How London learned to dress

The Horniman museum traces style in the capital.

London is a leading fashion capital with arguably the most diverse and eclectic sense of style of any city in the world. The Horniman museum’s new major exhibition, The Body Adorned, explores how this sense of freedom and individuality was born.

The display includes a vast array of striking objects from the Horniman’s archives. It opens with a Papua New Guinean “Ancestor” figure from the 19th century draped in jewellery and flowing grass skirts. The grinning statue sits alongside the figure of Guanyin, a deity of compassion whose lengthened ear lobes and top knot would not look out of place on a Brick Lane art student.  In this, the first section of the exhibition, a wide range of African, Chinese and European folk costumes are featured exploring the relationship between the wearer and the messages they convey through their dress. These costumes often reflecting social status, gender, warfare, religion, marriage and death, many ideas that are important driving forces behind the way we choose to dress today.

As the exhibition progresses, we get a sense of how, through the mass movement of people caused by Britain’s colonial expansion and scientific exploration, new objects and ideas and cultural adornments have become integrated into urban trends.  Indeed, today, saris, nail bars, tattoo parlours, distended ears and a range of "body mods" have become an everyday part of the London metropolis.

Turning to the present day, interviews with Londoner’s about their relationship with their clothing and the city play out. “Everything is accepted in London,” one woman muses. Another agrees, “I like London, it makes you feel free”. There is an inescapable sense of pride in the way people talk about their dress, “we don’t have money but we still want to look nice,” says a teenager, a thick gold chain round his neck. However, these interviews also betray the way in which the city creates a certain sense of anxiety within its habitants, “I’m not part of what’s going on in the buildings,” says an old woman, “but I can’t go round the city looking scruffy”. There is an illuminating quote from a homeless man wherein he describes “wearing what he can get his hands on”. Tellingly, one man says of another, “he looks like a lay-about”, reflecting the inescapable judgments made on the basis of appearance.

By the end of the exhibition, the viewer has been offered an overview of a range of cultural ideas and practices of dress that have formed the way in which Londoners dress their bodies. Yet, there are some striking omissions. The Body Adorned entirely ignores the influence of the British fashion industry, popular culture and English heritage. There is no mention of the British high-street or the influence of celebrities, who have an undeniably far-reaching effect on the clothing choices of young Londoners. Moreover, the more interesting aspects of the exhibition are skimmed over; the relationship between contemporary fashion and religion, the power of advertising, the lure of brand names.

Given that the exhibition opened not long after the London riots, which saw hundreds of young people looting trainers from sports shops, it would, perhaps, have been interesting to reflect on the economic gap between London’s richest and poorest inhabitants. The riots told us much about those who aspire to a certain social status, which often centres on clothes appearance but which will, for the majority, remain out of their reach.

The Body Adorned is on display until 6 January 2013.

Photo: Urban Portraits Horniman Museum
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After Strictly, I'd love to see Ed Balls start a new political party

My week, from babbling at Michael Gove to chatting Botox with Ed Balls and a trip to Stroke City.

If you want to see yourself as others see you, write a weekly column in a national newspaper, then steel yourself to read “below the line”. Under my last offering I read the following comment: “Don’t be angry, feel pity. Her father was a member of the European Parliament. Her older brother has been a member of parliament, a cabinet minister, a secretary of state, a historian, a mayor of London. Her younger brother is a member of parliament and minister for universities and science. She has a column in the Daily Mail. Can you imagine how she feels deep inside?” Before I slammed my laptop shut – the truth always hurts – my eye fell on this. “When is Rachel going to pose for Playboy seniors’ edition?” Who knew that Playboy did a seniors’ edition? This is the best compliment I’ve had all year!

 

Three parts of Michael Gove

Part one Bumped into Michael Gove the other day for the first time since I called him a “political psychopath” and “Westminster suicide bomber” in print. We had one of those classic English non-conversations. I babbled. Gove segued into an anecdote about waiting for a London train at Castle Cary in his trusty Boden navy jacket and being accosted by Johnnie Boden wearing the exact same one. I’m afraid that’s the punchline! Part two I’ve just had a courtesy call from the Cheltenham Literature Festival to inform me that Gove has been parachuted into my event. I’ve been booked in since June, and the panel is on modern manners. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, of course, but I do lie in bed imagining the questions I hope I might be asked at the Q&A session afterwards. Part three There has been what we might call a serious “infarction” of books about Brexit, serialised passim. I never thought I would write these words, but I’m feeling sorry for the chap. Gove gets such a pasting in the diaries of Sir Craig Oliver.

Still, I suppose Michael can have his own say, because he’s returning to the Times this week as a columnist. Part of me hopes he’ll “do a Sarah Vine”, as it’s known in the trade (ie, write a column spiced with intimate revelations). But I am braced for policy wonkery rather than the petty score-settling and invasions of his own family privacy that would be so much more entertaining.

 

I capture the castle

I’ve been at an event on foreign affairs called the Mount Stewart Conversations, co-hosted by BBC Northern Ireland and the National Trust. Before my departure for Belfast, I mentioned that I was going to the province to the much “misunderestimated” Jemima Goldsmith, the producer, and writer of this parish. I didn’t drop either the name of the house or the fact that Castlereagh, a former foreign secretary, used to live there, and that the desk that the Congress of Vienna was signed on is in the house, as I assumed in my snooty way that Ms Goldsmith wouldn’t have heard of either. “Oh, we used to have a house in Northern Ireland, Mount Stewart,” she said, when I said I was going there. “It used to belong to Mum.” That told me.

Anyway, it was a wonderful weekend, full of foreign policy and academic rock stars too numerous to mention. Plus, at the Stormont Hotel, the staff served porridge with double cream and Bushmills whiskey for breakfast; and the gardens at Mount Stewart were stupendous. A top performer was Jonathan Powell, Tony Blair’s former chief of staff, who runs his own conflict resolution charity. Powell negotiated the Good Friday Agreement and also has a very natty line in weekend casual wear. Jeremy Corbyn has said he wants a minister for peace, as well as party unity. Surely “Curly” Powell – a prince of peace if ever there was one – must be shoo-in for this gig.

PS: I was told that Derry/Londonderry is now known as “Stroke City”. I imagined stricken residents all being rushed to Casualty, before I worked it out.

 

On board with Balls

Isn’t Ed Balls bliss? From originating Twitter’s Ed Balls Day to becoming Strictly Come Dancing’s Ed Balls, he is adding hugely to the gaiety of the nation. I did the ITV show The Agenda with Tom Bradby this week, and as a fellow guest Balls was a non-stop stream of campery, charleston steps, Strictly gossip and girly questions about whether he should have a spray tan (no!), or Botox under his armpits to staunch the sweat (also no! If you block the armpits, it will only appear somewhere else!).

He is clever, fluent, kind, built like a s*** outhouse, and nice. I don’t care that his waltz looked as if his partner, Katya, was trying to move a double-doored Sub-Zero American fridge across a shiny floor. After Strictly I’d like to see him start a new party for all the socially liberal, fiscally conservative, pro-European millions of us who have been disenfranchised by Brexit and the Corbynisation of the Labour Party. In fact, I said this on air. If he doesn’t organise it, I will, and he sort of promised to be on board!

 

A shot in the dark

I was trying to think of something that would irritate New Statesman readers to end with. How about this: my husband is shooting every weekend between now and 2017. This weekend we are in Drynachan, the seat of Clan Campbell and the Thanes of Cawdor. I have been fielding calls from our host, a type-A American financier, about the transportation of shotguns on BA flights to Inverness – even though I don’t shoot and can’t stand the sport.

I was overheard droning on by Adrian Tinniswood, the author of the fashionable history of country houses The Long Weekend. He told me that the 11th Duke of Bedford kept four cars and eight chauffeurs to ferry revellers to his pile at Woburn. Guests were picked up in town by a chauffeur, accompanied by footmen. Luggage went in another car, also escorted by footmen, as it was not done to travel with your suitcase.

It’s beyond Downton! I must remember to tell mine host how real toffs do it. He might send a plane just for the guns.

Rachel Johnson is a columnist for the Mail on Sunday

This article first appeared in the 29 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, May’s new Tories