the revolution will not be televised.

i write, disenchanted by the state of fashion or rather its pronunciated lack thereof. since mcqueen’s death, i agree its been admittingly bleak. a part of me still exists on that february morning where i had touched down at laguardia to learn of the shattering news. tears fell my window seat while my neighbor crouched awkwardly under the overhead bin; impatiently awaiting the preceding passengers to make their way off of the plane. while he like any american, stood anxious to go where he would eventually be, i sat, floored by the gravity of what absence by death would mean. vividly recalling plato’s atlantis, my stomach churned at the reality of being no longer awarded the chance to explore the mind that was alexander mcqueen. held captive to an imagination so restless, that it manifested generously in beauty as well as torment, mcqueen was employed to his own prevailing visions that pulsated the fashion industry with a reverence. and for the paltry, few years i was a mere onlooker of his gratuitous work, i am forever humbled and inspired as a result of it.

cut to the dawn of 2012, just shy of two years since the pulse of the mcqueen saga flatlined, the creative energy of the fashion industry has seemingly plateaued yet again and we’ve found ourselves marinating in the silence of innovation past. when the now camera-conscious editors aren’t posing for tommy or scott, they’re directing their staff to highlight the same exhausted stories on the same celebrolites wearing the same reworked trends that we’ve seen season after season. and god forbid that it’s an american magazine? forget it. 

meanwhile, as blogs have infiltrated the industry without a remission in sight, inversely, the respect for a real-life, intellectual annotator (or more cynically, critic) has deteriorated. the gatekeepers to the pearly entrance of fashion ecstasy have been violently overthrown by—wait for it,…public opinion. and while that’s all very democratic and cute,  when i’d rather read a collection review from the likes of susy menkes or sarah mower, its instead a bimbo with a DSLR and an uncanny way with html codes. bloggers are targeted for designer collaborations, awarded golden ticket seating at fashion week and beckoned for endless interviews—all opportunities to render useful, however reciprocated with little articulation nor a seasoned perspective to rightfully address fashions major players let alone the narrative of their careers. my disdain for the media diversions that continually claim the industry’s attention was fully realized in september, when a healthy handful of fashion’s most eligible insiders congregated at the lycée-henri IV in paris, to view the collection of possibly the seasons most earnestly naive and inexperienced designer yet, kanye west. even still, i have profound respect for mr. west regarding his artistry and executions, so much in fact, it flustered me to watch him hastily dive into a project he was so clearly unprepared for. true, he’s a celebrated fashion groupie but even with all the musicians i’ve fawned over and albums i’ve appreciated, i wouldn’t quite yet take a stab at recording one myself. so where does that leave us? entangled in a moment in which the pursuit of media-induced advancements turn the tides of fashion when in a utopian industry, it’s the unyielding visionaries who move the herd. few and far between are those that chase the craft, instead of the stardom. and even fewer that continue to deny the stardom, once its begun chasing them. -ro

Jonathan Harney