John Butleron when clothes can be a matter of life and death
I have a difficult relationship with what I would describe as extreme fashion. I understand that it's a unique form of expression for both the creator and the wearer. I think it can do what all great art can do, which is tell a story, move people and make them feel better about themselves and their place in the world. But I have never been interested enough in fashion to learn the history and theory behind it, so I haven't been trained to speak the language. I can't even hear the conversation that is taking place between the designer and the audience when a model walks down a runway wearing chain mail.
Ignorance has its benefits, though. I can watch a reality TV series called Project Runway, which is in its third season in America, and hear the judges say of a designer's work: "I am in awe of what you are doing with those zippers." Those who are capable of appreciating what is being said and done with those zippers are free to agree, and I can laugh like a drain. Of course, what I am doing is laughing at my own ignorance. And perhaps I should consider taking it more seriously, because sometimes, what you choose to wear can be a matter of life and death.
I once wore chain mail on a night out. I went to a fancy dress party as a Nordic archer, completing my look with leggings and a breast-plate. Sure, I was let down by my trainers, but from the ankle up it was the real deal. The blond, stick-on medieval moustache may even have been woven from actual Scandinavian human hair, such was the downy texture.
Standing on the street corner, my friends and I were an ersatz haute couture nightmare. Angus Young from AC/DC stuck his arm out for a cab while Max Cady, the homicidal villain from Cape Fear shared a cigarette with Marge Simpson. This Nordic archer stroked his moustache thoughtfully. Max Cady looked more like Michael Bolton to me. How would we compare at the party?
This was Halloween in San Francisco, in a huge abandoned warehouse; we didn't have to worry about fitting in - or standing out. As is the way with costume parties, the environment seemed charged with way more excitement than a normal party because everyone looked like an idiot. Those who didn't mind looking like an idiot were bound to be good at a party anyway, and those who weren't were either drunk or absent.
You could access the rooftop smoking area via the steel staircase running up the wall. As we made our way up, we saw a riot of colour, uncanny look-alikes, every costume under the sun, and some people who had decided to come naked - don't you hate those who won't join in?
Max Cady/Michael Bolton came back from the keg with some plastic cups. He handed one to Angus Young and gave me the other. I tilted my head backwards to gain purchase on the beer beneath the huge foam head - Malcolm Gladwell would have described this as the tipping point. I started to fall backwards, I think it was the extra weight from the chain mail on my head that did it, and I took a step back to steady myself. I planted my foot on a skylight and my leg plunged through it, smashing the thick glass and sending it showering on to the concrete dancefloor below.
As I fell, I could hear dancers screaming and scattering beneath me, but all I could see was Max Cady/Michael Bolton disappearing from my line of sight. Was this continuing confusion about his costume to be the last conscious thought of my life?
I remember all too vividly that slo-mo horror, the dip of sound, the open-mouthed staring faces. People describe what happens at times like this as a moment of clarity, and I wasted my moment on a re-appraisal of the Michael Bolton oeuvre. The lyrics to How am I supposed to live without you? echoed around in my head. He seemed to be reaching out to me. I grabbed at the air, trying to make contact, and magically found the firm grip of a hand. It crushed the bones on each of my fingers, arresting the fall. Out of nowhere, Angus Young appeared and grabbed my other hand, his school tie brushing against my face. I was saved.
No sooner had I been planted back on terra firma than the party's host hauled me into a room and demanded that I explain what had happened. I was a little disappointed at his tone, suggesting as it did that I had smashed the skylight on purpose. He didn't seemed to care that I had narrowly avoided dying. He wanted my name and address. I was happy to provide it, and I was also happy to pay for the damage. He asked me to take off my chain mail so he could verify what I looked like. But the most disappointing moment came when he asked me to remove my moustache. He knew it was fake. The whole concept of a Nordic archer walking the streets of San Francisco had failed.
I don't like high fashion. I just don't understand it. But clothes of any kind tell some kind of story, and to deny this is to blind yourself to the kind of story you yourself are telling. Looking back to the night I nearly died, I think if I knew what the chain mail and Nordic moustache were saying to the guy who threw that fancy dress party, maybe I would have understood why he was so angry. u
John Butler's blog is at http://lozenge.wordpress.com