I spent last February walking through the Garment District in a plain white crewneck and straight-leg denim bought at a department store on Herald Square. No one looked at me twice. Three fashion editors walked past me on West 39th Street without a flicker of recognition. That was the point.
the uniform problem
There is a particular kind of freedom in not being seen. Not invisible — just unremarkable. Last December I gave away thirty-seven items of clothing to a donation center on West 46th Street. What remained was a wardrobe so generic it could belong to anyone standing on the sidewalk outside.
The fashion industry calls this a failure of self-expression. A trend-forecasting collective in Brooklyn called it a mode report. I call it Tuesday morning — getting dressed without thinking, walking out the door without a single consideration of how the world will receive what I am wearing.