un.discordance

CONCEPT & ART BY CHRISTINE R. BAY

TINTYPE PHOTOGRAPHY BY ROBERT BURKE RABY

So, what do the components mean?

I decided to sculpt a wearable headgear filled with faces and hands to represent the unfairness and mistreatments that the workers in the fast fashion industry face; while the florals and fungi symbolise the repercussions on the environment as a result of over-consumption. I am quite an emotional artist, so I also added in some sculpted tears to represent my disappointment and sadness about the situations.

The handmade quilt was made from scratch using a friend’s unwanted garments, some leftover pile of cut-up garments from previous projects and my fabric offcuts. I wanted something “mishy-mashy” to represent the different cultures from different parts of the world coming together to promote slow and sustainable fashion. I also want, through the act of quilting, to encourage the reuse of old garments and waste textiles, giving new life to them.

While a little tough to tell from the photo, there are a couple of darned patches on the quilt and hanging threads linking me, the headgear, quilt and the larger sculpted eyed-fungus together. They symbolise that everything on our planet is connected and cyclical. Any imbalance has its consequences.

Why did I not choose the convenient digital route for this portrait photography?

I got to know Robert, my collaborator/photographer for this project, through another visual artist. He invited me to his tintype photography studio and I was intrigued by the process. Tintype photography can be quite temperamental if certain conditions, ranging from the age of the chemicals, timing and lighting etc, are not met. To achieve a single shot, time, cost and effort are needed.

I thought that was quite similar to the slow fashion of making good-quality garment that lasts.

INTERVIEW WITH HAZEERAH, BY JUICY MENDERS

With many spicy questions, Juicy pries some salty secrets of the fame machine from Hazeerah’s luscious lips as transpires…

Gossip glad-rag and industry observer Juicy Menders secured an exclusive interview with Hazeerah (now known by only one name, price of fame) of the reality TV show So Stylo, which aired on national TV channel Suria in 2022. Viewable in perpetuity online.

In this all-new reality competition, 12 talented designer hopefuls will go headto-head to find out what it takes to be the top local designer in modest wear fashion! In every episode, designers will take on different themes and come up with original designs that appeal to our modest wearing community today. From street wear, athletic gear to the iconic baju kurung, designers will battle it out to prove they have [what] it takes to impress multi-talented judges in the industry and win the grand prize.

— As described on MeWatch (2022), So Stylo’s streaming platform

Juicy Menders (JM): Thank you for this exclusive interview. Is it accurate to define So Stylo as “like Project Runway but made Singapore makcik-friendly (affectionate term for aunt in Malay)”?

Could you describe this project better for us?

Hazeerah (H): It’s true, it’s for makciks!! Just kidding.

So Stylo is a local network show that hopes to give local fashion designers who have yet to gain exposure a platform — at the same time, educating viewers on different aspects of fashion, like garment construction and broader issues around sustainability.

Twelve of us with different backgrounds and expertise battled it out in a reality- styled competition every week with different themes, with the possibility of getting eliminated at the end of each episode. Brr!

JM: Reality TV being what it is, how scripted were the scenarios? How controlled were the scenarios, and how did luck play into the equation?

H: All of the reactions from the participants were real. However, with reality shows in general, I understand the need for an entertaining storyline. So, certain moments like a ripped seam — which can easily be fixed in a second — are dramatised for effect.

With regards to winning a challenge, luck played a part. If you choose a material you are familiar with or go to People’s Park Complex (where we bought all our materials from) often enough, you have an advantage. Sometimes, it simply came down to whether the sewing machine cooperated with you under pressure and a short crunch time.

JM: What parts of the project deviated the most from reality?

H: When it came down to filming and making the clothes, there was no time to second-guess or even take advice to change stuff up. This process is different in the real world, where fabric, material, and fit would be deliberated upon with multiple checks on a fit model before going into production.

JM: As a high-stress fashion competition, what challenges did you and your fellow participants face? with a small local network TV budget. They initially split us into groups to compete so the judges had enough time to give quality comments. We were constantly balancing quality garment production with the time, equipment, and budget set up for us. We often need to be more connected to the fact that creative and considered clothes will always take time to construct, which fast-fashion retailers leverage.

H: The big challenge for most of us was working in front of the cameras while working within a concise amount of time. We had to do most of the planning and researching at home before and after filming. We had very early call times, and shoots always wrapped up late. We were dealing with exhaustion from filming and working with a limited budget.

Looking back, this hurt my decisionmaking. The experience felt like a crash course on time and energy management. Overworking is often glamourised, especially in the industry. But an exhausted brain produces uninspired stuff.

Creatives burn out fast as something new always needs to be churned out to make money. Either that, or the opposite happens, and creativity is crushed to create products that generate the most profit.

JM: One of the most ‘horrified-gaspinducing’ moments I had was when one of the judges remarked, “You’re not a designer, you’re just a tailor…” which felt unnecessarily critical to career sewists. All while wearing ridiculously tailored garments.

H: There is also a romanticised idea that a fashion designer can weave something stunning out of some fabric and a pair of scissors. But many hands are part of the end product, like people working on the cutting room floor.

That being said, the part where they positioned us as hopeful designers ready to make a mark in this industry is a classic trope that stands true for both the show and real life. We all dream of creating and empowering people through clothes and style expression.

JM: Was there any beef, real or imagined? There was a lot of powerplay, and it was difficult to gauge what was meant to be entertaining.

H: I had major beef with the domestic sewing machines provided. MAJOR!!! Some of them gave up after being overworked in a short time frame. We also hated how the lights in the supplies closet took us on a ride, as the fabric colours turned up differently under studio lighting. It was, “Is the dress gold or blue?” all over again, except this time it wasn’t funny when the stakes were high.

I was also worried about how I would be edited on TV. Would I look stupid when certain things are out of my control? Would I become a meme?

The production assured us dignified representations, but these things should have crossed my mind before signing the contract.

If I were more media-savvy, I would have played up my personality and been more pretentious. But the great thing was we all looked weird with the weird angles and lighting, so all was fair.

JM: Were any participants or judges assigned to play classic reality TV stereotypes? Did any of the contestants come up with ways to beat the system and get better results?

H: All the contestants became fast friends because of our shared love for fashion. That was one of the positive things I took away from being a part of this production. It was a pity they did not show how we helped each other and bounced ideas off each other behind the scenes. Frankly, I hoped the show took a renewed take on the early era of fashion competitions. Still, they had entertainment value in mind and hoped for a more traditional fierce rivalry competition.

At many points, we played the game by anticipating the themes based on how the host dressed at the start, but it never really worked. Then some of us tried to listen to the crew speaking for clues, but production was tight-lipped.

JM: I had so many questions in my head as I was binge-watching the show. There were many signs that the budget was not high. How did they manage to pull it off?

I hope viewers get a better idea of the price points for tailoring and alterations after watching the show. I recall one of the camera crew who followed me around, shocked that one metre of fabric cost so much.

As to how we managed to pull off the looks, we tried our best to help each other. We understand it’s just a show, and by the last part of the episode, we all were mentally spent and just wanted to send out a complete look. I think this support system was what we all needed in the pressure cooker environment, and we leaned into each other quite a bit for moral support.

H: Like how the contestants pulled up magic with a low budget, the production team also tried their best reality dating show to build up my social capital instead!

JM: What were the best bits and the worst mishaps? Did you commit any fashion “crimes”?

H: My favourite episode was when we went to a thrift shop instead of fabric shops to buy materials. That was a good way of showing alternative sourcing methods, and I managed to showcase a fraction of my knowledge of textiles. It was also an episode on sustainability, which I appreciated. The most memorable (horrible) incident, I recall, was when my partner and I were paired up to create and produce a product together. This was the first challenge. We were exhausted from managing day jobs and freelance work while filming the show.

We made so many mistakes out of exhaustion. There was even a point when we planned an escape: To grab our bags and handphones out of the locked storage so we could slip away unnoticed. We were so stressed. It was a wonder we even sent the model dressed on the runway.

JM: Ultimately, what do you feel about such shows? Would you do it again? Were there aspects that blew your mind or made you go meh? What did you take away from this experience?

Jokes aside, I think the reality show competition format is overdone, and it is the media’s version of fast fashion. The show just reinforced how I feel about fashion and the general problems with the fashion system. There are so many alternative stories to tell from the perspective of a fashion historian or an artisan with a dying craft. Being on a reality TV show is a unique experience, I learned to hate myself less for squeezing out a rushed design in such circumstances. But such formats of storytelling are limiting.

The real prize for me was the friends I made along the way. I love that we found community in a place that was meant to create a mindset of competition and division. The show also invigorated my sense of urgency to experiment and create more! Overall, it’s nonetheless an interesting experience.

H: Maybe next I will join Physical 100 or something less demanding like a solidariTHRIFT is a thrift market raising funds for mutual aid. It is our attempt at directly helping the community and taking care of one another. Held annually, it aims to create a safe, inclusive shopping space for all genders, sizes, and economic backgrounds. Since our first iteration in 2021, we have included free racks, sliding scales, and a pay-as-you-wish system. irie aman is a creative and community builder. They were the Editor-in-Chief of The Local Rebel, an intersectional feminist zine. Currently, irie hosts dink, a monthly open mic night for all mediums and artists, and leads QUASA, a Queer Muslim collective. @lumina.rie

NADIA FERDY is a fashion design student who has a keen interest in the narratives underlying fashion collections and garments, where cultural elements (such as tradition, pop-culture, subculture, etc.) can be liberating and align with one’s individual identity. She is an advocate for sustainable practices and firmly believes that comprehending the clothes we wear can enable us to utilise them more effectively.

Invasion of the Toxic Positivity Monsters

In response to #6, #7, #9, and #10 of Fashion Revolution’s Manifesto, myself (Adel) and fellow sustainable fashion design practitioner Hazeerah experiment with new and old art-making by clashing AI art generation with handcrafted soft sculpture derived from physical textile waste in a tongue-in-cheek “cutting edge” trendy craft jam. Hazeerah’s ideas on regenerative art address her curiosity about neophilia, human behaviour, and tech-aided consumerism, while my soft sculptures explore ideas of nostalgia, play, destruction, reconstruction, irony, uselessness, forced happiness, and worth.

Against the background of a world endlessly filled with trash created through AI Imaging and coded regenerative forms, the toxic positivity ‘monsters’ mutate and come alive in an imagined, strangely serene dystopian/post-apocalyptic future, beyond humanity’s extinction. Perhaps in the absence of humans, AI could merge with and create sentience in the remaining waste to morph and regenerate an alternative world where non-human beings thrive and survive. In this project I finally face the MUTA aspect of my practice and focus on mutation and directing rage into a reconstructed joy, while Hazeerah provides the postapocalyptic cyberpunk backdrop.

MUTA WEAR (ADEL NG) is part of a design practice that utilises waste as a resource, while investigating the experience, existence and lifespan of every handmade object. Maker Adel Ng’s beauty-from-waste ethos aims for circularity, functionality, comfort and meaning.

@muta.wear

HAZEERAH BASRI is a fashion and textile designer fascinated with uncovering and telling stories of the human condition. She sees fashion as not only a form of expression but a vehicle for change. Her work draws inspiration from history, art, culture and philosophy and incorporates textile techniques to elevate her concepts - usually allegories for the state of the world.

@zeerah.b

It’s effortless, the way my legs dictate what I wear. A tailor’s gawking eyes, as she made a costume for me for dance theatre, reminded me of the ratio in which my body splits unusually: a top significantly longer than the bottom, like a Dachshund on all fours.

My legs are a memorable part of my body not only because they take up an unusually short strip of my silhouette but also because they contain calves the size of some infants. I remember holding my neonatal daughter the way I could hold my calf now. Not just the size is similar, but also the tenderness of a relationship built.

When I was in high school, classmates remarked on my muscular legs, which led the touch rugby and soccer teams on weekdays and did taekwondo on weekends. In my 154-centimetre, mid-forties-kilogram frame, these calves looked like they had cannibalized the rest of me, anaconda-style. Whenever there was a No-Uniform Day in school, I appeared in long jeans and heels, fighting the Bangkok heat and risking consequences for wearing shoes against the rules.

I thrived in college where snowy winters covered the landscape as if it perennially owned it. Even springs and falls in the Massachusetts’ Berkshires acted like twins to winter. Occasions to cover up my legs grew with the snow piles, giving me a life unlike that with short-skort uniforms. I spent my days unconcerned about my insecurities, expending my energy on intellectual pursuits and relationships. My legs ceased to be a daily feature for four years, during which I learned what feeling alive meant — and it had a lot to do with how my insecurities were excluded from my daily ongoings. When I could hide features that didn’t make me feel good, I had the basics of a body to go ahead and thrive.

Insecurities pull us back, and it would be hypocritical of me, even as an advocate for the environment, to say that how we feel about our bodies must not factor into how we dress. We live in our bodies continuously, expanding out of them until they sometimes seem like our cores. After all, the body is the first layer that we wear, and there is no way to slip out.

A good day often starts with being able to choose our clothes. Yet, there is a throughline in every narrative with them that many of us seem to forget. This throughline travels from our insecurities dictating our self-perception to how we want clothes to perform for us to feel better; at either of these endpoints — if they were part of a line — there are precedents and consequences in what the chosen clothes do to the environment.

A close-to-home example: As an adult ballet student, I own four sets of leotards and tights, but I never feel good with my tights placed under my leotard, the proper look. My torso-to-leg ratio becomes accentuated when I am dressed that way, so much so that my pelvis looks loaded onto the floor. The language of that judgement is stark, but to soften it would prevent you from seeing how harshly I can view myself.

I toyed with a ballet wrap skirt for a short while, using it to create a higher waistline. It enabled those few higher centimetres, but each time I wore it, a new distress would surface: the skirt’s features would feel too sweet and delicate for my personality, and I would jerk whenever I saw the doe in the mirror. She was too sweet for my icier homeostasis.

I had begun to wonder whether the solution wasn’t to buy another skirt, but soon I realised that the skirt I had was already the best possibility. A basic navy, it shouldn’t have felt too sweet, and yet it was. To discontinue using the skirt would make me feel better — not about my legs, but about how my outside would match better with my inside.

The skirt I had acquired was polyester, an environmental villain made out of fossil fuels, and I let it prematurely stop serving me after three wears. It did not have defects, and it had not failed to lengthen my leg line, but it created too big a trade-off with my personality. Would my premature discarding have mattered less if the skirt had been made of natural fibres? To the extent that the environmental impact of a clothing item cannot be distinctly quantified, I’d say, “Maybe,” acknowledging large unknowns.

How many clothes sit in our wardrobes, cumulatively, as part of our species’ finding of bits and pieces on individual quests to address how we feel about our insecurities? How many humans don’t have insecurities that they’ve tried to address through clothes? (Zero?) How many do, and how many clothing items have been purchased as a result of wanting to fix or hide a body part? How many clothing items that we’ve tried to use, cumulatively, to become “better” have helped us ideally, ending our search that was never about insulation, hygiene, or social decorum, but the way we were unable to welcome a physical part of ourselves? If we look at the mountains of clothes dumped in Ghana, India, and Chile, how many are the result of deep, inner dissatisfaction?

Since 2022, Xin You Tan and I have been working with Adelene Stanley, Ahilya Kaul, Crispian Chan, and Beryl Tay, to create Changing Room, a National Geographic Society-funded dance film that asks, “What does criticising our bodies have to do with climate change?” Knowing that human insecurities are bound to continue, we felt it would be sensible and refreshing for the ruinous hyperactivity of the fashion industry to be addressed in a way that all viewers can relate to through their own psychology.

Imagine if we reimagined our relationship with clothes—and not in the technical sense, not through questions of, “Bamboo or polyester?” but through asking, “What are our clothes really about?” or “How much waste would not exist if we first felt fulfilled from the inside?”

I could go on with my leg line experiments, and I am aware that the fashion industry would be ready to sell, regardless. This industry profits from my wanting to test things out and my going down the rabbit hole greased by selfdisatisfaction, but I have chosen to find a solution with what I already have. Nowadays, I opt for the look that frustrates some traditional instructors but that other dancers also use. I put my tights over my leotard, summoning no skirt.

This solution is the best I can do for every stakeholder involved, from me to Earth. I believe so, remembering that my legs are unlikely to become my favourite body part, but this perception also does not give me the right to continuously consume, especially to address an issue that is a problem likely more of the mind than it is of my body.

THAMMIKA SONGKAEO, founder of Two Glasses LLP, is a Thai National Geographic Explorer (2022) in Singapore, using her grant to produce Changing Room, a short film. With funding from the SG Eco Fund, Changing Room will screen at The Projector on September 23 and 30, and every screening comes with Q&A and Movement Therapy. You can follow her and the company on Instagram at @two_glasses_tg.