Being Understood Is Overrated

When I think of fashion, I think of Alexander McQueen’s Spring/Summer 1999 show, when model Shalom Harlow stood on a rotating platform in a white strapless dress while two industrial robots spray-painted it black and yellow in front of a live audience. I see the crowd captivated by whatever the hell is happening to her garment, and the exaggerated physical expressions on her face and body as she reacts to the machines. Then, I think of McQueen briefly entering the runway at the end, taking in the moment before disappearing backstage, probably without fully knowing how iconic that image would eventually become.

I also think about my time studying abroad in London, when I worked backstage as a staff writer for The Edge, covering Imperial College’s fashion show production. I remember the very British smell of an eighth-story classroom. The clacking sounds of wooden shoes handmade by a local designer. The precise cutting of fabric and the low voices of people giving directions with authority. People were dressed in collages of ideas. Others were shirtless. It was hard to understand, but exciting at the same time.

And maybe that’s the point.

Do you remember wearing that first really good dress or outfit that suddenly made people notice you? Strangers complimented you, side-eyed you in disgust, or simply tried to ignore your existence. Whatever you were wearing had power, imbuing your steps with an uncertain confidence and magnetism.

Those strangers couldn’t see that your favorite color was blue, that you order oat milk in your lattes, or that you just saw Olivia Rodrigo live. What they saw was a figure in front of them and whatever projection of their own emotions, assumptions, or practical needs they attached to that image.

They didn’t understand you.

But they saw you.

Or maybe you remember wearing that really crazy outfit last Halloween. Your hair was stuffed beneath a bald cap with a ridiculous pink bob placed on top. Your entire body was painted orange. People laughed and took pictures when you crossed the sidewalk. And as you carried your mixer everywhere you went, you couldn’t help but feel alive.

Not because anything particularly significant was happening, but because people noticed your existence. For as stupid, artificial, or constructed as the whole thing was, people saw you.

Then the next day, you wiped off all of that makeup. You washed away every trace and smell associated with hours of careless thrill-seeking. Once the lights were on and the water was off, all you could see was your reflection in the mirror. Someone you recognize because you understand their context.

You look different, yet you are the same.

Maybe that’s part of why celebrities create such exaggerated visual identities. Sabrina Carpenter has turned hyper-feminine blonde hair, glamorous makeup, and carefully constructed styling into recognizable parts of her image. Coldplay has used colorful costumes and character-like masks as part of its performances. Doja Cat has transformed herself through everything from crystals to hair-covered looks.

Maybe those images were never supposed to explain the entirety of the people underneath them.

Maybe they were simply supposed to be seen.

Because when you spend all of your energy desperately trying to convince the world of who you truly are, deep down to your very soul, you eventually feel betrayed. Why don’t people want to know the real you? Why do they only interact with whatever expression you happen to offer that day, week, or second?

But maybe we ask too much of being seen when we expect it to also mean being completely understood.

Isn’t the garment we wear to entertain a kind of armor? And isn’t the T-shirt we sleep in something closer to a second skin? Maybe the point of clothing, and self-expression more broadly, is not always to perfectly communicate some authentic inner self. Sometimes it is simply about constructing an image and allowing that image to exist in front of other people.

To be seen does not mean someone knows you.

They do not know your childhood, your favorite song, your insecurities, or the version of yourself you imagine becoming five years from now. They can only respond to what exists in front of them.

And maybe that does not have to be disappointing.

Sometimes, being seen is enough. Let us know @theedgemag if you feel the same.

Thumbnail: Elise Whitaker