In The Closet
Life in The City hasn't been the same since it became part of The Empire. They had promised to grant it a "high degree of autonomy", but they lied. Resistance comes in many forms — and fashions.
In The Closet
HAVING A WARDROBE CRISIS
isn’t truly about the clothes. It’s a deeper problem, a torment that splits me at the seams. I walk the length of my enormous walk-in wardrobe vault, feeling trapped between two worlds: one where I wear a politically correct costume and say all the right words in front of the cameras, and another where I would be myself—stylish advocate of the fashion district that I represent—and tell the Director Positive Expression exactly where he can shove his despicable fashion police.
There used to be so much more rebellious spirit in The City. The Fashion District, which I represent as District Councilor, was once home to International Fashion Weeks, runways, and supermodels. They are fewer and less interesting these days—or at least the public ones are. A lot has moved underground. I think that’s the thing people often don’t talk about: art is born in tumultuous times. And this city has had its share of tumult and uncertainty. Just as I’m having uncertainty trying to find something to wear. What to wear? I need something that lets visiting dignitaries from the Empire see that we have not given up the struggle to express who we are. I need art born in dangerous times.
It’s a big night in The City: The Imperial Royalty are visiting town, surveying the “reintegration process.” It has been twenty years since The City’s independence treaty expired, and social tensions are running high. I’m reminded by all the Yellow Ribbons that I’ve tied to the hangers of banned garments, that it could easily be political suicide if I get this wrong.
The Empire has changed a lot in the last hundred years, becoming more conservative, more authoritarian, and far stronger economically and militaristically today than when the City gained its century of independence. Under the new Imperial thumb, people are arrested if they wear anything that challenges the fragile political stability.
The clock is ticking ever closer to when my skycar will collect me for the Royal Reception, and I still don’t know what I’m wearing. I weigh my options within this secret room in my penthouse apartment on the eighty-eighth floor of a soaring glass and steel tower. I need something sophisticated enough for this Royal occasion, but something that also makes the right artistic statement. I push from hanger to hanger, then let out a sigh as I feel like nothing will work. I start digging in the back and find some old memories.
I dig past my first tailored pantsuit, which my parents bought as a gift when I graduated from law school, to my activist t-shirts from my early college days. It reads like an early autobiography of my politics. I squeeze the t-shirt in my hands, feeling the now very thin jersey cotton of the old shirt, and admire its “Fight for Your Right” logo. I wonder how I used to be more idealistic. As I hold the shirt up to myself in the mirror, I wonder if maybe I still am. Maybe that’s who I’m looking for in this closet.
As a District Councilor and especially as a woman in that role, I always feel under scrutiny for whatever I wear. But while I play it conservative as an elected representative by day, after hours—and this is something of a secret—I’m also a collector of provocative fashion, which is more dangerous today than ever in the twenty-plus years that the Empire has controlled this once trendy city.
The Empire made great promises to allow the City to maintain a high degree of autonomy. It still has its own borders, own currency, own financial structure, even its own stamps, food label regulations, and such. Or it did. And was supposed to maintain these for the next fifty years, but now, barely halfway through that grace period, it is clear that the Empire wants to very much groom The City to be, well, less different.
For a hundred years, my home once stood as an independent city-state, a free port of free thinking and laissez-faire business practices. And so it evolved its own distinctive creative industries. The district that I represent was once the most fashionable in The City, maybe even the world. Well-heeled fashionistas strutted every sidewalk at all hours of the day. No one would ever go out looking un-styled.
But those were before the dark times, before the riots and the tear gas. Before clothes themselves became weapons of rebellion.
I know that I don’t really have time for this, but I pull the t-shirt over my head and stand before the mirror. The t-shirt is long, but not as long as I remember it. I recall that it modestly came down to my knees back in the day, but now it sits mid-thigh. I’m not crazy about how my middle-aged legs look these days. Or any body part, for that matter. I almost don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore.
I squint, and in the blur, I can almost see the younger, skinnier version of myself, the version that always wanted to make things better, to right wrongs. I wore this t-shirt a few times while participating in peaceful protest marches. I silk-screened dozens and dozens of these, then sold them to raise funds for the law society or something. In hindsight, it wasn’t much in the way of fashion design or politics—but I love the grassroots spirit of the piece, and it reminds me that tonight, Madison Heard, attorney-at-law, elected representative, must be true to her younger self.
My hands alight upon a Yellow Ribbon hanger, and on it is such an amazing work of art: The Low-Poly Gown. Based on the 1965 "Mondrian Dress" by Yves Saint Laurent, which in turn was inspired by the abstract art of Piet Mondrian.
From the shoulders, it shoots down and out with shifting polygons of material, slowly morphing shape and colour, creating an ever-changing visual display. I bought it at a fashion show years ago, but never wore it. It draws a lot of attention. Too much, probably. The critics loved it because it broke away from the idea that a new season needed to have one shape or colour—it could have it all. For me, it symbolised the fluidity of identity, and maybe even the constant evolution of society. Clothes can have so much meaning, which is why they frighten The Empire.
Director Marcus Langley has banned The Low-Poly Gown, and other garments derivative of it. He claims it supposedly challenged the belief that the government’s five-year plans were rock solid. Such cowardice. I think that Langley just can’t handle even a hint of rebellious spirit. I hold it up before the mirror, and it makes me wonder what other shapes I could have taken over the past decade. Could I have done more as the advocate for my Fashion District, for everyone who believes in the freedom to express themselves through their clothes—or have I already gone too far?
Just having these pieces could be considered seditious, by Langley. Director Langley, a 50-year-old man with the presence of a drill sergeant, carries himself with an air of superiority that instils both fear and respect among his subordinates. His sharp gaze and impeccably tailored suits, let everyone know that he is in complete control. I simply cannot stand him, but I smile and compliment him any time we are in the same room. Keep your couture close, and your enemies closer.
As the head of the so-called Fashion Police, Director Langley not only enforces the Governor's strict regulations on clothing and appearance in The City, but he also identifies any new articles of clothing that needs to be outlawed, along with a list of names of anyone known to be in possession of such clothes. His ruthless efficiency and unwavering dedication to upholding The City's dress code laws have earned him the nickname "The Wardrobe Killer" among the fashionable citizens. I’ve heard the gossip about how he has controlled women’s fashion to titillate his own fetishes.
I come to another Yellow Ribbon hanger: The Electro-Magneta-Magenta, based on Schiaparelli’s 1937 "Shocking Pink Dress" with exaggerated shoulder pads and a daring cut that shocked fashion journalists at the time for its departure from conventional femininity. The Electro-Magneta-Magenta, designed by one of my former constituents, elevates the “shocking pink” concept with electro-magnetic fabric—which shocks any surveillance device it comes in contact with. This dress radiates anti-data, anti-spyware, and a rebellious spirit. Langley banned it for obvious reasons (the government really likes to spy on you), but claimed that it was just too dangerous for public safety.
The Electro-Magneta-Magenta also has never, ever been worn. It’s been too dangerous from its very inception. But not for the public, just its owner.
I hold it up against me, in front of the mirror and briefly fantasise about the scene I would make if I showed up wearing it. They’d probably arrest me before I got out of my Skycar. I secretly purchased it from my constituent who had to flee The City to avoid being arrested, and she truly needed the money. I was happy to help, but it was a risky transaction. It felt so cloak-and-dagger. Dark alleys and unmarked skyvans in the middle of the night. We even wore disguises when we went to pick it up. Something so bright, but hidden within a black garbage bag. We kept it switched on, to avoid being tracked, until we were on the other side of town and could switch vehicles in an old warehouse. Yes, it was that hot. I never felt more alive than I did that night. That’s who I would love to be all the time.
How did I become someone who hides my ideals like I hide my cellulite?
Exposing flaws is exactly what this next one is all about: The Subversive Safety Dress. Based on the 1994 "Safety Pin Dress" by Versace, which was held together by oversized gold safety pins causing a sensation for its risqué design and bold punk-inspired fashion statement, The Subversive Safety Dress was made to argue the very thing I would love to argue tonight. I fell in love with its ability to go from revealing to locked down, with the safety pins shrinking down and closing the side opening of the dress. However, as it does so, the dress grows shorter and shorter, so while the torso becomes more and more modest, more and more legs are shown. It serves as a visual metaphor for how squeezing freedom in one place, only opens it up in others. But I wouldn’t make it out the door, as this too is banned as it supposedly makes false claims that the government's strategies have any exposed weaknesses. What a load of bullshit! The gossip claims that Langley had once been staring at a woman’s breasts who was wearing the dress, and she caught him doing so, and switched the dress into leg mode to cover her cleavage, which made such a scene that it embarrassed the Director. That’s probably the truth of why it got banned.
There are others here in my closet that have also been banned for similar reasons, like: The Cyberpunk Punk Dress. Based on The "Punk Rock Attire" at the 2013 Met Gala where attendees caused a stir by embracing punk-inspired fashion, including ripped clothing, safety pins, and unconventional hairstyles, challenging the event's typically formal dress code. The Cyberpunk Punk Dress also incorporates augmented reality technology, projecting digital images and interactive graphics that challenge the viewer's perceptions of reality. Banned for its supposed commentary on the government's manipulation of truth and information, urging people to question authority and seek alternative perspectives. I suspect Langley also really has never listened to punk rock, and believes it is all just a bunch of noise we could do without. It inspires me, and I call out to my home assistant: “Play: ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ by The Clash”. And the tunes pumping through my closet speakers keep me company as I wallow in my indecision.
What else is in here? I venture farther back and find: The Vegan Dress. Based on The "Meat Dress" worn by Lady Gaga at the 2010 MTV Video Music Award. Gaga's dress was made entirely of raw meat, which sparked controversy and debate over its shock value and message, raising questions about animal rights and the boundaries of artistic expression. The Vegan Dress, however, is made entirely of recycled materials, including shredded protest banners and reclaimed fabrics that were destroyed by the clothing bans. This eco-friendly gown symbolises a commitment to sustainability and social justice. I hold it up in the mirror. It’s ugly for sure. Yet, there’s something about it I love. It represents the power of grassroots movements and collective action to effect meaningful change in society. It was banned—and I can’t believe I didn’t fight him over the abject stupidity of this one—because the Director doesn’t want old bad ideas recycled into new bad ideas. All creativity builds on the past.
I check the clock, and I’m seriously running late now. I need more time. That thought makes me laugh out loud as I come across the next one: The Time-Traveler's Qipao F-U. Based on Galliano’s 1998 "Kimono-Inspired Gown", which ruffled feathers for its appropriation of Japanese culture and traditional attire, sparking debate over cultural sensitivity in fashion design. The Time-Traveler's Qipao F-U combines elements from an embarrassing historical period for the Empire here in the City, the mass execution of a rebellious group of immigrants — a dark time that many officials prefer to sweep under the rug. The dress brings that time back and makes everyone who can see its fabric relive the atrocity. It makes me cry just looking at it. I have to shove back between the other gowns before make-up is ruined. It shows the interconnectedness of past, present, and future—something I’d very much like to remind the dignitaries tonight. But I can’t. Because, of course, it’s on a hanger with yet another god-damn yellow ribbon.
The Skycar pings me, announcing his arrival and that he is waiting for me. I ignore the message. Instead, I take a long look at myself in the mirror. I take off my underwear, and just stand there. I’m not crazy about everything I see, but I refuse to look away. And then I see it, I see a plan for tonight. I know precisely the legal code for what they can arrest me for, and the severity of each offence. This is my secret weapon.
I reach for a piece that I never thought I’d ever have the nerve to don: The Silent Protest Dress. It’s based on The "Naked Dress" famously worn by Marilyn Monroe at President John F. Kennedy's 1962 birthday celebration. While Monroe's sheer, rhinestone-encrusted dress, caused controversy for its provocative design and revealing nature, it brought a lot more attention and political debate about the President.
And that’s what this City needs now more than ever—attention and debate about tis leadership. The Silent Protest Dress is a “minimalist” gown devoid of any embellishments or adornments or material. It is as plain as a blank sheet of paper. It also has a built-in timer, which once I set it, will go off, activating the dress—and there’s no way to stop it.
I slide into the dress, barely covering my ageing body parts and my self-doubt. The Skycar driver pings me for the second time. I’m late, but I know that in less than an hour I will be standing before the highest dignitaries from The Empire. I take a guess and set the timer for 47 minutes, and pull out the safety pin.
This dress will be my silent protest, against the endless banning of expression, against reading too much meaning into everything we see, against losing sight of my own values. Its simplicity will speak volumes. It will be an act of defiance, and maybe show some solidarity with those who have been silenced or marginalised. I put on a pair of matching pumps, and grab a small handbag. I hurry into the Skycar.
We soar through the air, swooping between 100-story buildings, then arcing out across the Harbour as we make for the Banquet Hall. As I look out at the forest of skyscrapers and neon signs, I see my City, dressed in its glamorous evening attire, a million tiny lights sparkle like a diamond necklace on a supermodel. I love this place for all its vibrant and sometimes outrageous forms of expression.
I look down at myself, the dress says nothing at all. I smooth the hem on my leg. The clock is running, and when it hits zero, when I’m standing before Heads of State and world media, this plain dress will cause quite the stir. It will simply dissolve into nothing. I will be standing before the world completely naked.
And while this will certainly get me arrested, public indecency is only a misdemeanour offence. My legal team will have my fine paid before the police even get me to the station. Most importantly, Director Langley will be powerless to end my political career by banning my clothes. What clothes? I’ll be fine. Just as long as they don’t look in my closet.🙭