Elle UK May2020

drivingustoecologicalcatastrophe,butit wasbeginningto

occurtomethattheextremewayI dressedwaslimitingmylife.

AsI reachedmymid-twenties,I realisedI didn’twantto

inhabita ghettoanymore,tobesoisolatedfromtherestofthe

world.Droppingoutis theworkofa moment.It tookfarlongertore-

entertheworld.I hadditchedmyEnglishdegreeafterthreeterms

andmyCVwassofullofholesit resembledlace.Theeconomic

consequencesofrejectingsocietywerestartingtobite.I worked

asa cleaner,a receptionistina doctors’surgery,anda lifemodel.

Mylong-termdreamofbecominga writerfeltimpossibletoreach.

Thankgodfor adulteducation. TheyearI turned 3O,

I completedanNCTJjournalismcourseand,bysomemiracle,

washiredbyTheObserver. Nowclothes

becameadisguise,awaytoappear

normal,whichI interpretedatthetimeas

a kindofNancyMitforddrag.I’dnever

hadarealofficejobbeforeandI had

noideahowtopresentmyself.I dressed

inauniformofToastridingbootsand

tweedskirts,desperatetoseemasif

I hadn’trolledinfromtheforestfloor.

veryoneelseinmynewjobhad

gonetoOxbridgeandI feltlike

animposter.I didn’twanttolook

differentanymore.It wastoocloseto

beingoutofplace.Standingoutfelt

dangerous.I foundmyselfwearingheels

andlipstick,keentolooklikeI belonged

inthecity,althoughI’dalwayshated

make-upandperformativefemininity.

You might think thatwhen I left

journalismtobecomea freelancewriter

afewyearslater,I would’vemigrated

straight back into casualwear, but

I wasstillhauntedbyaneedtoprove

myprofessionalismbyhowI dressed.

I’dalwaysthoughtbeinga writermeant

asecludedlife,buttherealityisthat

youareoftenondisplay.Therewere

thephotoshoots,launches,readings,

tours.Thosewerethecompliantyears,

mydismalmid-thirties,whenI triedtolooknormal,groomed,

feminine,gussiedupinWhistlesdresses,myhairblow-dried.

WhenI lookatthosepicturesnow,I hardlyrecognisemyself.

I wastryingsohardtobesomeoneelse.

It wasn’tuntilI movedtoNewYorkin2O11thatI reconnected

withmyfuriousteenageself.WhowasI dressingfor?Whywas

I tryingsohardtopleasestrangers?Athomeatlastinaqueer

artisticcommunity,I ditchedthehatefulshowoffemininity.My

styleiconswereDavidHockneyandFreddieMercury.I liked

cashmeresocksandGreenFlash.I hatedheels.

I choppedmyhairintoaboyishcropandimmediately

feltlikemyselfagain.Dressesandskirtsdisappearedfrommy

wardrobeandI startedbuyingandrogynousclothesagain:a

mossgreenAcnesweater,a whiteshirtwitha ruffbyIsabelMarant

thatlookedfitforanElizabethan prince. When back in London,

I loveddescendingto the basement at Liberty to root through

themenswear.I became adept at gender transgression, facing

downassistantswho’d invariably ask, ‘Is that for your son?’

Thesedays,I wear trainers to everything. I want to walk fast,

andI lovethecrispcolours of Feiyue plimsolls or the tangerine flash

ofStellaMcCartney’s weird knitted ones for Adidas. My uniform

is sweatersandwidetrousers, mainly jeans, with massive coats, in

sobergreyandnavywith flourishes of canary yellow and cyclamen

pink.I wanttobecosy. I want to do my work, dig the garden and

wearthesamethinglater at a lecture or party. I want to channel

dandiesandgender refusniks, my androgynous tribe: Quentin

Crisp in a lavender shirt, Fran Lebowitz

in Levi’s, Sir Walter Raleigh in sequins,

blusher and a single pearl earring.

What we wear has so much power.

Every item in our wardrobe communicates

emotions and ideas, subtly or boldly

expressing our political stance and point

of view. You can dress to conform or to

transgress, to fit in or to stand apart. Using

clothes to protest is not as simple as having

a slogan emblazoned across your chest.

I cringe at images of celebrities wearing

a £58O Dior T-shirt that says: ‘We should

all be feminists’. The sentiment is fine. It’s

the price tag that worries me – the idea

that political beliefs are something you

shop for rather than embody. On the other

hand, I love the photo of fashion designer

Katharine Hamnett shaking hands with

Margaret Thatcher in 1984, her baggy

top emblazoned with the anti-nuclear

message: ‘58% don’t want Pershing’.

But clothes don’t need words to be

political. You don’t have to spell it out. The

most subversive outfits I’ve seen were at

the Rei Kawakubo/Comme des Garçons

2O17 exhibition Art of the In-Between at

New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I walked around in tears, overwhelmed

by the refusal to produce conventional

silhouettes.Therewere so many possibilities of how a body

couldbe.Clothesbulged and soared, resisted gravity, refused

tobeconfined.There were exaggerated bellies, strange lumps

andbumps,a beautiful reclamation of all the bulges women are

trainedtohide.It was liberating, an embodiment of feminism

moreradicalthanany slogan.

I can’taffordComme, but that’s not the point. The ideas are

freeforall.Anyone can grab the spirit of individuality and

resistanceagainstthe status quo, the leaden insistence on

gendercodes.I was 4O that year, but as I walked through the

exhibitionI felt 17 again, high on hope. That’s what I wanted then,

andit’swhatI stillwant: clothes that give me power; clothes that

cuta newshapeinthe world.

FunnyWeather:Artin an Emergency by Olivia Laing is out 16 April Styling (main image): Serena Pompei. Additional photography: courtesy of Olivia Laing.

ELLE.COM/UK May 2O2O

E

THE WRITER

For Olivia (above), her environment

has had a huge impact on her style

32

Elle MEMOIR

” WHEN I TURNED 3O

AND GOT AN

OFFICE JOB, CLOTHES

became a disguise

• A WAY TO APPEAR
  NORMAL, WHICH I
  INTERPRE TED AT THE TIME
  AS A KIND OF
  Nancy Mitford drag”