I have to admit that I ended up falling in love with fashion due to its stories: Paris, Charles Frederick Worth and the birth of haute couture; the revolutionary ideas of Saint Laurent back in the 70s; the Sicilian widows and Byzantine images of Stefano and Domenico; the romantic opulence of Galliano; the macabre genius, butterflies, and stuffed birds and deer of Alexander McQueen.
Unfortunately, there are no more “stories” in today’s fashion. They were all replaced with cheap and sterile collaborations, in which designers trade artistic creativity, individuality, and mercantile spirit. Or by quasi-dull collections – all very sparkly, having only 1 or 2 main pieces – created strictly for being sold fast and easy. Bloggers, editors and journalists, they all wonder and admire the conceptual ideas of Miuccia Prada, even though there are very little people that can actually have a conversation about them.
The fashion weeks are an entirely different story: prestigious events, and apparently exclusive, in which street style and celebrity outfits often become much more important – and also much more commented – than the presented collections.
As fashion becomes a part of the pop culture, everybody wishes to gain a part of the mass attention – and from the profit that comes from here. Fashion is democratised, it becomes accessible to everybody when it is reduced to the smallest common denominator.
Don’t get me wrong, I do wish for fashion to become available to everybody, but not in the disadvantage of its complexity and beauty. And not in the disadvantage of exciting, fabulous and grandiose stories.
Because without all these great stories, what do we have left? Soap operas, anecdotes, satires and caricatures.