ugliness is next to hotness
what better way to prove how good you look, than to look bad?
It’s not ground breaking to highlight the trend cycle and the inevitability of past fashions rearing their pretty heads. We take ourselves back to 60s, 90s, Y2K, even twisted regency styles, dipping muled/cowboy-booted/platform-trainered toes into trends that have long-since lost their practical necessity, and now serve to highlight our individuality. Or our ability to keep up with the trendsetters of the moment. With the speed of fashion’s turnover, dressing distinctively and being on-trend can be one and the same.
The thread of fashion I’d like to hone in on, now undeniable (happy brat summer to all who celebrate), is ugliness as a propagator of hotness. In many circles of fashion heaven, the key to The Look is around twenty-percent formed by wearing something that has been, until now, deemed unattractive. Donning something outdated, or associated with undesirability is a statement: look what I can wear and still be hot. Look how much I can push the boundaries. It’s a weaving of several ideas at once: that you’re innovative, that you don’t need to care if people like it, that you can pull off anything.
So much of fashion is about subversion. The torn and safety-pinned punk look was a response to economic despair, as well as a way to undercut the rule of ego in the arts scene. Wearing revealing clothing can be a way to assert your unwillingness to adhere to patriarchal expectations, if you want it to be. The same as people who went to private school pioneering ‘charity shop chic’ and managing to make the price of brands like Adidas and Ellese rise year upon year to deflect from their class guilt. Fashion is all about (typically unequal) opposite reactions.
When it comes to fashion, looking hot doesn’t mean looking like someone a man would want to have sex with (thank god). Ideally, this would translate into day-to-day life, but there’s a reason you won’t catch me wearing denim cut-offs that reach my knees to the club. Sometimes the lesser of two evils is to dress in a way that means you can enjoy the moment you’re living through rather than thinking about how you look. But when you have the spark of energy, the velvet question mark hanging over your wardrobe, you can provoke a little. The ugly label for key items (handed out with the deepest of affection) isn’t too far from things that are just eye-catching because they’re unique, but the difference is that we decided it looked bad. Not just outdated, we have to be convinced that they’re ugly.
It’s usually the styles that take a little while to feel okay with that work, and you have to strike while the iron’s hot. After a while, everyone will have seen enough of the trend for it not to register. This time last year I was chatting with a friend about how awful the skirt over jeans look was, and how I’d never come around to it. Within a week, I’d seen enough people pull it off that I was convinced. We’re simple creatures, after all. The same with sexy librarian chic (sorry to all of my library-working friends) and the thin-framed rectangle glasses that go with it. I thought they’d never get me on board- I was wrong. It’s happened to brightly coloured tights and light blue eyeshadow. Too long ago to remember, it happened to Mary Janes and frilly socks. Sickly, eyes-screwed-shut green wasn’t on anyone’s vision board, but thanks to Charli XCX we’ll be seeing plenty of #89CC04 for a while.
The phenomenon has definitely (until now, wishfully) relied on thin white woman who we usually see on the cover of Vogue being the ones to drive a trend. We manage to keep coming back from our exhaustion at seeing the same shape over and over again, forgetting how angry we are in favour of our obsession with thinness, disguised as fashion. Ugly isn’t about that, it’s about the intrinsic hotness of confidence, in a way. I liked this item, so I’m wearing it regardless, and I’m still operating like someone who you want to look at. Someone whose energy you’d love just a drop of. Someone you want to know more about.
I’ll admit, there’s something in my brain chemistry that means I have a hard time not mentioning Doja Cat in all realms, but for what it’s worth I do think she’s a great person to look to for fashion that’s uninterested in being sellable, but still looks incredible. Her current era of clothes and stage design adorned with long blonde yeti-like hair is unlike anything else, her devotion to doing what hasn’t been done and doing it her way, her insistence on using her face and body as a canvas, whether it’s painting on eyebrows or covering herself in hair gel. When I finally got to see her perform live, her outfit was one of the biggest sources of anticipation. She stormed onto the stage in canary yellow tights, sling back heels that she danced in like they were comfy trainers, a very transparent, sallow PVC bodysuit, and, of course, ‘office siren’ glasses. I left with one thought sticking in my head (along with her hooks): I have to get weirder about fashion.
Julia Fox, another fixation of mine, embodies ugly by bearing her soul and her unwillingness to compromise on fashion (and by wearing items that aren’t inherently clothes). It’s in her severe eye make up that’s more like a sleep mask at times, her combinations of stark fabrics and shapes, and her perfection of the strut. She seems to have been set free in her art by her refusal to dress to attract men, and I’m grateful for every look that keeps giving us. It’s an easily drawn line to the conclusion- if she can do that, I can do that, and my life won’t end. Instead of cowering, I’ll publish a bestselling book (I beg you to listen to it in her voice) and star in the 360 music video. It’s all energy.
Okay, so where is it that I’m going that I need to look so put together yet so boundary-pushing. My tiny office, where I let my eyes blur while I figure out email etiquette without a manual? Post-work pub trips, where I buy the cheapest drink I can find and refuse offers of pool matches against middle-aged men? The little Tesco on the corner- or, if it’s really a special occasion, the big Sainsbury’s up the road? Kind of! Julia’s photos aren’t of her on her way to somewhere, she’s just existing, serving. You can build fashion into function, or you can wear something just to wear it. The best measure of getting ugly right is if the group of construction workers who normally catcall me on my way home from the gym look up in confusion. The point of expression is that it’s genuine, so it doesn’t need to be reserved for photo ops in front of a graffitied walls in a neighbourhood you’d normally avoid (which is what’s usually happening when I clock a fashion girlie in my postcode- I see you). You can live in it too.
“Fashion needs to be art, first and foremost.” - Julia Fox, wearer of the condom ensemble
Let me be so clear that when I say ugly, the word holds no sting. Of course beauty and its dreaded counterpart are subjective; but more than that, I think ugliness is divine. Devastatingly, the amount of energy it takes me to brave embodying it is usually too much to muster, and I have a tendency to choose clothes that are safe, that are nice. I used to have a stubbornness that meant taking joy in wearing something jarring. The hand painted fish t-shirt I found in a charity shop, the orange knitted maxi skirt I’m barely mobile in. But now I find myself veering towards secure, often typically feminine fashion, and feeling slightly out of my depth when I can’t rely on that. Case in point: last weekend I accessorised a summery outfit with some ugly yellow tinted glasses, and felt like I’d reached new levels of cool as I strutted through Shoreditch to meet my boyfriend. When I arrived, he fondly compared me to U2 singer Bono. I took the glasses off and let him spend thirty minutes persuading me to put them back on because he was “just joking”. You can’t possibly be a trendsetter with skin this thin. Do you see my conundrum?
But I want to have fun. Ridiculous that a bit of fabric is the clincher for that, but it’s true. Anyone who’s ever spoken to me knows I’m driven round the bend by the concept of having an aesthetic, and our endless devotion to identity labels. I’m not proposing ‘uglycore’, I’m not proposing anything. This feels different. This feels unpigeonholeable. This feels like feeling good by accident, gravitating towards things that I’ve always felt are off limits. Like realising that a lot of the things we thought were unattractive aren’t actually half bad. It’s nothing new- it’s tell me again that I can’t wear this.
This feels like being honest with myself: walking to the corner shop without makeup when my skin was at its unhappiest was never ugly (even if I am hungover and still wearing a pyjama top). Giving myself a bad haircut that I came around to within 24 hours was never ugly. Wearing thick tights in the winter to stay warm was never ugly (time to burn my pair of those viral fleece-lined leggings that make you look like you’re wearing thin black tights, I could barely bend my knees in them). Low-rise jeans might have been a little ugly when they started returning to our social media feeds because we’d collectively decided it wasn’t a look, but god knows the ugly was never in the wearer. To pull of the statement piece that’s ugly enough to reinforce how good you look, you already have everything you need in everything you are. The essence of its power is in the choosing. Regardless, if you find yourself in East London and you see a five-foot tall Bono lookalike with choppy shoulder length hair and an outfit composed of slightly stained or ripped (and therefore hugely discounted) vintage pieces, you’ll know that I’ve found a way to make it work.
Some ways that I’m having fun in my fashion choices this summer:
Wearing boat-pushing pieces that feel good to me
I don’t like to admit to myself how easy it is to fall into the trap of trying to emulate styles that look good for other people. It’s not insecurity that makes me say that the baby-tee trend doesn’t work for me, no matter how much I want it to (and how often I forget I can’t pull it off), I’m just being realistic. Figuring out the shapes of staples- basic shirts, jeans, and a jacket- that you feel your best in can unlock a whole level of playing around with foundations. I know that fabric-wise I love lace and satin and second-hand leather. I love oversized jackets and jeans with tight-fitting tops. I like high or super low necklines and nothing in between, the opposite for waistlines (usually medium, sometimes low, never high). I just don’t feel the chicness I admire in others when I wear long denim shorts, but finding a white satin pair of bloomers with lace trim on Brick Lane market for a tenner fulfilled the same brief to me. I wear my big burgundy leather jacket with 80s shoulders that tapers at the bottom only if I can pair it with a skirt and big boots. I balance greens and endless reds, the colours I feel best in, with white and black. I throw a brown slouch bag over everything and give myself shoulder ligament issues from carrying around everything I own.
Going braless
As much as I’m shouting about comfort being a great sandbox for anyone who needs to remember they’re not catering to the paparazzi, pushing yourself out of your comfort zone is also key. For me, that comfort zone was all of the tops and dresses I told myself I could never wear ‘with my build’. I’d always yearned to be able to wear a backless number, or a halter neck without a strapless bra cutting off my blood flow. Turns out I can just do whatever I want! This weekend I wore the same backless top three days straight and started each day flexing in the mirror. Crazy stuff happening back there (tiny muscles). I‘ve opened up a whole world of outfit options just by deciding that the way I naturally am isn’t a problem, and if someone at the corner shop sees the outline of my nipples, the world won’t end. Now I can be So Julia and wear an ugly belt bandeau.
Not every shoe has to be a platform or a heel
I didn’t realise being short was, in theory, a desired thing in a woman until the 2020 wave of pick me discourse grew. It never made sense to me- models are tall, so being tall is good. No? I am, in a very real way, not tall, and I’ve never been particularly happy about it. Even in chunky boots, it feels like the most notable thing about me. But this summer we’re not worrying about notable things. Though my favourite party trick is running/dancing/giving piggy-backs in heels, shoes that make me taller don’t need to be the default (unless I’m at a gig).
Accessorising with non-accessories
Take it from the beautiful semiotic of the lesbian carabiner or the lost art of fan etiquette. Accessories are the best way to explore and express who you are and how you’re doing, and the best ones are the ones with purpose. Making a phone call in public is accessorising. Carrying the jacket I’m too warm to wear by the collar like I’m on a catwalk instead of stuffing it into my bag is accessorising. Walking around sucking on an apple-flavoured lollipop that I found on my coffee table is accessorising. Carrying a cocktail or iced coffee in your hand is an accessory. Wearing any visible headphones and earphones is accessorising. You’re hanging out with a loved one? Take their hand: accessory.
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Copyright © 2024 Eve Carcas
i was just talking to a friend about queerness in fashion! im not going to be able to articulate as well as i’d like but from my interpretation i think the quality ur looking for-the “ugliness” it factor-comes from queerness and in particular from gender-fuckery specifically to white beauty standards. julia and doja exaggerate and push within the codes of acceptable cis woman gender presentation. even when they use elements of what “sexy” is to straight ppl, they use it in a way that alienates and confuses. doja, and Black women in particular, know how to play with fashion and push it forward BECAUSE they are automatically alienated from white beauty standards. their codes of style often playfully upend and distort white beauty standards to honor their Blackness and honor their gender identity in a world that tries to deny them femininity.
This is an amazing read. Love the idea of fashion being a vehicle to expand our relationships with objects—particularly those we don’t find “fashionable.”
When the hammer works and does its job, we don’t think of it as an object. Only when it breaks, we think of what else it can do.