Is Fashion a Means or an End?
I do not own paper plates for fear their callous scalloped edges and soggy centers might contaminate the delicate flavors of my snacks. I iron my sheets, knowing I will snuggle sounder in a wrinkle-free milieu. I hone the writing of my pen at regular intervals so each stroke of my hand-written correspondence will utter a pleasing turn. I call myself an aesthete (my husband prefers a three letter acronym initiating with the letter O), but I believe beauty enhances function. And charm is never trivial.
Your smarty, sharp mind may have already concluded my fancied form of beauty: the ornamentation of the human figure. But even in this pet realm of cloth and zippers, I believe style should be applied with purpose. I prefer fashionable matriarchs, executing their divine roles of nurture with grace and poise, to modern fashionistas pouring their entire purpose into undiluted decoration. Lady professionals can profitably exploit pressed button holes to a more polished work output. Younglings can render trouser leg angles to identify and express their internal souls. Seasoned dames can express wisdom and sophistication with the turn of a collar.
The goal of fashion is not to be stylish, the goal of fashion is personal style.
Am I contaminating the purity of aestheticism with my own moral, political, and dirty didactic ends? Can art not exist for itself? State your arguments in the comments.
So you’ve caught me stalling this week, but you’ll want to come back Monday, trust me.
