Effective as of two weeks ago, irony in fashion passed away. It’s true that dad jeans and mom sweaters vanished at the turn of Seinfeld’s decade — only to be resurrected fifteen years later — but on February 16th, 2015, Thom Browne was caught with a candlestick in the Billiard Room and at exactly 8:07 PM, Normcore was pronounced dead.
Baseball caps seem to have died too; they must have swallowed the poison. So have white athletic socks and Hawaiian shirts and water park slides and anything with “New York” printed on it. Larry David’s closet had its renaissance but now it’s time to close the book on Reeboks.
Bowery kids, street style stars, ska lovers, are you listening? Severe austerity has succeeded Times Square tourism.
#Funeralcore is in.
Think head-to-toe black ensembles, lace veils, fishnet stockings and patent leather brogues. Suck it, Uber: anyone who is anyone is traveling via stretcher. At the aforementioned Browne show, models somberly traipsed between the pews where viewers sat, stone-faced and fidgeting in their suddenly-antiquated Stan Smiths.
In London, the Giles models — black-lipped and peachy eyed, as though they’d recently recovered from a good, long cry — moped down the runway.
And the drama. If #normcore was all about the understated laugh, #funeralcore lives for the spectacle: Elizabethan collars, ruched Victorian sleeves and satin capes that scream, “WILL SOMEONE BRING ME MY EVIAN, please.”
At Alexander Wang, the models let their hair hang over their foreheads like stringy pieces slicked with enough oil to solve the offshore drilling crisis. Because really, who has the time for dry shampoo these days? Black velvet tuxedos, combat boots and goth anteriors underscored the collection. There was a rare pop of color, most probably worn by a distant cousin of the deceased. Excuse me, athleisure, this seat is reserved for Wednesday Addams.
Back in the bygone era of 2014, The Cut accredited #normcore to artists who used it, “not to describe a particular look but a general attitude: embracing sameness deliberately as a new way of being cool, rather than striving for ‘difference’ or ‘authenticity.'”
To them I say, what’s more innately authentic than death?
Images via Style.com