A Dissertation on Dress

How many times in a month do I close a BBC News tab and open a fresh one to wistfully browse stories.com, or perhaps read Vogue’s advice on retro florals? Fashion is undoubtedly a form of escapism, especially when the world might feel as if it's collapsing. Yet it frustrates me that an interest in clothes is often judged more harshly than other guilty pleasures. Am I really shallower because I seek refuge in fashion, rather than in fine wine or a football season ticket or state-of-the-art gadgetry? I believe not.

Which is why I sought out academic and critic Dr Shahidha Bari, a self-confessed lover of fashion whose interest in clothes runs deeper than most. Clothes are not trivial for Bari, who is researching a book on the poetics of dress, currently writing a chapter on bags, purses and pockets. “Everybody 'reads' clothes,” she says, “except that we're not encouraged to think of them as meaningful. I think clothes are serious….We can’t pretend that something powerful isn’t being articulated in dress.” I long to sit in on her lectures at Queen Mary.

I’m convinced I will like Bari, not only because of our shared obsession. Her voice sounds lovely on radio: crisp eloquence overflowing with sunny enthusiasm. Her emails are also lovely, signed “warmly, Shahidha.” In person, she is no less forthcoming. I want her to be my cool, clever older sister, on hand with fashion advice and fitting literary quotations. Or at least to be my friend.

The Jonathan Swift quote in her Twitter bio must refer to somebody else: “she wears her clothes as if they were thrown on her with a pitchfork”. Shahidha wears her clothes casually, like she wears her abundant knowledge, but her get-up nevertheless reveals the careful judgement that she considers an ingredient of style: “there's a kind of intelligence in knowing what suits you, understanding colour and shape, and how what you wear might contour a particular encounter.” It worries her that women are often “reduced only to our clothes.” But she also recognises that it’s problematic “to be disqualified from taking an interest in our clothes, as though we would be betraying certain inferiority.”

Chatting to Shahidha, I glimpse the fruitfulness of her research. Our exchange of clothes-related anecdotes is enriched by her fascinating cultural insights. We talk about childhood memories and a much-loved “pink sailor dress with a smart square collar” – the curiously British choice of her Bengali mum who emigrated here in 1979. It transpires that the “Prince George effect” is nothing new. I learn that the nautical craze in children’s fashion began with Queen Victoria’s eldest son, who was gifted a miniature uniform from the Royal Navy.

Pride in her smart dress gave way to dance-mania and teenage style crushes such as Madonna in her True Blue era (“I still have a soft spot for a cropped denim jacket”). Memory is powerful in shaping our relationships with dress: “of course clothes are about memory!” Shahidha believes clothes can possess a kind of magic, confessing to owning garments she’s never worn but won’t part with, and enthusing about seeing Yves Saint Laurent’s Mondrian dresses: “You think you know it, but then you see it in the fabric, and it’s something else entirely.” In pieces such as these, fashion becomes art.

But there’s a distinction between magic somehow inherent in an item and that which resides “in the meeting of you with the perfect garment – a kind of love at first sight.” Here Shahidha cites feminist academic Hélène Cixous: “basically the most glamourous philosopher you could ever imagine” (Shahidha’s style icons have become more sophisticated since her legwarmer days). Cixous wrote about a Sonia Rykiel dress in which she felt “dressed at the closest point to myself…..in a light that is undiluted, perfectly truthful and just.” This is the dress Shahidha dreams of. We sigh together, yearningly.

But whilst clothes represent heady possibility, “there is hazardousness in dress, particularly for women”. “There is no option of privacy. We are dressed bodies and our bodies are always available for inspection.” Shahidha speaks about her own “exhilaration” and “anxiety” in relation to this duality. We have both experienced periods of ill health and I relate to what she describes as “a certain precariousness about my body that I felt my clothes had to conceal.”

I would talk forever, but Shahidha’s schedule is hectic. In contrast, my only “pressing” task is finding a copy of Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth, “a novel that abounds with dresses and hats, but they are more than just dresses and hats.” I feel like the too-keen student clutching at the recommendations of the coolest tutor. Shahidha says we could meet up for a coffee next time I’m in London. Does this mean we’re friends?

by Emma McKinlay

Sophie's Choice

The last steep stretch of the cattle-gridded track demands a shift into first gear. Risby Manor is perched, elegantly, on the very edge of the rolling Lincolnshire Wolds. If it weren’t for the morning mist clinging stubbornly to the landscape, I would be able to see Lincoln Cathedral, thirteen miles away.

It was the complete renovation and extension of this grade II listed Georgian building that earned one-to-watch interior designer Sophie Peckett a prestigious Property Award in 2015. At the front of the house, capacious pots containing sculpted box flank an Italianate portico, which Sophie added to the façade to ‘give the house that entrance.’

But a door opens at the side of the house and I am invited to enter another way. Stepping over the threshold, my senses are pleasantly ambushed. The heady scent of lilies fills my nostrils; my vision is eager to absorb what might oxymoronically be described as a tranquil riot of colour and pattern.

Flooded with natural light, the open-plan space evokes the warmth of a Tuscan villa. French doors and floor-to-ceiling windows, their frames and shutters painted the light green of avocado flesh, lead onto a stone terrace. The sloping formal garden beyond dissolves into the fog, providing a reality check: I am still in old Blighty.

Sophie welcomes me as warmly as the home she has designed. Her slight frame is casually clothed in jeans. She seems laid-back – impressive given that she is currently juggling five projects. Her personal style nevertheless mirrors the obsessive attention to detail displayed in her work, as well as her instinctive knack for combining the surprising to playful effect. ‘My taste is just to mix and match and don’t be afraid, just go for it.’ The white t-shirt she is wearing is emblazoned with a flight of shimmering swallows whilst a diamond-encrusted starfish hangs from her neck (animals also make frequent appearances in her interiors). Judging by her considered choice of accessories, jewellery is as important to her as the finishing touches in a home.

Showing me around, Sophie enthuses about custom-made furniture. She outlines the possibilities of bespoke carpentry (‘panelling in shagreen or suede, beautiful handmade handles’), talks knowledgeably about the hand-applied technique behind the distressed patina of a lamp stand, and describes the level of control one has over the detail when commissioning a handmade piece. ‘There’s this idea that handmade furniture is going to cost the earth’ she says, a myth she is keen to dispel; ‘it’s actually more affordable than buying off-the-peg from a high-end retailer.’

In the other sitting room – wallpapered with a striking Fornasetti design, in which monkeys caper across a classical colonnade – there are two identical sofas. One is an original Christian Liaigre, restored and recovered by Rowlands Upholstery in Grimsby, and the other is a facsimile Sophie commissioned. ‘And I don’t know which one it is!’ Sophie exclaims, laughing. ‘I mean that’s just it, it’s done so well that you can’t tell the difference.’ She shares Liaigre’s conviction that craft is synonymous with luxury.

When I ask whether she thinks craftsmanship is alive and well in the UK, she answers very positively: ‘I think it’s had a resurgence in the last five years’. She cites The New Craftsman gallery in Mayfair, founded in 2012, and Kit Kemp, Design Director of the boutique hotel chain Firmdale, as ‘contributors to this craftsmanship Renaissance.’

Sophie supports craftspeople local to Lincoln and London. How else does her nomadic lifestyle benefit her? ‘London is a bubble and coming up here just lets you breathe again. And it means you have clients with such diverse personalities. And I think it’s important not just to be niche, I want to be nationwide.’ Clearly, ferocious ambition lies beneath the laid-back attitude. She also has her sights set on further international projects, currently pitching for one in Dubai, ‘which I’m desperate to get.’ ‘I love travelling,’ she tells me.

But she also loves home. Born in Tealby, the village just down the road, Lincolnshire ‘definitely feels like home.’ But Sophie equally belongs in London: She recently moved into her flat in Chelsea and Kensington, having spent some time redecorating and reinforcing the ceilings for some chandeliers. ‘It’s your favourite place at the end of the day, your retreat, your sanctuary, isn’t it? I love going home.’

Risby Manor is certainly a sanctuary. As I leave, I can feel the warmth of the sun burning through the damp haze; the blue sky is being gradually unveiled. In an hour or two the panoramic scenery will be bathed in the light of a glorious spring afternoon. I ache to see it. The protesting sound my car makes as it bounces back down the steep, uneven track, seems in sympathy with my reluctance to descend from this haven on the hill.

by Emma McKinlay

It's a Grey Area

When it comes to hair I have a knack for being accidentally on trend. Losing my hair to chemotherapy was perfectly timed with the debut of the brave buzzcut à la Ruth Bell. Similarly, my initial dismay at it subsequently growing back grey (bearing in mind I'm 23) has been assuaged by the fact that grey, as everybody cheerfully reminds me, is very of the moment.

Yet the grey craze has actually been gathering momentum for some time; the colour was enjoying catwalk moments and celebrity endorsements as early as 2010. Pixie Geldof was a pioneer, and models at Jean Paul Gaultier's A/W 2011 show donned wigs as sculptural in their steely hues as their towering beehive forms.

46-year-old Kristen McMenamy featured in the Gaultier campaign, waist-length tresses spilling over her shoulders. But monochrome photography lent her true colour ambiguity; we could be forgiven for mistaking the ex-redhead’s mane of white for blonde. And despite the refreshing casting of a veteran model, new kids on the block predictably dominated the catwalk. The subversive look seemed largely about unexpected contrast: youthful women with symbolically “past-it” hair.

Has this young trend grown into just that: a trend for the young? Certainly, teenagers have embraced #grannyhair with enthusiasm, emboldened by the safe irony implicit in their use of that hashtag. But statement silver selfies are not exclusively reserved for women for whom the shade couldn’t possibly be presumed natural. Even if older trailblazers tend to be beautiful outliers like McMenamy.

Admittedly, we aren’t going to be seeing numbers of silver vixens presenting prime-time TV catch up with the foxes anytime soon (lack of grey representation on screen being as much about sexism as it is ageism). But brands are realising that older women want to see models their own age wearing the clothes that they are more likely than a younger demographic to actually be able to purchase. And as mature models Alex Bruni and Dulcie Andrews recently discussed on Woman's Hour, silver hair is advantageous in their expanding corner of the industry. Forget “has-been”: avant-garde grey is in demand as an emblem of older beauty.

For further evidence of this, look to Celine’s Spring 2015 ad and that instantly iconic image of Joan Didion at 80. Cool and inscrutable behind dramatic sunglasses, her grey bob screams sleek sophistication. Timeworn hair is aligned not only with beauty, but fierce intelligence. Because it isn't simply Didion's inherent chicness that Celine wants to associate with; it is her enviably minimal (apparently effortless) prose. Phoebe Philo's clothes aspire to similar reverence.

Unlike grey strands invading individual scalps, the materialisation of a grey streak in the fashion world, amongst young and old, is a welcome shift. It can be considered within an emerging movement seeking to celebrate difference – in relation to size, race, gender-fluidity and age. But societal attitudes won’t change overnight. Despite being triumphant, internet noise surrounding campaigns such as Dolce & Gabbana’s for S/S 2015, starring two silvery matriarchs, suggests we are far from casually recognising grey-haired beauty as a norm. But surely tokenism is preferable to invisibility?

Which brings us to another irony surrounding a trend playfully ironic from its inception: In contrast to women's fears that they will fade alongside their hair colour, mature silver style icons command attention. Like depigmented hairs on a brunette head they are easily plucked from the crowd. A more flattering simile might compare them to shimmering unicorns, rare and otherworldly in their confident ownership of the ageing process.

I know I'm not the first to cite unicorns with reference to Vogue's own Fashion Features Director, who can't go unmentioned here. Sarah Harris understandably prefers the precious metal’s connotations over drab “grey”, and silver is undoubtedly the more accurate descriptor for her hair’s lustre. Sarah’s silver strands first appeared aged sixteen; in her twenties she made the bold decision to own the colour. Ironically (yes, more irony), her hair looks too good to be true; by embracing naturalness she has become an icon for women going silver artificially.

I’m doubtful that my own salt-and-pepper crop will inspire anybody to go grey. Not only is my white unevenly distributed, but striped hairs suggest that even individual follicles can't decide whether to pack in producing pigment or not. However, I risk further follicle damage by reaching for the bottle prematurely, so there’s currently no choice but to pretend I'm on trend.

Yet I’m grateful that I will have choice, when I can eventually colour without concern. Don't get me wrong: I'm no more announcing that I won't ever dye it than I am advocating an 18th-century wigpowder revival. But it's comforting to know that grey is okay, even as I develop further signs of ageing. Whatever I choose, I'm looking forward to actively following trends, instead of trends following me.

by Emma McKinlay