Dresses - on #femaleness under #patriarchy

I’m only slightly embarassed to admit that I spent too many evenings and weekends as a teenager binging pirated episodes of Sex and the City. This past time around, flying coach for 13 hours from London to Singapore, I watched the entire season of And Just Like That… Perhaps in the current recession, the show is more opulent, unrealistic and tonedeaf than ever, but I have to admit that Carrie et al has imprinted and inherited to me all my notions of a good life to aspire to: female friendships, cool clothes, and the luck of turning one’s life questions into a creative and wildly successful ‘alternative’ career.

I returned to Indonesia this summer for my sister’s wedding (party and holy matrimony, and the Chinese engagement), and my mother subtly but firmly insisted that I get 3 dresses, 1 for each occasion. Because it seemed like the sort of thing that would make her happy (and I had been delinquent on most of the other requests), and because she’s paying for it, I obliged.

There’s something about a well-made dress.

The way it hugs a body, tightly in some places and lightly in others; the way it conceals the torso with smooth lines like a watercolor painting, and reveals the soft and jagged topography of skin, bones and flesh in others; the way the zip traces the spine and disappears in a truly tailored dress.

There’s something about how a well-made dress steadfastly and faithfully embraces the body. Any person (I’ve seen dresses beautifully wrap a man or any gender expansive person) who wears a well-made dress may have little control over how their body looks (as we all ultimately do!) But to choose the right textile companion is truly the art of turning lemons into lemonade.

It is soft power—non-coercive, resilient by virtue of its flexibility, and is effective through pleasure, as opposed to violence. A well-made dress says throw at me what you want, and I’ll make it beautiful and intentional—a narrative.

^What I ended up going with for the engagement, which I’m dubbing #menstrualdress

The story has to obey the truth, to represent it, like clothes represent the body. The closer the cut, the more pleasing the effect. Unclothed, truth can be vulnerable, ungainly and shocking. Overdressed, it becomes a lie.

‘Aftermath’, Rachel Cusk

I once told a dear friend, a man, that his wiry muscular body would look so fine in a dress. He was early for a Chinese New Year dinner party at my house, and I let him try a dress from my closet. Maybe it was the occasion, but he chose a dark red cheongsam-inspired baby doll dress (don’t ask). The shoulder didn’t fit him and he broke a few of the seams, and I’ve unfortunately probably put him off trying any other dresses. You can never tell if a dress will fit by looking at it, you just have to try loads.

For the opposite case, we must consider ill-fitting clothes.

I’m the youngest of three sisters, and that means that I spent many of my early years in hand-me-downs. Even when my limbs started growing too fast, both my sisters got to experiment (with clothes and other fashion trends, but also university and life choices) a few years before me and I was often inherited the package deal. I’ve always liked a mystery.

My mother used to buy me clothes until I was in my late 20s—lace blouses that would suit offices I never set foot on (even in my corporate days at Google I wore cotton T-shirts and jeans), anything with horizontal stripes (which I hate), sack dresses (surely the name says it all). She meant well, but I’m a miser who will try to make the most of anything that required money to purchase, so I eventually asked her to stop. I hated wearing clothes that made me feel like I was impersonating someone that somebody wanted me to be.

Here’s another case-in-point: my mother was excited about a skilful tailor she had met (a rare find!) and convinced my 21-year-old self to get a dress made. The result is this pink satiny affair, a design which I chose, so in this particular instance I have nobody to blame but myself. I’m 30 now and I still haven’t worn it. In the past few years, my mother has kindly altered it to fit my current measurements, there were stains from humidity and age that we managed to clean. But until now, I still haven’t found the occasion to wear this dress, nor a pair of shoes I can wear with it that won’t make me feel like Barbie. I’m quite close to planning a fancy dress party just so I can wear this stinkin’ dress (interested co-organisers please apply within!)

Of course, I also remember the comedians on E! that would fill the late night slots by commenting on the fashion choices of celebrities on the runway. They spun jokes out of any outfits that were too big, too small, too garish, bodies that were too rebellious. It’s a cheap past time for oppressed people—no matter how powerful some people are you can still laugh at their fatness or their ill-fitting clothes (‘money can’t buy taste.’). But frankly, I’ve always felt most ill wearing clothes that I chose because I didn’t want to be laughed at.

And so in this new year of the dragon (who else is glad that in February they get a chance to do-over their new year?!)—I wish you many female friendships, wildly successful alternative careers, and clothes that fit you.