Aqib Patwary
3/1/24
For as long as I can remember, before I started talking to girls, before I could ride a bike, and even before I could read, I would be bored in class. I would draw in the margins of my wide-ruled notebook. First they were circle-headed people with lines for bodies and dots for eyes. I started getting older, slowly learning and becoming accustomed with shading, hatching, composing. This put into perspective how little I knew art. Then I saw it. A wall painted in midnight blue with one white stripe going down the middle. “Onement VI” by Barnett Newman, a shotty paint job done in the 50s sold for 43 million U.S. dollars.
This was not a rare occurrence. Swirls drawn on a chalkboard, squares in different shapes and colors arranged on a canvas, a banana taped to a wall. All accepted and praised by the art world. Art done with no skill, no talent, reminiscent of child-like projects that we all strived to move forward from and leave behind. Like the majority of the public, I was confused, and that confusion led to frustration and resentment. Why was this valued? Where is the talent? What makes this special? What am I missing?
The year is 1996. The world of fashion is booming. The models are stunning, the runway shows are bombastic and the clothes are glamorous; this is the “fashion” that comes to our mind at first thought. Designers such as Tom Ford at Gucci and Donatella Versace were making new and innovative ways to accentuate curves, flatter the body, make our heights taller and our shoulders broader. At its core, the goal of fashion was to sell a new look to the public. Aallowing them to stand out, turn heads, and get looks of envy. A goal to everyone, but a sheltered designer named Martin Margiela.
With the budget of a major fashion house, Margiela created his new clothing line out of ragged thrifted garments, covered the models’ faces, and choreographed a runway show in a public park of a rundown neighborhood in Paris. Critics thought he was talentless, doing outlandish and eccentric projects just for the sake of being different. Solely being popular by getting outlash from the public.
I think my resentment for modern art came from insecurity. I would never pursue art. Why would I? I’ll master perspective, perfect lighting, and imagine scenes that would make the Sistine16th chapel look like a highschool art gallery, but my art would still be behind squiggles drawn by a pretentious twenty-three year old with rich parents.
I nearly shut it out of my mind. As if it was a failed project that I wouldn’t sink anymore time into. I reached a point of confusion and frustration that it was maybe better to just close my mind to it and move on. Accept that modern art is valueless and at best rich people being bored with their lives and at worst a tool for money laundering. Thankfully a love for fashion meant an indirect study for modern art. My failed project still wasn’t hopeless.
At this point in 1996, the company had been running for seven years strong. Throughout numerous successful seasons, one garment had risen above the others and had become a staple of the Maison: the Tabi boot. Based on traditional Japanese footwear, the Tabi boot, with its iconic block heel and split-toe design, has become world renowned even to this day. The Tabi boots’ fame allows the house to make new iterations almost annually. It became a constant source of income for the company and one of its most valued assets. This year the Maison chose to go a different direction with their revered design.
“The shoulder gives you a certain attitude and the shoes, of course, give you a certain movement. And when the silhouette moves in a certain way, I’m very happy.” – Martin Margiela
For this season, Margiela deconstructs the old boots from previous seasons by cutting off the tops of the shoes, leaving black leather soles of the block heel. Martin, known for his world class skill in couture and tailoring, then takes these cut-out heels and attaches them to the models’ feet with loops of wide, clear tape. I can’t help but think of a child tying a blanket around his neck pretending to be Batman.
When the models then walked down the runway with their new arts and craft shoes, they moved as if they were wearing the Margiela Tabi Boots, but without any real footwear. They are given the “certain movement” Margiela previously mentions, without the actual branded boot. Easy to be seen as purely theatrical, Martin had taken his notorious shoe which had made the Maison millions and said “You don’t need this. You don’t need to buy a new look from us. We accept you now, you’re perfect just the way you are.” However, for many of the critics, it really was just a broken shoe and some clear tape.
I was done. Done defining what art should and shouldn’t be, done being mad about how things not being the way I wanted them to be and done festering in ignorance. I’ve become the cranky old man complaining about the younger generation at the ripe age of eighteen, confused in his own dementia. I let myself get off the blackfoot and have an open-mind. It took a broken shoe and some tape to calm my resentment, enjoy my passions, and let me draw in the margins of my notebook again.