The essence of fashion might be optimism, a malleability that makes it possible for misery and ugliness to be transubstantiated, for the traces of a shit social order to be rocked the same way tawdry bling or bland rags can be finessed into an air of fascinating dignity by the right person. Maybe fashion is a kind of “pure affirmation that doesn’t affirm anything,” to borrow a line from John Ashbery. An optimism that’s empty and, therefore, eternal. It’s the obvious pleasure Hardy takes in making her work and also the upward surge of world tatters magically fused to become new horizons of habitable imagination that account for the massive, revolutionary joy in everything she touches and transmutes. (from the intro)
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