Punk, Pearls, and a Raised Middle-Finger
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Punk, Pearls, and a Raised Middle-Finger
The fashion legacy of Dame Vivienne Westwood
There is nothing coherent – nothing consistent – in true creative genius. In so many forms, the light of brilliance comes from the tension of contradiction. You see it in the gap between expectation and result in an Anthony Jeselnik punchline; in the strain of feeling and natural reality in Turner’s Snow Storm: Steam-Boat off a Harbour's Mouth; in Scorsese’s Catholic piety and joyous gangster sin. Cut from cloth, that perfect clash defined Dame Vivienne Westwood, who passed away on the 29th December, at 81 years old.
Westwood was comprehensively punk – not simply in her style, but in the spirit, refusing to be constrained by the expectations of a group, including those she built. As she wrote in her self-titled 2014 memoir, “I did not see myself as a fashion designer but as someone who wished to confront the rotten status quo through the way I dressed and dressed others.” Her aesthetic was ripped shirts, “God Save the Queen” and “Be reasonable, demand the impossible” graphics, loose-knit mohair jumpers, smeared eyeshadow, and studded underwear. But it was also models kissing in pearl necklaces and renaissance print corsets, platform shoes with crinoline miniskirts, black slit skirts and stockings on red carpets, and meticulous red tartan. The blend of high and low is hardly novel now - Demna’s Balenciaga wraps atelier luxury in ironic ugliness, Alexander McQueen (the man and brand) blends classic tailoring with the rudely aggressive, and Palace sells skating streetwear stripped of all gatekeeping self-seriousness. Turn a corner and you’ll find a new brand ‘elevating’ streetwear. But you only get this irreverent blend because a primary school teacher from Cheshire started a store.
It started as “Let it Rock” selling tight trousers and “brothel creeper” shoes to the “Teddy Boys,” but Westwood and her then-husband Malcolm McLaren constantly reinvented the store. They changed to Brando-influenced 50s rocker style and renamed it “Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die,” later to “Seditionaries,” then “World’s End;” but most famously, written in big pink foam rubber letters, it was called “SEX.” Selling S&M gear and “anti-fashion” grunge, Westwood made and selected their produce, and by doing so, became the “godmother of punk,” setting a style that would shape a generation, and shake up everyone else.
Though many brands have their defining faces – most famously, Audrey Hepburn’s bond with Givenchy being the most famous – few fashion brands can lay claim to birthing an entire style and scouting its most famous talent. And yet, it was at SEX that McLaren would start managing a small band consisting of its customers, dressed by Westwood. The band was initially called “The Strand,” but, to promote the boutique, changed their name to “The Sex Pistols”.
To many, punk was a tasteless, empty rebellion – an embrace of deliberate ugliness out of pure anti-establishment contrarianism and inability to make beautiful work. But Westwood’s work served as a constant rejection to that. She found beauty and creativity in the corner’s unseen by the tasteful and bourgeois, constructed clothing with the most impeccable tailoring in British couture, and the satire present in her work was always coupled with a profound appreciation – and love – of the classical form. Her risqué Renaissance corsets celebrated the beauty of the classical, whilst rejecting and mocking its prudish values. The same is true of her famous pearl choker-necklaces, which blended classical accessory with the cut of kink-wear. Spurning the reserved nature was the point, aesthetically and politically. This deep appreciation of how to cut cloth, and make a point by doing so, was what made her red-carpet dresses almost unsurpassable. Look at Rihanna wearing a custom Vivienne Westwood corset and slit skirt at the 2012 Victoria’s Secret fashion show and tell me it’s not phenomenal. As Westwood wrote in her memoir, people “seem surprised still that you can have been in punk and then also be in couture, but it’s all connected.”
In the weeks since her passing, Westwood’s “brave” history of advocacy has been brought to the fore, with many putting it at equal importance to her designing and crediting her for pushing fashion in a sustainable direction. Neither is true, really. High-fashion is an incredible artistic medium, but it’s also the most ostentatious, viewed-as-unnecessary industry in the world, with the most bougie concerns – so, of course sustainability was going to become a huge issue. Maybe Victoria Beckham doesn’t start her brand as soon without Westwood’s impact, but it’s an easy bet to say that, in 200 years, Westwood’s immaculate tailoring and designing will be widely remembered among fashion lovers. Her protesting will be but a footnote; particularly given the distinct incompatibility between selling high-margin luxuries and sharing a “buy less” mentality. But there’s nothing more punk than a well-intended, poorly thought-out failure; a movement to tear down the system but just changed how trust-fund kids’ dress.
Westwood could have stayed “pure”, fought the capitalist urge, and stuck to that original store – oh, the irony – but punk is the sell-out’s medium; and thank goodness. The dueling forces of rebellion and glamour that define Westwood’s milieux speak to our shared primal urges to burn the world and be the belle of the ball; and, by entering her stores, you can buy entry to that. Not all of us can lead a punk style rebellion; nor make red-carpet gowns for the MET Gala. But, for $585, I can buy a taste of it with a silver bone Fustine necklace. And I think I will.
Westwood’s vision is of beautiful contradiction; to fuck the system and make love to the classic; to raise hell and look heavenly; to dress as Margaret Thatcher on the cover of Tatler, with the title “This Woman Was Once A Punk.” It’s to give everything to what you do, not give a shit about what anyone thinks, and have fun doing it. It’s to be a pearl-clad dame with a raised middle finger and smile. In 1992, Westwood was given an OBE from Queen Elizabeth II, and donned a flawlessly tailored skirt, and nothing but sheer pantyhose underneath. As she recalled of the result:
"I wished to show off my outfit by twirling the skirt. It did not occur to me that, as the photographers were practically on their knees, the result would be more glamorous than I expected."
Rest in glory Dame Westwood.
Note: I was originally going to write a long, 2,500+ wood obituary celebrating Westwood but the difficulties of being a being a freelancer came to play, and that withered on the grapevine. This piece was accepted by a different publication, to come out shortly after her passing, but got caught up in the editorial cogs, and happened again. It was originally to stay unpublished, but I instead publish it here now.