A new exhibition of Richard Avedon's photography shows off the sartorial choices of activists like Abbie Hoffman and Allen Ginsberg.
As Oscar Wilde once observed, "It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances." The photographer Richard Avedon, who straddled the worlds of fine art and fashion, surely would have agreed with him. And yet Avedon—who preferred to keep props and lighting to a minimum—didn't seem to judge his subjects as much as to let them incriminate themselves. ("A photographic portrait is a picture of someone who knows he's being photographed, and what he does with this knowledge is as much a part of the photograph as what he's wearing or how he looks," Avedon said.) Deeply revealing as his portraits seem to be, he nonetheless contended that they were also simply studies of the superficial. "My photographs don't go below the surface," said Avedon, the only photographer whose work has been treated to two major exhibitions at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "They don't go below anything. ... I have great faith in surfaces. A good one is full of clues."
A week after the attempted comeback of the most significant political movement of the new century, an Avedon triptych now on display in New York gets a person thinking about the clues radicals have used over the years to signal their political beliefs. The
At the same time, they look quite different from their bourgeois contemporaries pictured on the other side of the gallery: the members of Allen Ginsberg's extended family. Those photos feature men in crisp suits and requisite ties, ladies in polite cocktail dresses and kitten heels. No one would've mistaken the Ginsbergs for Yippies—members of the countercultural 60's youth movement that Hoffman helped to found—just as no one would've mistaken Hoffman for a banker or any other kind of office worker.
One of the primary ways that the Yippies (and the beatniks before them) demonstrated their anti-materialist values was by shopping at thrift stores, according to Tove Hermanson, a senior contributor to Worn Through, an academic blog about apparel, who is working on a book about revolution and style. "Secondhand style enables wearers to confront the mainstream public by communicating allegiances to anti-consumerist lifestyles and radical sociopolitical philosophies," says Hermanson. "Flaunting un-cut hair and wearing mended and outdated clothes has acted as a peaceful visual assault on middle class standards" for decades.
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During the French Revolution, the sans-culottes—a political group that played an important part in the war—were a little less peaceful about fashion. Their nickname, "without breeches," refers to the popular silk knee-length pants that they couldn't afford—and were, in fact, legally prohibited from wearing. ("There is a long history of sartorial laws in Europe forbidding lower classes from wearing certain clothes so as to impose visible distinction between groups, eliminating any possibility that any man or woman might be mistaken for a member of another class," Hermanson points out. "These laws could be extremely complex and specific; royalty may wear ermine, aristocrats may wear beaver, working class can wear muskrat.") With tensions running high, the have-culottes had to watch their backs, protecting themselves and their breeches from the have-nots. "In the moments before and during the French Revolution, sentiment turned against the wealthy and it became a liability for people to flaunt their status—aristocratic men were attacked in the streets if they dressed too ostentatiously," says Hermanson. As a result, they would "disguise themselves in work wear—long trousers, not any variation of culottes."