance on the other, make Gothic a postmodern archetype of “stylistic resistance”. An is this very stylistic resistance that perpetuates its fashionable allure.

Late capitalism produces the desire for an aura that is felt to be prior to or beyond commodification, for a lived authenticity to be found in privileged forms of individual expression and collective identification. For as long as goth seems to answer that desire, it will thrive as an undead subculture: forging communities on the margins of cities, suburbs, campuses and cyberspace; defying constraints on gender and sexuality; and imbuing the stuff of everyday life with the allure of stylistic resistance.

Lauren M. E. Goodlad, Michael Bibby

While Goth as a subculture has not faded away, the increasing heterogeneity in styles and fashion and a world that seems to no longer produce a coherent dominant culture or the cultural values against which resistance might be expressed, have transformed subcultural style in an ideologically vacant performance of over substance (David Muggleton, 2000). The incorporation of a subculture in mainstream society through commodification is not exclusive of Goth but its enduring resonance with contemporary fears, desires and anxieties might have exhausted itself: where once Gothic provided a space in which the dark dreams of the Enlightenment could be realized, now it simply exposes the void at the heart of an advanced consumer culture. The seemingly inescapable Gothic now functions as the perfectly protean postmodern commodity

All of the varied elements that once defined street style are now high fashion’s greatest source of inspiration. At Jun Takahashi’s Undercover and John Galliano’s Margiela in particular, they have been incorporated in dazzling and inspiring ways. But sometimes the embrace of street chic comes across as a mere flourish tacked on to spice a bourgeois brand with a bit of danger, to make a woman with a coddled existence feel a bit more in touch. It is an attempt to buy cool.

By taking the style, trends, dress, music etc of the subcultures and popularizing them so that they lose their exclusivity and gradually become mass-produced commodities made available to all, the mainstream cultural industry dilutes or annihilates specific meanings transforming authenticity in “ready to wear” commoditized lifestyles subject to the same cultural logic of “self-help narratives” and consummerism impulses. Being authentic, as La Agrado would say, does not come cheap and  you are all the more authentic the more you resemble what you have dreamed for yourself . And this is a rare gift.


References

P.S. While I am selling my 80s vintage gothic errors, a part of me is still reluctant. But then I am not sure if “Gothic Chic” is authentic in me.

Radical Authenticity

Night train from Lisbon

Almost two hours to go. Still. I’m tired of sitting down and the fluorescent lights and green pleated curtains are making me feel uncomfortable.

This train arrives in Porto around 1 am. Last time I took it someone got electrocuted while climbing on a stationed cargo wagon at the station 20 minutes away from Porto and we ended up arriving at 3. It was a Friday and we all thought someone had just had enough and decided to put an end to whatever was troubling them. No. It was a joke, just for laughs. Saturday afternoon I was told it was the son of a friend. He didn’t die. He must have killed something inside himself.

11.38 pm

Since my writing is not making much sense, I have tried to sleep. It didn’t work. I wonder who chooses colour schemes in public transportation. They’re hideous.

The gentleman sitting across from me is very slim and very tall. He looks bored but not uncomfortable. He has a perfect Greek sculpture nose and thin long fingers. The lady behind him is sleeping. She is wearing a yellow button down shirt, black jeans, brown suede booties and gold lurex socks. That’s where the fantasy is.

There are more people trying to kill time with Samsung smartphones  than iPhones. There are more people wearing Nike than Adidas sneakers. The gentleman with the perfect nose is calling someone named Ana. She looks beautiful on the retina display. Photos always seem to look better on Samsung phones. Maybe I should trade mine for one of those.

There’s a baby dressed like a bunny. His dad is wearing a Hawaiian print t-shirt. His Nikes match the curtains.

station

12.06 am

Coimbra

Please mind the gap between the doors and the platform when alighting the train. 

There’s a young man reading a book. Roberto Calasso’s “The forty-nine steps”. He got bored and put it down. The blonde girl next to me is sleeping using her oriental print satin bomber jacket as a blanket. She must have had a busy summer; both her wrists are covered with music festivals ticket bracelets.  There’s a bleached blonde girl looking like an “it girl” and carrying a fake Vuitton Neverfull MM.

12.23 am

The train stopped. At the end of the car, framed by orange doors, there’s a guy with big white headphones and another bleached blonde girl with very long hair. There’s an older gentleman walking back to his seat. Red polo shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. It rained today.

12.40 am

Aveiro

The perfect nose gentleman is leaving. The three people standing to leave the train at this station are all wearing plaid. Green and white, black and white, red and blue. The guy reading Calasso is now reading Patrick Modiano’s La place de l’étoile.

The girl with the long bleached hair is very beautiful. She looks like a walking mermaid with a tiny nose stud. A lady wearing a pink leather jacket and matching pink studded stilettos walked past.

1.20 am

I fell asleep. The train has finally arrived in Porto. People going to Braga run to platform 1 to make sure they don’t miss the last train home. My black vintage chiffon dress is all crumpled. I feel as dishevelled as Blanche DuBois. Now I know why I bought it.

Here and Now