Museum 1
Two glass cases past an exhibit on ancient forms of undergarments, just prior to an exhibit containing yet another loud green gown that I demanded to be released to my personal wardrobe from its exile in the Victoria and Albert Museum, stood a small glass case containing two different men’s outfits. Decisively smaller than most of the women’s exhibits, and much less flamboyant than the only other male showcase (which featured a purple dress suit—yet another must-have), this case contained two outfits: one set of foxhunting attire, complete with red hunting jacket and taupe breeches, and one set of less formal riding attire, accented by a dull blue sweater and one of those caps most popularized by the young entrepreneurs in the Disney made-for-television musical Newsies. A former equestrian myself, I re-imagined myself in these examples of riding garb. In my competition days the traditional loud red had been replaced by a more subtle navy blue; the top hat evolved into a black velvet cap offering little, if any protection for my head. While I’d seen foxhunting attire before (though I’m not prepared to defend the authenticity of the wardrobe during the foxhunting scene in the movie adaptation of Auntie Mame), it served as a nice reminder that yes, everything I wear, but some clothes specifically, have elaborate and extensive histories. Every time the ten year old me donned a hunt jacket or struggled over the decision between matching black or brown (brown eventually won) garter belts and jodhpur boots, I was attaching myself to those histories.
Opening my eyes a few moments later, I realized a small blurb located next to each outfit in the glass case. I hadn’t read it yet—I didn’t need to. But I took a moment and I glanced over the description, re-learning facts I forgot I knew. The blurb mentioned something about aesthetics and functionality, that the evolution of men’s business suits is rooted in hunting attire. The outfit in this case, for example, led to the transition away from frilled shirts beneath and a more trim, tapered appearance. Once I moved past the irony of this placard describing the outfits utility (how does one utilize something blocked off by a glass case and a series of sensors and alarms prepared to go off at any moment, should one offer an object safety from idleness), I began to think more and more about the circuitous relationship between utility and aesthetics. An object designed for its functionality may or may not meet popular expectations and demands for aesthetics when it debuts to a given generation, but perhaps it might act as a historical motif, recurring according to certain fashions and trends.
I’m reminded of a recent special issue of Vogue which featured ‘Victorian Dress in the Modern City.’ The magazine featured sleek models in dress inspired by the aesthetics (and functionality?) of dress from centuries past. Discussions in regards to the advantages of aesthetics as opposed to utility have been central to the ‘Sister Arts’ class I am taking concurrently with this one. We have posed questions as to the justification of allotting a space to have a pure aesthetic value? Is a desire for beauty enough to not use land more ‘productively’? I like to consider myself an aesthete, but more than satisfy any of my desires to just look at beautiful objects; the Victoria and Albert Museum filled me with questions. What is the exact relationship between functionality and appearance? What comes first? How do we praise an object for its utility and then lock it up in a glass case? How do we wear something gorgeous and risk staining, tearing, or otherwise reducing it in quality, when it might be better off clung to the figure of a mannequin in the Victoria and Albert? How can I get that purple suit?
posted by PatrickMcKelvey @ 2:29 PM
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