You can tell a lot about a person from the way they dress. You can tell what media they consume, what they believe in, what they think of themselves (and maybe others). Clothing is one of the most important art forms humans have – at least it is to me. I adorn myself in clothes that act as signs and symbols, creating an identity, a perception of myself, that others consume me through.
Fashion is the act of speaking without words. I treat every event I attend with care and respect by the way I dress. There is, however, a fair amount of outfit-repeating behaviour, as my bank account only allows so much.
Fashion is the act of speaking without words. I treat every event I attend with care and respect by the way I dress. There is, however, a fair amount of outfit-repeating behaviour, as my bank account only allows so much.
One winter night, I was invited by fellow orangutan, Zack Lewin, to a theatre event. Here, I would mingle with like-minded people and discuss various aspects of theatre, performance and politics.
I had borrowed my friend's Alaïa top in a trade-off for my Dion Lee top that I had accidentally shrunk in the wash. In classic Alaïa fashion, it was beautiful but striking; I felt like I was Padme Amidala on Courasant, about to embark on a crucial diplomatic mission. So, like the diplomat I am, I embarked into foreign lands carrying the arm of my tall buff bodyguard.
I had borrowed my friend's Alaïa top in a trade-off for my Dion Lee top that I had accidentally shrunk in the wash. In classic Alaïa fashion, it was beautiful but striking; I felt like I was Padme Amidala on Courasant, about to embark on a crucial diplomatic mission. So, like the diplomat I am, I embarked into foreign lands carrying the arm of my tall buff bodyguard.
“The flow of it…wow! It’s just so free.” The piece of clothing they were referring to can be encapsulated in a form, which can be generously called the fashion equivalent of a potato sack. A black void of nothingness sitting across their shoulders. It could’ve been a statement about anything. I was too bitter to ask. After complimenting me, the two people I assumed I was now in conversation with dove straight into a discussion of the implications of putting on performances during formal events.
Standing beside them in my borrowed Alaïa top and similarly free-flowing pants, I was bluntly ignored. Ignored both through compliments and in their discussion of creating complex theatre in spaces where non-theatre goers are naught to be found. I, a non-theatre goer, was left stunned. I was the Mona Lisa of the night. People standing and taking photos with me without too much care as to why I was or how I even got there in the first place. In an event of titillating discussions and reciprocal compliments
Standing beside them in my borrowed Alaïa top and similarly free-flowing pants, I was bluntly ignored. Ignored both through compliments and in their discussion of creating complex theatre in spaces where non-theatre goers are naught to be found. I, a non-theatre goer, was left stunned. I was the Mona Lisa of the night. People standing and taking photos with me without too much care as to why I was or how I even got there in the first place. In an event of titillating discussions and reciprocal compliments
They, who knew I was not a theatre-goer, could not care less. It was almost impressive how much they philosophised and postured throughout the conversation. Congratulating themselves for thinking the common people are also deserving of complex and challenging theatre. Throughout their thought-provoking discussion, the idea that they were in the company of one of the very people they were discussing - non-theatre goers - appeared to have not even crossed their minds.
Much like Padme, I found my voice constantly drowned out by the other voices of parliament. Maybe I wasn’t being taken seriously because my pecs were silhouetted rather prominently in the top I was wearing. I wouldn’t think, however, that would matter much, as during the pre-drink performances an actor had exposed their breasts on stage. So, surely my own breasts wouldn’t bar me from being an active participant in their conversation? Yet, there was something amiss with how I looked, because no matter how hard I tried I could not, for my life, gain entry into their thought-provoking conversation.
Amidst their seemingly endless discussion, I had the thought to excuse myself and head to the open bar, finding solace and conversation with the bartender and my fourth glass of red wine.
Much like Padme, I found my voice constantly drowned out by the other voices of parliament. Maybe I wasn’t being taken seriously because my pecs were silhouetted rather prominently in the top I was wearing. I wouldn’t think, however, that would matter much, as during the pre-drink performances an actor had exposed their breasts on stage. So, surely my own breasts wouldn’t bar me from being an active participant in their conversation? Yet, there was something amiss with how I looked, because no matter how hard I tried I could not, for my life, gain entry into their thought-provoking conversation.
Amidst their seemingly endless discussion, I had the thought to excuse myself and head to the open bar, finding solace and conversation with the bartender and my fourth glass of red wine.
A month later I found myself dressing for the opening of a show coming off a successful run through the festival circuit. I found myself in a tight Peter Do top and the same flowing pants. As I was leaving for the Uber pool, I decided to run back to my wardrobe and fish around for a flowing black button-up I had ordered from Japan. At the time I was unsure why I wanted to wear it; I rarely felt cute in it. But I wore it nonetheless.
After the show, on my second glass of free red wine, I was asked what I thought – irregardless of who I was to the creatives speaking to me. I spoke at length about the olfactory elements of the show…something something and so on.
I was on my third glass of wine so my thoughts were fighting to stay related to the topics at hand. Free from my own personal style, and coincidentally also a tall blonde gay boy, people seemed to treat me as their intellectual equal.
I left the after party having consumed five glasses of red wine, clutching a stolen wine glass hidden in my flowy shirt and the feeling I had been respected and valued as a person with something to say in this space.
After the show, on my second glass of free red wine, I was asked what I thought – irregardless of who I was to the creatives speaking to me. I spoke at length about the olfactory elements of the show…something something and so on.
I was on my third glass of wine so my thoughts were fighting to stay related to the topics at hand. Free from my own personal style, and coincidentally also a tall blonde gay boy, people seemed to treat me as their intellectual equal.
I left the after party having consumed five glasses of red wine, clutching a stolen wine glass hidden in my flowy shirt and the feeling I had been respected and valued as a person with something to say in this space.
Another month later, I was attending the 30th birthday party for APHIDS, an avant-garde theatre company constantly pushing the boundaries. The whole night was a production in itself, even the serving of food was a performance. The crowd was varying degrees of engaged. I found it amusing and absurdly intricate. The performances, like the audience, were varying degrees of engaging.
After a few minutes of observation, it became clear who was part of the theatre company's history, family and who was there to network and find a way to progress their career. As the night went on, however, I felt increasingly isolated and alienated. I was perhaps the only person “just there” because I happened to be there.
After a few minutes of observation, it became clear who was part of the theatre company's history, family and who was there to network and find a way to progress their career. As the night went on, however, I felt increasingly isolated and alienated. I was perhaps the only person “just there” because I happened to be there.
I couldn’t quite form the thought yet, but something was brewing. There, sitting at the table in my tight, black JBNY turtleneck, I felt, once again, ignored. There were so many simultaneous discussions happening around me. None of which seemed interested in my perspective or comments.
The few odd times I did work up the courage to speak, my comments were responded to with silence, or novel surprise at the fact their colleagues’ pretty boy of the night had something interesting to say.
After a litany of performances and many conversations, none of which included me, the night was finally over. Well, the night was over for me as I retreated to the bathroom and cried, whilst everyone else stayed to network with people they already knew.
The few odd times I did work up the courage to speak, my comments were responded to with silence, or novel surprise at the fact their colleagues’ pretty boy of the night had something interesting to say.
After a litany of performances and many conversations, none of which included me, the night was finally over. Well, the night was over for me as I retreated to the bathroom and cried, whilst everyone else stayed to network with people they already knew.
Eventually I left the bathroom, mostly because its data reception was horrible and waited outside in the lobby. There, twirling with a flower and waiting for Zack, I was approached by an actor dressed as a meter maid and for the first time that night I was asked the only question that wasn’t asked out of formality: “Why do you look so sad, little vampire boy?”
In that moment, I became acutely aware of an assumed theory underpinning all of my social interactions in the Melbourne theatre scene. Clothing does, in fact, make the man; or at least the person worth talking to.
Through my interactions with the upper echelon of Melbourne theatre makers, it became clear that to be taken seriously in these spaces, my clothes must speak before I do. By donning the uniform of formless all black sheets, I let my voice be heard before I even speak.
In that moment, I became acutely aware of an assumed theory underpinning all of my social interactions in the Melbourne theatre scene. Clothing does, in fact, make the man; or at least the person worth talking to.
Through my interactions with the upper echelon of Melbourne theatre makers, it became clear that to be taken seriously in these spaces, my clothes must speak before I do. By donning the uniform of formless all black sheets, I let my voice be heard before I even speak.
It seems contradictory that in spaces which tout to be breaking from form and freeing expression, would see someone deviating from their formal standard as demarcating themselves as an outsider.
Ironically I had come to feel constricted by the formless uniform I found myself putting on for these events. I put on formless and flowy clothes as a retreat to comfort. Comfort in the thought there would be a chance I would be taken seriously, that my perspective on art would be heard and valued.
As is the Sisyphean struggle of Elle Woods, were my looks competing with people's willingness to perceive me as intelligent? Yes, I might not be an established name in the Melbourne theatre scene like my peers, but that doesn’t mean I don't have a voice. It shouldn’t mean I have to follow their same aesthetic markings in order to fit in and be heard.
Ironically I had come to feel constricted by the formless uniform I found myself putting on for these events. I put on formless and flowy clothes as a retreat to comfort. Comfort in the thought there would be a chance I would be taken seriously, that my perspective on art would be heard and valued.
As is the Sisyphean struggle of Elle Woods, were my looks competing with people's willingness to perceive me as intelligent? Yes, I might not be an established name in the Melbourne theatre scene like my peers, but that doesn’t mean I don't have a voice. It shouldn’t mean I have to follow their same aesthetic markings in order to fit in and be heard.
Yet, my experiences within the community have shown me otherwise. Fashion historically is used as a social tool to distinguish oneself as a part or apart of a group. Whether it’s an obvious signifier a la uniforms, pins, etc., or more fluid forms of identification such as colours, fits, textiles and textures, all social groups have various ways of identifying who is in, and, most importantly, who is out.
Was it worth sacrificing my own sense of identity and expression to be taken more seriously? To signify that I belonged in that group.
In my efforts to be taken seriously, I lost the things I thought were fun about myself. Who cares if theatre people I don’t know think of me as Zack’s twink accessory? Who even cares if they’ll read this article? In the end, I’m the one using my voice, however twinky it may be, to write a silly ethnography about clothing at formal theatre events.
At least to me that means I can be taken seriously, regardless of the clothing I wear. Even if those clothes are the best in the room by far! There could be 100 people at a theatre event and only one twink will be wearing Alaïa and Tabi Boots.
Was it worth sacrificing my own sense of identity and expression to be taken more seriously? To signify that I belonged in that group.
In my efforts to be taken seriously, I lost the things I thought were fun about myself. Who cares if theatre people I don’t know think of me as Zack’s twink accessory? Who even cares if they’ll read this article? In the end, I’m the one using my voice, however twinky it may be, to write a silly ethnography about clothing at formal theatre events.
At least to me that means I can be taken seriously, regardless of the clothing I wear. Even if those clothes are the best in the room by far! There could be 100 people at a theatre event and only one twink will be wearing Alaïa and Tabi Boots.