Anais Nin grappled with complex self-identity issues that were revealed in her sartorial selections as much as her overtly philosophical prose. It’s unclear if Nin herself realized the extent to which she used fashion to act out her desires: to glamorize herself and seduce, and alternately to conceal and protect herself. But her numerous and detailed descriptions of her own outfits, how she believed others saw her, how she consistently compared her so-called inferior body to other women’s idealized ones all contribute greatly to the reader’s understanding of this complex woman. She attempted to literally cloak her dark side: her jealousy, imperfections, anger, (bi)sexuality, and fear of abandonment.

Nin struggled with dysmorphia of her physical body and the “multiplicity” of her emotional and intellectual selves. These fragments were often expressed through Nin’s unusual sartorial style, illuminating her hidden fragility, her insecurities, her self-consciousness, but also her bolder sexual desires and her pride. She was preoccupied by her prepubescent-seeming body, even as her numerous lovers expressed no dissatisfaction. Anais used her clothes to exoticize herself, to beautify the unusual looks she perceived as ugly. Inversely, when she met a friend with the intention of deflecting his advances, she dressed “like a warrior, to defend myself against possession.” She admitted, through therapy and written self reflection, she was afraid of being hurt. It follows that the high collars, long skirts, and layers became her armor, protecting her from everything that might penetrate or harm her body, and by extension, her ego.

Nin used the exchanging and gifting of garments– often overstepping her budget to do so– to initiate intimacy and display tenderness. Nin gave June Miller her own sandals, perfume, and handkerchief, metaphorically handing her own identity to her rival (as Henry Miller’s legitimate wife), and as her own future lover. Dressing June satisfied Nin’s desire to feel useful, wanted, loved, and understood (literally walking in the same shoes), but this also highlighted the numerous remaining differences between the women, contributing to Nin’s confused perceptions of self image, self worth, and sexual identity.

Nin also used fashion as a method of distancing herself, as with her superficial, absentee father. During their reunion he told Nin she had become “beautiful by suffering.” He took perverse pleasure in having contributed to the suffering that transformed her. Nin noted with annoyance and confusion that as they became closer he wanted “me to dress conventionally and discreetly… completely artificial, insincere, snobbish…. My artist friends like slovenliness, even shabbiness…. Somewhere in between lies Anais, who wants a free life but not a shabby one.” Once again, clothes and appearance were at the heart of her identity crisis, but perhaps also of her breakthrough. “Once the deforming mirror is smashed, there is a possibility of wholeness; there is a possibility of joy.” There is a possibility of light illuminating the shadows of Anais’ psyche.

I just read a fun list on Flavorwire of their 10 favorite fashionable literary characters. Allow me to summarize:

1. Lily Bart in Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth
2. Dorian Gray in Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray
3. Holly Golightly in Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s
4. Orlando in Virginia Woolf’s Orlando
5. Scarlett O’Hara in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind
6. Jay Gatsby in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby
7. Dorian Gray in Gustave Flaubert’s The Picture of Dorian Gray
8. Rupert Psmith in the novels of P.G. Wodehouse
9. Lady Brett Ashley in Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises
10. Darling Daintyfoot in Jean Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers

A wonderful property of literature and other art forms is that textiles — fragile under the best of circumstances — may be preserved in alternate mediums. Greek, Roman, and Ancient Egyptian statues may be studied for information on what people wore in eras almost impossible to find fragmented remains of clothes, much less full ensembles, as can paintings and literature. Though literature removes the visual aspect of fashion, it can supplement readers with information not gleaned from sculptures and pictures: how fabric moved; how heavy and cumbersome (or light and airy) it was; what necessary undergarments created the ultimate silhouettes. Most valuable, perhaps, is that literature is able to synthesize the mise en scène of a particular country, era, class, time of day, and personal circumstance, explicitly emphasizing the relationship of fashion with these other variables. Though not impossible, conveying this complex set of relationships is more challenging in fine arts, where the visual language may be forced to reduce information to simplified symbols, to be absorbed and interpreted by a viewer in a moment.

Within a written narrative, an author has space to develop characters and settings: personality, gender roles (how constrictive / seductive women’s gowns were communicates volumes), class (fabrics vary according to a person’s wealth), aspirations (class deception is commonly exploited with the use of clothes), sexual preference (homosexuals are often marked as such by a flamboyance of appearance that’s slightly out of step with current fashion)…. Though fashion historians often concentrate on the nitty-gritty details of garment descriptions — which is absolutely valuable — this information should contribute to the overall character development and plot structure of a novel as well. In the hands of a competent writer, dress details will not distract a non-fashion reader, but only add depth to what is already taking place.

The course of events in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind, for example — war, displacement, poverty, the helpless role of women — lead directly and naturally to the memorable scene where Scarlett converts her destroyed mansion’s drapes into a fashionable dress and hat with which to impress and seduce Rhett Butler (thereby securing new wealth). (The dress from the original film, by the way, is in dire need of restoring.)

Scarlett O'Hara in drape dress, Gone with the Wind

This dress has become so iconic that costume designer Bob Mackie specifically spoofed it, within Carol Burnett’s 1976 general farce “Went with the Wind” (which I strongly encourage you to watch in its entirety):

Carol Burnett Show, Went with the Wind

As I hope you can see, Mackie left the curtain rod in, used drape ties with tassels for a belt, and left the contrasting fringe exactly where it would’ve been on the curtain, drawing attention to Scarlett’s desperation and deception sooner rather than later — taking Margaret Mitchell’s initial use of fashion one step further.

Presenters will be dissecting the relationship between fashion and literature in an upcoming Drexel University conference (at which I will be presenting): Fashion in Fiction: The Dark Side of Fashion. If you will be in Philadelphia October 8-10, please drop me a line (see my Profile for email address)!

Feel free to add your own best-dressed characters in fiction in the Comments….

Further Reading:

• Fashion in Fiction: Text and Clothing in Literature, Film and Television, edited by Peter McNeil, Vicki Karaminas, and Catherine Cole
• Fashion and Fiction: Dress in Art and Literature in Stuart England by Aileen Ribeiro

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My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
This book was so good! Lots of statistics– which as any fashion reader knows is pretty uncommon– of class, social, and monetary indicators, some of which suggested conclusions different from what I’d believed. Well organized chapters in approximate chronological order that concentrated on class struggles, gender discrepancies in spending, wearing, and reading fashion images, etc. It weakened a bit in the last chapter or two as Crane struggled to distill late 20th century fashion complexities, but I’ll forgive her that, the rest was so impressive.

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