ANGELO FLACCAVENTO
FASHION CRITIC, WRITER & CURATOR“I DOUBT, THEREFORE I AM"
Believe it or not, I hate writing. I am constantly asking myself: am I good at it? Am I saying something
truly interesting or is it all just crap? The doubt pesters me greatly. Writing makes me anxious. Lengthy
pieces, in particular, terrify me. I incline towards the fragment, the abridged note, the slashed phrase, the
succinct sketch: anything that gives the impression of the unfinished, ephemeral composition. I think size
matters, in reverse: small is beautiful. Do I feel small? Probably.
Contrary to what I thoughtfully explain when asked about my writing process – writers are liars, that’s for sure – I usually form my opinions while and not before writing. I do have a point of view, of course, but I have only a vague idea in mind at the beginning of the article. I compose the draft jumbling notes here and there, then everything really settles down while I furiously edit. The operation can take minutes, in the case of daily fashion show reporting, hours or even days and weeks. The cutting and pasting and erasing and rewriting electrifies me, physically and mentally. That’s when the slasher awakens. Then the doubtful Flaccavento kicks in. Reading my stories in print makes me cringe: days, weeks, months have passed since submission, and I’m kicking myself I didn’t edit differently. That’s a constant turmoil for me: writing is kind of definitive, but as humans we are (to some degree at least) allowed to change opinions without sounding incoherent. I certainly do: suddenly and radically. Writing solidifies, thoughts fluctuate. This awareness is my fragility.
Marble-like certitude rules the fashion system, a hierarchical pyramid with one single tyrant – a small court, let’s concede – sitting at the top at any given time. Because of this tyrannical nature, the fashion system, as any other system based essentially on power, is averse to doubt and self-interrogation. A person who doubts and admits so is someone who admits weakness or fragility. After all, the body of the king always needs to be healthy: the tyrant is never sick. The same is true for the tyrant’s mind. The tyrant knows better, and his or her certitude reinforces power. This applies to editors, designers, CEOs and all the self-centred denizens of this infinitely egotistical enviornment. It is a certitude that is never under question, not even when the winds change, and this is why fashion tyrants fall with so much noise: they never see the end coming. Roman emperors, towards the end of the glorious days of Rome, were much alike.
Contrary to what I thoughtfully explain when asked about my writing process – writers are liars, that’s for sure – I usually form my opinions while and not before writing. I do have a point of view, of course, but I have only a vague idea in mind at the beginning of the article. I compose the draft jumbling notes here and there, then everything really settles down while I furiously edit. The operation can take minutes, in the case of daily fashion show reporting, hours or even days and weeks. The cutting and pasting and erasing and rewriting electrifies me, physically and mentally. That’s when the slasher awakens. Then the doubtful Flaccavento kicks in. Reading my stories in print makes me cringe: days, weeks, months have passed since submission, and I’m kicking myself I didn’t edit differently. That’s a constant turmoil for me: writing is kind of definitive, but as humans we are (to some degree at least) allowed to change opinions without sounding incoherent. I certainly do: suddenly and radically. Writing solidifies, thoughts fluctuate. This awareness is my fragility.
Marble-like certitude rules the fashion system, a hierarchical pyramid with one single tyrant – a small court, let’s concede – sitting at the top at any given time. Because of this tyrannical nature, the fashion system, as any other system based essentially on power, is averse to doubt and self-interrogation. A person who doubts and admits so is someone who admits weakness or fragility. After all, the body of the king always needs to be healthy: the tyrant is never sick. The same is true for the tyrant’s mind. The tyrant knows better, and his or her certitude reinforces power. This applies to editors, designers, CEOs and all the self-centred denizens of this infinitely egotistical enviornment. It is a certitude that is never under question, not even when the winds change, and this is why fashion tyrants fall with so much noise: they never see the end coming. Roman emperors, towards the end of the glorious days of Rome, were much alike.
My own glorification of incertitude and questioning is a remedy to time that passes; it makes me more
adaptable and sceptical. Or so I tell myself. In hindsight, however, I know that at one point I will be out of
sync. Senescence is real: an older colleague tortures me with this, telling me that my ideas are getting passé
already. She says my antipathy to certain aspects of contemporary fashion are just the result of not being able
to understand the present-day. She makes me livid, furious, probably because deep down I know she’s right and
one day, very soon, I’ll turn grumpy and start eulogising the good old days. I’ll do my best not to, but it
won’t work.
The daily doubt I face, and I’m sure my colleagues do too, is this: am I relevant? Does my opinion hold any true meaning in the eyes of the reader? This might all sound a little too self-conscious but the fact is, this is a fundamental question. Relevance is certainly a status given by the system, sometimes rather arbitrarily, but it also gives worth to one’s efforts. Gaining relevance, as a writer at least, is an insidious road, as there is the relevance that comes from sticking to one’s guns, and the relevance, sometimes greater, that comes from accommodating the status quo. The same applies to designers, I’d say. This is where the whole thing gets extremely twisted, and doubt proliferates. The oposite forces of convention and rebellion work simultaneously in fashion. What’s shockingly new, immensely progressive, in one instant becomes conformism the next, and so on in an endless cycle of perpetual creation and destruction. Early champions of the new might face harsh criticism from the old guard – after all they were the vanguard once – only to soon become allies of the powers that be when tides change. Is this change of mind putting personal and professional integrity at risk? I sometimes think so, then mitigate the feeling by acknowledging that, by its very nature, fashion rejects loyalty. Or does it? A scene, religiously repeated at the end of every show, when first opinions are conjured up, is very telling. As the lights go up, attendees immediately turn to the powerful and respected to ask, ‘So what did you think?’ And, if opinions differ, they probably stay schtum for fear of being labelled ignorant, or tasteless.
Having the clarity and openness of your vision questioned is painfully diminishing, for personal doubt can feel enriching and empowering, while being doubted by others stings. Again, it makes you feel unworthy of your position, or, even worse, unworthy of being heard – irrelevant, that is. Taste, though a cultural construct, is a very intimate trait: no different from handwriting, or tone of voice. Having it questioned touches you deep down, hitting a nerve. It’s hard to translate this into words, but believe me when I say that it has a discombobulating effect. We all depend on approval, and we all want to feel that we’re one of the good guys. It takes a lot of self-confidence to resist these attacks: a confidence I have rarely encountered in my life. But the fact is, taste is just as fickle as everything else in fashion, which is also what makes it so intensely exciting: there is no fixed paradigm. And yet, though it depends so much on change, fashion favours absolutes. It creates its own unshakeable myths and expels whomever does not fit.
The daily doubt I face, and I’m sure my colleagues do too, is this: am I relevant? Does my opinion hold any true meaning in the eyes of the reader? This might all sound a little too self-conscious but the fact is, this is a fundamental question. Relevance is certainly a status given by the system, sometimes rather arbitrarily, but it also gives worth to one’s efforts. Gaining relevance, as a writer at least, is an insidious road, as there is the relevance that comes from sticking to one’s guns, and the relevance, sometimes greater, that comes from accommodating the status quo. The same applies to designers, I’d say. This is where the whole thing gets extremely twisted, and doubt proliferates. The oposite forces of convention and rebellion work simultaneously in fashion. What’s shockingly new, immensely progressive, in one instant becomes conformism the next, and so on in an endless cycle of perpetual creation and destruction. Early champions of the new might face harsh criticism from the old guard – after all they were the vanguard once – only to soon become allies of the powers that be when tides change. Is this change of mind putting personal and professional integrity at risk? I sometimes think so, then mitigate the feeling by acknowledging that, by its very nature, fashion rejects loyalty. Or does it? A scene, religiously repeated at the end of every show, when first opinions are conjured up, is very telling. As the lights go up, attendees immediately turn to the powerful and respected to ask, ‘So what did you think?’ And, if opinions differ, they probably stay schtum for fear of being labelled ignorant, or tasteless.
Having the clarity and openness of your vision questioned is painfully diminishing, for personal doubt can feel enriching and empowering, while being doubted by others stings. Again, it makes you feel unworthy of your position, or, even worse, unworthy of being heard – irrelevant, that is. Taste, though a cultural construct, is a very intimate trait: no different from handwriting, or tone of voice. Having it questioned touches you deep down, hitting a nerve. It’s hard to translate this into words, but believe me when I say that it has a discombobulating effect. We all depend on approval, and we all want to feel that we’re one of the good guys. It takes a lot of self-confidence to resist these attacks: a confidence I have rarely encountered in my life. But the fact is, taste is just as fickle as everything else in fashion, which is also what makes it so intensely exciting: there is no fixed paradigm. And yet, though it depends so much on change, fashion favours absolutes. It creates its own unshakeable myths and expels whomever does not fit.
In the back of my head, there is always
that little petty voice whispering: you have made it. Still, in my vain glorification of doubt, I like to think
I don’t fit at all, which is probably the most deceitful of all my dubious convictions. I don’t identify as a
fashion person – a devoted follower of the new, someone blindly accepting of anything that is best owed
originality, someone who judges others on how aesthetically au courant they are – but in truth I am a fashion
person. I love fashion. The system stirs up convoluted feelings, yes. I love fashion both as a professional
pursuit, but also as the very personal one of putting clothes on. You love dressing, someone once told me,
emphatically. Indeed, I do. I hate being perceived as vain – here we go, another self-destructive doubt – but
hey, isn’t this whole industry built on vanity? Sometimes the paradox is that we, as fashion workers, aspire to
an intellectual status of the higher kind – I certainly do – something that is totally dismissive of the very
nature of our job. There is some kind of cognitive dissonance going on: one that can only be solved by embracing
all our many glaring contradictions and paradoxes.
Here, I know, contrary to my professed nature, I’m probably turning a little pedantic... As an acutely tormented person, in work and otherwise, I find the lack of certitude comforting, and progressive. I’m always reminded that there might be another way, another view, another angle. I do that naturally, until I meet someone of absolute convictions who finds my relativist thinking annoying. I freeze, and mumble a bit more. I hate having to explain myself. The more I do it, the more I doubt my relativism.
‘Certainty is a closing of the mind. To create something new you must have doubt.’ is a line from Milton Glaser that constantly comes to my mind I fully agree, with no hesitation or doubt whatsoever. Am I contradicting myself?
Finally, a disclaimer: when the commission for this essay came, with total freedom on what to write on the topic of fragility, I immediately thought I had nothing interesting to say, so I reverted to my old trick and reworked words from my past - specifically, a long and heartfelt article for Vestoj. This is the ultimate fragility for me, and the way I try to both acknowledge and overcome it.
Here, I know, contrary to my professed nature, I’m probably turning a little pedantic... As an acutely tormented person, in work and otherwise, I find the lack of certitude comforting, and progressive. I’m always reminded that there might be another way, another view, another angle. I do that naturally, until I meet someone of absolute convictions who finds my relativist thinking annoying. I freeze, and mumble a bit more. I hate having to explain myself. The more I do it, the more I doubt my relativism.
‘Certainty is a closing of the mind. To create something new you must have doubt.’ is a line from Milton Glaser that constantly comes to my mind I fully agree, with no hesitation or doubt whatsoever. Am I contradicting myself?
Finally, a disclaimer: when the commission for this essay came, with total freedom on what to write on the topic of fragility, I immediately thought I had nothing interesting to say, so I reverted to my old trick and reworked words from my past - specifically, a long and heartfelt article for Vestoj. This is the ultimate fragility for me, and the way I try to both acknowledge and overcome it.