by Sheila Heti
SURVEY
MESSAGES
“Clothes seem like literature to me. The text of a dream.” —EILEEN MYLES
LARA AVERY My mom and I are in Kohl’s discount department store in Topeka, Kansas, the only place she would buy my clothes that wasn’t a secondhand store. I am twelve or thirteen.
ME: I want to get this spaghetti-strap tank top.
MOM: Why?
ME: Because everyone wears spaghetti straps and I like them.
MOM: Spaghetti straps send people the wrong message.
ME: What message?
MOM: That you want them to see your skin.
ME:. . . .
MOM: Do you want people to see your skin?
ME: I don’t know.
MOM: My mother always told me that if you can’t wear it to church, don’t wear it all.
ME: Fine. Whatever. They’re just clothes. Not messages.
MOM: You’re getting older. They’re messages.
NATALIA ELTSOVA Sometimes you can see women who wear something that doesn’t give you any information about the body, you can hardly say if a person is fit or not, or what shape. I pay attention to how others dress. It doesn’t mean you can judge a book by its cover, but you can make some conclusions about a personality.
ERIKA THORMAHLEN I heard Maria Shriver give an interview once about her late mother, Eunice Kennedy Shriver. Her mother always picked her up from school in a convertible with the top down. Her mother would wear a cashmere cardigan, looking very classic New England. But the twist was that Eunice always had all these handwritten notes pinned to her sweater, things she didn’t want to forget, to-do lists. I greatly admired that anecdote, its mix of timeless style with a haphazardness and air of no-nonsense practicality. There was nothing curated about those notes, but it was the most memorable image of a woman’s style I ever heard.
BETH FOLLETT Before I started my publishing company I worked as a therapist, most often with women survivors of sexual and other forms of physical abuse. During my practice I saw hundreds of women who carried deep shame in their bodies, broadcasting that shame and confusion in their gestures, habits, and ever-changing manner of dress. I believe all women carry shame to some degree, and it has been my practice to explore where and how mine resides in or moves through my living body. I would rather not hide the facts of my living self through tricks.
SADIE STEIN The politics of a clothing exchange with women are complex. Here, this will look good on you, someone might say. But they are also saying, I am rejecting this. And I am choosing what you wear, and what the world sees. Now that I think about it, although I always take large armfuls of clothing to swaps, I never come away with much. I’ve never found it as satisfying as being able to choose who gets what, deciding what will flatter them, or what, in my opinion, they should be wearing.
CARISSA HALSTON My tattoos have proven more valuable the longer I’ve had them. What they’ve meant to me has changed as I’ve aged, but they remind me of who I am, which is like finding a cheerful letter you wrote to your future self.
AMY ROSE SPIEGEL My boyfriend drew a heart on my thigh in black pen.
EMILY BROTMAN I was smart enough to understand what all the girls in my school were saying with their mismatched sneakers and racerback bras, but I didn’t have the means, the mother, the magazines, to ask them, in that same silent language, “Am I cool, too?”
JENNIFER ARMBRUST I feel most attractive in clothing that fits well, wears easily, and conveys the desired emotion. I feel best when the clothing acts as a second skin, a visual representation of my inner landscape.
AMY BONNAFFONS My mom grew up in the South with the dictum “You can tell a lady by her hairbrush,” and though she escaped most of the trappings of her upbringing, she continued to carry the idea that it was some kind of moral failure to look slovenly. The idea was: It’s inconsiderate to dress sloppily, because other people have to look at you.
REN JENDER When the war in Iraq started, I went to a protest march and decorated the back of my black vinyl motorcycle jacket with yellow electrical tape so it became a sign—PEACE LOVE AND PVC. I kept the tape on the jacket for years afterward. I think I figured I would take off the tape when the war ended, but I never did.
EVA SCHLESINGER After I was sexually harassed at a job, I made a shirt that said “Stop sexual harassment now!” I enjoyed wearing it to my place of employment.
CARLA DU PREE I would never want to return to the civil unrest of the ’70s, way too horrific to relive those critical times, but I remember wearing my black-fist earrings, and loose-fitting gauze tops and embroidered tote bags, and the freedom that came with being different and stating poetically what was with an armful of bracelets and puka-shell necklaces and bolder shoes.
TANIA VAN SPYCK Charm is the antithesis of cool. We lost a lot when we lost charm. Cool is dull because it’s pretty uniform. Charm is that specialness—the little extra thing, the detail and thought. Charm can be sexy, but not always. It’s about interest in things and details and creativity and a playfulness with taste. There is so much detail to the best items.
JOHANNA ADORJÁN I used to be a blonde for some years. I got the idea when I first saw the video for “Don’t Speak.” Then I wrote a book about my grandparents, Holocaust survivors from Hungary who late in their lives killed themselves. Typical first book: you investigate your own roots, wanting to understand where you come from. Halfway through, I suddenly decided to go back to my natural, darker hair color. I do see a connection.
PROJECT
WEAR AREAS | ALICIA BERNLOHR
1 We lived in Brazzaville, Congo, for three years when I was small. To this day I love braids, I love Bantu knots, I love dreads, but I’ve finally given up on my own hair looking good in these styles.
2 My pupils are huge and very light-sensitive. My eye doctor told me not to complain, because enormous pupils were historically considered beautiful. Medieval women often used eyedrops made from the belladonna plant to dilate their eyes. The plant secreted not only the chemical atropine (which draws back the irises) but also toxins that deteriorated the women’s eyesight and sometimes poisoned them.
3 I have a small scar to the right of my mouth from slamming into an open car door when I was running late for a movie. The movie was called Swim Fan and it was definitely not worth it.
4 I always thought my ass was kind of big until I studied abroad in Dakar, Senegal, and people would comment unfavorably on its small size. In Senegal, a big butt is called jaay fonde (pronounced jai-foon-dai), and it’s a pretty big deal. My Senegalese host mother said I would remain single until I gained weight and achieved a true jaay fonde.
5 When I was in sixth grade, my swim teacher said of my feet, “I hope you grow into them!” I don’t think I did.
COLLECTION
RACHEL HURN’s shirts stolen from her boyfriend
CONVERSATION
AN OUTFIT FOR A TURTLE
COSTUME DESIGNER THANDO LOBESE SPEAKS TO HEIDI JULAVITS
HEIDI: So you grew up in your Xhosa village playing with only boy cousins. Did you dress like a boy when you played with them, and does that still influence how you dress?
THANDO: Of course I did dress like a boy, you know? We all used to play athletics, go cycling together, running and playing crazy sports, so I had to look like one of them. I was the only girl, so I had to be tough. It does influence my style of clothing. It has for many years.
HEIDI: How so? Do you feel more comfortable if you’re wearing a tough outfit?
THANDO: I don’t know if I should call it tough, but even with heels, the masculine side comes out. It has influenced me big-time. Even the way I dance. I used to do break dancing.
HEIDI: Really? I guess you can’t wear a dress for that.
THANDO: No. You know how girls move, like the video chicks nowadays? I don’t really move like that. I have a certain way of moving because I’m comfortable. I don’t want to attract unnecessary attention, I guess, from the male side.
HEIDI: How do you move your body that doesn’t attract the “male side”?
THANDO: Well, less playing with my ass and my boobs.
HEIDI: You don’t wear clothes that accentuate your ass and your boobs so much. Or do you?
THANDO: Of course I do! But in a way that I’m comfortable. So as much as you can see everything, it’s very comfortable.
HEIDI: So this is your outfit for—you’re in Johannesburg and you’re going to work?
THANDO: Yeah. I want to be able to run if I want to run. And because I work in theater, when we have setups, I have to be able to go onstage and not get hurt. I can’t wear heels in the theater.
HEIDI: Do you ever wear heels?
THANDO: Yeah, I do.
HEIDI: I was trying to figure out why I don’t like to wear heels—and I do wear them, I do—and I realized it’s because I can’t run if someone’s chasing me! I feel unsafe.
THANDO: I can dance in heels, I don’t mind. And there are moments when I go to a club and I’m not wearing heels and it changes dynamics. When I’m dancing with flat shoes, I feel like I’m too short and I can’t move properly.
HEIDI: I want to talk a little about your mom, because you mentioned that she wanted you to be more girly and feminine, and you didn’t want to be.
THANDO: I was born in Johannesburg, and until I was three, she was always there. Then she took me to the country because she had to work. So I was brought up by my grandparents and my cousins and everyone else. She used to be a model, so you can understand how she dressed: she was a lady. When we went to live with her again, my brother and I—at the time I was eight—we were not used to the lifestyle that she lived. We were carefree, and then suddenly, whoa, there were responsibilities, and you can’t do this, you can’t do that. She worked in a rape clinic, and at the time you were told, “You can’t play with boys like this.” Now it was: Don’t sit like that with your legs open, sit like a lady, do this and that. And I didn’t like it. My mother was more of a lady than I was. She still is. But I’m starting to appreciate my womanhood. It happened at a time when she’d lost hope, if I can put it that way.
HEIDI: Right. How old were you when she finally lost hope?
THANDO: I don’t know, she never said it out loud.
HEIDI: You could just see the hopelessness in her eyes. Just total hopelessness.
THANDO: Yeah, I could. I’d go visit her wearing All Stars, and very dirty, and she’s like, “Oh god, no no no no, you must wash your shoes, please, the least you must do is wash your shoes.” And now when I go to see her, she’s so happy. I’m also glad I didn’t change because of what she wanted, it had to come from within—that’s where accountability comes. The beautiful thing is, we somehow have the same sense of style.
HEIDI: Really!
THANDO: I know! And now she’s not so hectically into being a lady and glamorous and all of that. Me, my image, it changes all the time. I have different hairstyles, I don’t know how many hairstyles I’ve done. When I’m done with a show, it just happens. I change my hair color or dread it or whatever. And each time I change my hair, I change my wardrobe. Because I couldn’t have silver hair and wear a pink shirt, you know? It wouldn’t make sense! So I’m always aware of the colors. When I had silver hair, I used to wear mostly black, and it also looked very nice with white shirts, neutral colors. Then I had red hair. It’s just playing around, and I like it.
HEIDI: Let’s talk about costumes. How do you go about designing a costume for a play?
THANDO: I have to read the script, of course, and understand the character. What I like to do with my research—I like to see the person playing that character, to meet them in person. Or if I don’t meet them in person, if I have their photograph, I can actually tell the personality and then I can combine it with the character, and then design around those elements. So it helps to see, Okay, Heidi is skinny, Heidi is fat, Heidi is tall, Heidi has dark eyes—those things really help.
HEIDI: That’s why costume design is so fascinating, because it takes what you do every day, to your own body, to the actual art level.
THANDO: The most amazing thing was having to convince people, This is what you’re going to wear. It’s no use if you can’t convince actors as a costume designer. The first production, my budget was nothing, it was three hundred dollars.
HEIDI: For how many costumes?
THANDO: Six people. I had to make something, create my own tribe, people who live in the desert and then they go search for water. I decided, I’ll take old T-shirts—white—and dip them into dye and make them look old. Then I made these . . . not panties, not napkins, something like that.
HEIDI: Really short shorts?
THANDO: I’ll show you. They were like panties, but I made extra fabric, so they can play with them. For the girls, I was happy they had small boobs. I wanted them to wear spoons to cover their boobs. So I made them wear spoons.
HEIDI: They could have worn ladles, if they had big boobs.
THANDO: (laughs) And then I used leather straps, I made bras from that. I cut their hair in different styles. That’s how I created the tribe. It was so beautiful that I could convince them, and they were so easygoing and excited about it. I don’t think I’ve had any moments when people were not happy with their garments.
HEIDI: Would you ever wear anything that you designed? Do you ever design things for people who are in plays and then think, Oh, I would actually love to have a spoon bikini.
THANDO: I think I . . . would? Let me see . . . It goes the other way around. I’ve had people from other productions say, “Oh Thando, you must make this for me.” A writer came to see a show, and she was like, “I want you to make that outfit for me.” It was actually an outfit for a turtle.
HEIDI: (laughs) Did she know it was for a turtle?
THANDO: Yes, I made a jumpsuit, green, the color of a turtle, and then I made layers, for the hands and for feet. And then I made a backpack—the shell—and pleats, to accentuate the shell.
HEIDI: It pops out!
THANDO: You couldn’t see any of her fingers. I made a cowl neck, so when she’s sitting you see just the eyes.
HEIDI: I would wear it.
THANDO: Yeah, you would love it!
HEIDI: Do you help people choose “costumes” for their everyday lives?
THANDO: (laughs) Well, I look at people, you know? My friend’s boyfriend, I could tell his style. He loves leather jackets and has his own style. He only wears black. I was shopping with my friend and I said, “Oh, those shoes would look so good on him,” you know—because I do that every day. I don’t think she liked that. Ever since that experience, I keep my mouth shut.
COLLECTION
CONSTANCE STERN’s black cotton underwear
CONVERSATION
THE DELIRIUM OF DESIRE
