Fashion is dead and so is the word for it. Long gone are the days when shows and showcases were the realm of a bunch of pretentious self-assured bunch who would fire a laser gun at non-flamboyant voyeurs. High fashion was a good business made for a bunch of few with enough money to buy a 100.000 dollar couture dress or mad and obsessed enough to sell their auntie to buy that Japanese outfit. Shows were not broadcasted, televised, videotaped and what happened in private shows was left to the imagination of those who would never be allowed in. And so were the parties and the clubs where you could spot some of these exquisite outfits, champagne parties or avant-garde performances. Fashion, or should we call it mode, was mysterious, a dream within a dream. It had something dictatorial to it and one cannot deny the appeal of the aesthetics of totalitarism with its futuristic penchant and idealistic lines and architecture.
But then came democracy to the fashion world and blew it off, particularly when Jean Paul Gaultier decided Madonna and her funky music were cool and when a museum in New York that should be there to protect art and fashion opened its doors to a ball and a sad depiction of punk by a bunch of people Johhny Rotten would not even spit on.
Fashion is dead, it became a fad within a fad. What we now call fashion could be called salad, mermaid or marmalade for the sake of it. Come September and October your TV screens, computers and smartphones will be flooded with thousands of images of dresses and skirts, beanies and brogues with no caption or review attached, just a selfie as a reminder that the person who took the picture was actually there, gorgeous in his/her outfit cleverly picked at a cheap store and probably designed by a renowned fashion designer who should have protected his/her core business instead.
Carlos Tomé Sousa