I think my love for vintage and designer clothing (only one of which I can afford) goes hand in hand, because this hand fits into the glove of art. The way you'll be admiring and handling a deceptively simple shoe or bag in a fancy magazine, because the material, stitching, seamwork is all so wonderfully and excruciatingly made. I experience the same with vintage clothing; lined dresses, solid materials, handsewn seams and solid zippers. There is a reason that these clothes have held up for eighty, seventy, sixty years, and it's the same reason that your cute skirt from H&M rips at the side seam after one season. I admire the thought that is put into something really nice, and I wish these things were more accessible, that you could really wear it and use it and not necessarily detach the form from function.
Following the Russian revolution, avant-garde artists like Liubov Popova and Varvara Stepanova founded new textile making and designing institutions, because art was supposed to be readily available. Thrown away from the easel, expression was crystallised in posters, architectural ensembles, pottery and clothes design; primarily directed towards working men and women. One clothes line was exhibited, unsuccessfully, and most of the clothes were never even produced.
Dress design by Liubov Popova
I think we don't need our noses rubbed in this fashion-art conundrum once more (even though I defiantly persist in denying how shallow I must appear). But it is terribly fascinating how this all comes together, all of art and design and literature, which is blatantly obvious in magazines like Wallpaper* and when you look at the select group of people that made the intellectual elite in 1920s Soviet. Design collaborator of Rodchenko Mayakovsky courting Lilya Brik, the childhood friend of Roman Yakobson; Stepanova married to Rodchenko, affiliated with Bauhaus' El Lissitzky; it all trickles through history, heavy and seeping.