by Susan Juby
Mr. Carmichael, the head of the fashion design program, was absolutely the most stunning example of a well-dressed and handsome older man in his excellent gray blazer, dark jeans, beautifully cut sel et poivre hair, good loafers. The perfect pink shirt. Sigh. He was the best-dressed teacher I’d ever seen. Of course, he is probably much better compensated than the teachers at Jackson. I think the people who determine teacher pay should know that students, at least this student, feel more nurtured and better educated when their teachers can afford excellent clothes.
After his introductory lecture Mr. Carmichael congratulated us again on being accepted into the competition and said that our applications were “most intriguing.”
“I’d like to thank Tesla Wharton and Bijou Atwater for agreeing to help out with the competition. They are two of our most gifted seniors.”
I’m glad Bijou is not a competitor. She is purest style. Her hair is black with a white streak, and her outfit was the kind of chic that costs a lot of money and requires absolutely unerring taste. When Mr. Carmichael called her gifted, her eyes closed briefly in the most deliciously feline satisfaction.
I was sitting next to Jason Wong, the boy wearing the deconstructed look of shredded leather and denim. He leaned over and whispered, “Her dad funded most of this program and built the whole fashion wing.”
I didn’t react, but Bijou stared at us as though she’d heard the comment.
Tesla, the other assistant, had hair so pale, it was nearly silver. She was thin and graceful, with a pale athleticism-slash-sportif thing going on that made her look quite enchantée! Like a ballet dancer on a break or maybe a gymnast on her day off.
After lunch Mr. Carmichael had us talk about our backgrounds and perspectives on fashion.
If the contest was for enthusiasm, Madina would win the top three spots. She and her family recently immigrated to Canada after fleeing a terrible war. She has five brothers and was so compelling on every level, I almost couldn’t stand it. I wonder if she’ll incorporate head scarves into her looks. I really must get better educated about world fashion. There is so much to learn about other traditions, and I can’t wait.
Witchy Ainslee informed us she likes incense, the color green, and “island living.” Her particular focus was on sustainably produced clothing and organic fabrics with a historical bent.
Beside me Jason Wong told us that he wants to be a costume designer for the movies. He said he is an avid reader and writer of horror.
When asked about his passion for fashion, John Thomas-Smith said, “A bit of everything and a lot of nothing.” When Mr. Carmichael told him to go deeper, John said he sometimes resented fashion and how it pressures people to fit a mold.
“Can you unpack your critique?” asked Mr. Carmichael.
Mr. Carmichael speaks to us like we’re in the third year at Yale! J’adore!
John looked embarrassed and said nothing, but Mr. Carmichael waited him out.
“I just think that some aspects of it are, uh, sort of bullshit.”
Mr. Carmichael watched. Then he looked at the rest of us.
“And you? Do you think fashion is ‘sort of bullshit’?”
“No!” said two of the identical girls together.
“Yes,” said Cricket from her chair. “Obviously.”
The matching, long-haired girls swiveled to stare at her. Cricket stared back from under the swoop of flame-red hair that nearly covered one eye. Her hair was so perfect for her. And that chiffon dress. It really was extraordinaire! Such panache! Next time I see her in the halls at Jackson I will go and speak to her. Maybe.
“Industrial fashion doesn’t recognize that not everyone is a size zero able-bodied lemming bot,” she said. “And regular people can’t afford custom clothes.”
“Unless they change the way they think about clothes,” said Ainslee.
“The fashion world is full of thieves,” said Jo-Ann. “If I see one more big-name designer label knocking off indigenous designs, I’m going to . . . pinking shear someone.”
Everyone laughed, except me and John. I didn’t laugh because my heart felt too full of love for my fellow competitors. I don’t know why he didn’t laugh.
“This competition is designed to allow you to critique fashion as well as participate in it. We want to see that you have thought deeply about designing clothes that reflect your values and that honor your models. We want to see evidence that you understand not just the fashion industry as it exists today, but where it comes from and even where it might go.”
And then he gave us a magnifique lecture on the word “fashion.” He talked about how it means to make something, to change something, that it refers to a multibillion-dollar industry and is also a synonym for “trends.”
He told us he wanted us to consider the spiritual dimensions of clothing design. Now they were all gaping, except for me. Gaping is very unattractive.
Ainslee asked what Mr. Carmichael meant by “spiritual.” It was évident that Ainslee thinks she knows beaucoup de spirituality and was thinking she’d be having a conversation among equals.
“At the risk of sounding too esoteric or vague, some theologians say our spirituality can be defined as how we channel our desires,” he answered. “Fashion is all about desire. Who we want to be. How we want to be seen. During this competition I want each of you to think about what your deepest desire is. How has that desire brought you to the study and execution of clothing?”
“Fear!” said Jason, the horror lover. “We live in fearful times. Clothing is armor! Also, I want to be a costume designer for horror movies.”
Mr. Carmichael nodded.
“I am sickened by fast fashion,” said Ainslee. “Clothing should go back to a time when it meant something.”
“Tradition and elegance,” said Ellen, the tidy girl. “Plus revolution.”
John added nothing, but he was paying close attention.
I’ll say this about the conversation. I loved it. Every word. Because I believe that fashion design is a way to release the inner dreams! Histoire vraie! Mr. Carmichael was being so deep, and he was asking us to be deep, too! Our designs had to be more than beautiful and well made. They also had to be spiritual. That would be no problem for me. Clothing is basically my religion.
“As I was saying,” Mr. Carmichael went on, “everything we do as artists, designers, and human beings has multiple dimensions. We are looking for young designers who are going to explore the boundaries of what fashion can do and what it should do.”
So this was what students learned in the Green Pastures fashion program! They weren’t just getting news and views from the latest hot stylist. They were learning the history, art, politics, economics, sociology, and philosophy of fashion. I felt my heart swell and my brain grow.
Charlie Dean HAD TO ATTEND THIS SCHOOL! There was simply no other option.
ten
MARCH 2
Mr. Carmichael ended the day by telling us about “croakie books,” which are apparently these notebooks where fashion designers “document their collections of looks.” He reminded us that our “mood boards,” which I think are collages of inspiring pictures or something equally lame, would be due along with the croakie books the day of the fashion show. Then we were dismissed.
We had a little over two months to go away, do some research, draw a few ideas, then turn one of the drawings into an actual outfit that a model would wear in the fashion show.
Time to drop out. Not only do I dislike and disapprove of fashion and fashion people, I massively underestimated the amount of work that they do. Two months might seem like a lot of time, but I have my career as an underperforming high school student to consider. Then there’s my part-time job selling soul-destroying salad. I have Barbra and Booker to hang out with, metal to cut and pound. I’m just too busy for this contest. Plus, I maxed out my skills when I fille
d out the application. I could maybe do the illustrations, but I seriously doubt my ability to sew garments that reflect my feelings about clothes and are innovative, well-made, and spiritual, FFS. I’ve never seen a piece of clothing that was all of those things. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything that was all those things. I’m also incapable of making something that would “meet the inner and outer needs of my model,” partly because I have no idea how to find a model. Barbra would laugh in my face if I asked her. She hates being in the spotlight.
Barbra and Booker are going to laugh so hard when I tell them I’m dropping out after the first day. But that’s okay. I am used to not being taken seriously. I barely take myself seriously.
Still, I have to admit that underneath all the resentment, I really liked being at the school. That Brian guy was interesting. He didn’t seem remotely fashionable. I learned some things from Mr. Carmichael and didn’t mind the other contestants as much as I thought I would. A few of them even seemed sort of cool. Cricket was pretty funny and sharp, and Jo had a stellar up-yours attitude that I admired. And Charlie Dean may be bizarre, but she’s not boring.
After we were dismissed we left the atelier with slow steps. Mr. Carmichael stood at the doorway, nodding and saying each of our names as we passed. I thought I might get the cold shoulder, since I’d been fairly negative, but he was nice.
“John,” he said. “Thanks for your contribution today. You brought up some interesting points.”
“Sorry,” I said, and I meant it. The man was trying to give us disadvantaged types a way into the school. He acted like we might have important things to say about fashion design and art, and I felt sorry I was there under false pretenses.
I stopped to use the bathroom, and when I came out I realized I’d left my sketchbook in the classroom. There wasn’t much in the book other than a few notes I took during the lectures and some small drawings, but I didn’t want to leave it behind. When I walked into the classroom, only the irritatingly named Tesla remained. She was picking stray pieces of paper and juice boxes off the tables.
She was basically an archetypal Salad Stop customer: thin as a child gymnast, glowing skin, excellent posture, straight teeth, distant expression. I’d only barely registered her during the day. I make a point of not seeing people like Tesla, even when I’m taking orders from them.
“This yours?” she asked, holding up my book.
Her eyes were the color of backyard pools.
Stupidly, I pointed at it, like I was identifying a suspect in a photo lineup.
“I was about to look through it,” she said, almost smiling. “To see what you’re capable of.”
Was the girl flirting with me?
She wore a short leather jacket and baggy pants with elastic at the ankle and crazy shoes that looked like a cross between an army boot and a sandal. Her shiny blonde hair was piled on her head in a careless way that probably took a long time to get just right.
“You’d be surprised,” I said.
“There’s something interesting about your look. I haven’t quite unpacked it,” she said, echoing Mr. Carmichael.
Much as I wanted to ask her WTF she was talking about, I didn’t, because I sort of liked the idea that she was thinking about me, analyzing me, “unpacking” me. As hard as I rage against not just one machine, but all the machines, I am not immune to the charms of the good-looking girl.
“Let me know when you figure it out,” I said.
“Is that vintage Patagonia?”
I looked down at the old fleece I wore. I found it at one of those thrift store sales where, for five dollars, you get a cardboard box to fill it up with whatever you want.
Tesla moved closer to me. She was taller than I thought. She touched the collar. “Synchilla,” she said. “Cool.”
She smelled like fresh-cut grass.
“Are you aware that you smell like a lawn?” I asked.
“My fragrance is called Mown. I got it in New York.”
My nose was full of her.
I took a step back. This conversation needed to be cut short. I needed to clear my nose. Or my head.
“I probably shouldn’t say this,” she said. “But if you need anything, advice or whatever, I can help. You seem like . . .”
“Like?” I said, in spite of my best intentions. Why was I sniffing this fresh-cut-grass-smelling, New York City–visiting rich girl and asking her what she thought of me? I’m such a mystery to myself sometimes. I seriously worry that I am not a good person.
“You seem interesting,” she said. “Different. Most people in fashion are just so, you know, focused on fashion.”
“You’re not?”
“Oh, I totally am. I’m into technical wear. Sports clothes. Same-same but not.”
“And I’m different how?”
“I can tell you think about other things.”
She had that right.
“Well, thanks, I guess. I should go. Someone’s waiting for me outside,” I said.
“We can walk out together,” said Tesla. I watched as she put all the paper in a recycling bin and grabbed a leather satchel. I forced myself not to stare.
Two minutes later, Tesla and I came out the front doors of the school. Booker stood straddling his bike near the bike stand where I’d locked up my Norco. He glanced up from his phone, and when he noticed Tesla he did such a hard double take, I almost laughed.
There was no way to avoid introducing him, but I tried to make it quick.
“This is my friend Booker,” I said.
“I’m Tesla,” she added, and reached out her hand. He took it with something like wonder.
“So did John win the contest yet?” Booker asked.
Tesla laughed. “Not yet. But he’s doing great.”
Then she gave us a little wave, and we watched her stride across the road and into the parking lot. Her car wasn’t, thank god, a Tesla, but it was pretty fancy.
“Dude,” said Booker, staring after her. “What, who, how? You have to tell me everything about that girl.”
I unlocked my bike.
“She’s no one. She’s just helping with the contest. I had to go back to get my notebook, so we ended up walking out together.”
“Whoa,” he said. “Just whoa.”
“Don’t get too carried away. I’m going to drop out of the contest. They want me to think about clothes. They want me to make clothes.”
Booker watched Tesla pull out of the parking lot. I watched him watch her. When she was gone, he turned back to me.
“John,” he said. “Stop trying to skip over the fact that I just met an angel who smells like fresh-cut grass. Shit like that should not be skipped over.”
“Let’s go. We’ve got to meet B at the bakery. She’ll be mad if we make her wait,” I said.
We rode side by side down the wide shoulder of the gently sloping road that led away from Green Pastures.
“If it doesn’t work out with Destiny, I may need to grab Tessa’s number from you.”
“Her name’s Tesla, you goof,” I said. Then I changed the subject.
Reasons Fashion Is No Way to Spend Your Time
Marcus Fairs: So is fashion dead or has it just become a ridiculous parody of itself?
Li Edelkoort: It’s a ridiculous and pathetic parody of what it has been. I know because I’ve seen fashion shows of Thierry Mugler which would have 65, 75 models for three quarters of an hour. We would be on our chairs, shouting with tears in our eyes and the whole place would go crazy. Check Thierry Mugler’s old fashion shows online. You see the difference. It moved us.
Marcus Fairs: You said in your talk that fashion used to predict the future but doesn’t now. Has it lost touch with what’s going on in society?
Li Edelkoort: Completely.
—“IT’S THE END OF FASHION AS WE KNOW IT,”
DE ZEEN MAGAZINE
PART THREE
The Small Matter of Models
eleven
HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:
Find an old pair of cowboy boots and gild them with metallic paint, cover them with studs, and carve cool designs in the leather. Everyone should have a pair of apocalyptic cowboy boots for days when you need to walk on the moon.
DATE: MARCH 4
Days until fashion show: 61
I was so inspired by the workshop at Green Pastures Academy of Art and Amazingness that I spent nearly ten hours on Sunday working on mood boards and making notes and drawings for my ensemble. What I came up with was absolutely stunning and elegant. Glam, glam, glam.
I paced around my room for twenty minutes because repetitive action such as walking stimulates creative flow. Back and forth, around and round. I ran my hands over the fabrics of clothes hanging on the rolling racks. I stared at the images on my mood boards.
And just like that I thought of the perfect model. Her name is Bronwyn and she is next level. Not just the pretty, but raffinée, raffinée, raffinée. She’s the feature window in the Barneys of Life.
Bronwyn has tawny skin and golden hair and tiger eyes and is ultra-lean but somehow curvy and looks like the world’s most exclusive and thrilling pet. My dad watches a lot of drug movies, which is not a good choice, in my humble avis, but ça ne fait rien. His favorite drug film is called Scarface. It’s about a young man who hails from Cuba, very sweaty, like our landlord, Mr. Devlin, and highly ambitious, unlike our landlord. The young man in the movie becomes a major drug dealer and cokehead and there’s a disgusting scene in a shower with a chainsaw that should have scared my dad straight years ago, but hasn’t. Anyway, in Scarface, the drug dealer gets fantastically rich and essentially buys himself a gorgeous woman who is played by Michelle Pfeiffer, one of the world’s most élégante actresses. He also buys an actual, literal tiger, which he keeps chained in his yard.
