SEPTEMBER 2019 VOGUE.COM 371
presences can bend toward apocalypse or, more hopefully,
transcendence.
Kawakubo’s collection embodied the phantasmagorical air
of the season. At Olivier Theyskens, black-clad figures with
lacquered hair and mourning jewelry exuded an immortal elegance.
Alexander McQueen, led by Sarah Burton, continued that
conversation, with piercings snaking up models’ ears and slicked-
back ponytails sheathed in leather. At Prada, models wore their
hair parted straight down the middle into two long plaits, calling
to mind the bleak and precocious Wednesday Addams; garments
were adorned with roses, monsters, and lightning bolts. Even
Vetements’ Demna Gvasalia put his own spin on things: In June,
when he turned a French McDonald’s into a catwalk, a handful of
his cast wore Marilyn Manson–esque face paint, their coal eyes and
mouths set against a graveyard
pallor. Gvasalia’s show took
aim at capitalism run amok,
but there are plenty of triggers
for the somber streak: collective
isolation, the precipice of war,
environmental destruction,
to list a few.
This is not the first time
existential malaise has been
channeled into sartorial
frisson, of course. For my
sister and me, two fledgling
goths growing up in Mexico
in the late 1980s, our chosen
aesthetic represented an
ongoing dialogue with British
music and literature, as well
as a means of expressing
our own inner tilt toward
melancholy. It was also a
reaction to the more garish
trends of the time. We were
thousands of miles from the
goth scene in the U.K., which
had risen from the embers of
post-punk and glam (glitter-
caked makeup abandoned
for sooty eyeliner), yet we felt
connected through a similarly
romanticized notion of the
individual.
Like the London goths,
we read Poe and Lovecraft, Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker, and
when visiting the city on vacation, we headed to Kensington
Market for our Joy Division posters and winklepickers—pointy,
medieval shoes often fitted with skull buckles. Though we were
too young to frequent the Batcave, a legendary club in Soho,
we absorbed it all: Robert Smith of The Cure and his smudged
lips; Siouxsie Sioux with her Cleopatra eyes; Bauhaus’s Peter
Murphy with his jagged black thatch of hair. In the early ’90s,
goth migrated to American suburbia courtesy of Hot Topic,
purveyors of counterculture for young mall rats, while haute
goth emerged in the draped creations of Ann Demeulemeester
and Rick Owens, whose longtime partner, Michèle Lamy,
has become an icon of the dark arts: dip-dyed fingers, gold-
encrusted teeth, a black painterly streak down her forehead.
“Under its dark umbrella, there’s mystery and romance,”
London-based hairstylist Anthony Turner says of goth’s ability to
fuse despondence and the gender fluidity of those late ’70s New
Romantics into an aesthetic that resonates even more today. This
mood of escapism and theatrics inspired Mortal Remains, Turner’s
new zine, which offers a futuristic contemplation of identity with
a dramatic series of hair and makeup images. Spring’s debut issue
featured a black-and-white photo portfolio of nonbinary youth,
many of them sporting architectural hairdos whipped up by Turner
himself. The copy features the opening quote from Mario Praz’s The
Romantic Agony, a 1933 text that unpacks the eroticism and other
“peculiarities of behavior” of 18th- and 19th-century literature.
London-based stylist Ellie Grace Cumming, who frequently
works with brands such as The Vampire’s Wife—Susie Cave’s line
of delicate, often ruffled pieces
that she describes as “demure
yet dangerous, and full of desire
and longing”—attributes the
revival of a gothic sensibility
to the pagan feel of the times.
In lieu of organized religion,
a new generation has turned
toward astrology, Wicca, and
the occult. The natural world,
severely under threat, has also
fueled a drive toward a healthier,
more sustainable way of living.
As a result, the makeup that
forward-thinking goths wear
now isn’t just black—it’s also
green. Cruelty-free and vegan
formulations with witchy
packaging are no contradiction
for tattoo artist turned beauty
mogul Kat von D, whose color
cosmetics have a fervent fan
base. For Francelle Daly, the
editorial makeup artist behind
Lovecraft Beauty, goth is about
owning your look, a kind of
self-portraiture in which people do not shy away from flaunting
their emotions. For full femme fatale, try Vamp, Chanel’s iconic
1994 nail varnish in a brusque black cherry. And for lighter
inflections, there’s Lipstick Queen’s Black Lace Rabbit Lipstick—
more gauzy veil than shroud—which adds nuance without
intensity. “It’s about building a character, throwing a detail onto
the face,” says makeup artist Dick Page, who added his own spin
on the compelling aesthetic with the crisp black mouths he created
for Marni’s fall show, to standoffish effect. “It’s good shorthand
for tough and aggressive,” he points out of the goth spirit, which,
like a shape-shifting armor, offers a space of welcome ambiguity
for selves under construction in uncertain times. And in a world
that feels ever more sunlit—indeed, scorching—and homogenized,
it is tempting to veer back into the shadows. @
In a world that feels ever more sunlit—
indeed, scorching—and homogenized, it is
tempting to veer back into the shadows
LADY IS A VAMP
FERN ANDRA AND HANS
HEINRICH VON TWARDOWSKI
IN GENUINE: THE TRAGEDY
OF A VAMPIRE, 1920.
COURTESY OF OLDIES.COM
