Queer catwalks empower the marginalised on a personal level and set the stage for performance work that carries on the fabulousness of multiply marginalised heritages.
Marginalisation often goes hand in hand with the idea of transgression. Queer communities, therefore, become transgressive communities through the very act of existing. Holding hands in public becomes a political act. Asking for pronouns to be respected becomes a point of contention. Questions of accessibility, of justice, of basic human dignity become charged conversations where the status quo claims that even the simplest of requests is too much of an accommodation. But these types of transgressive marginalisations are tiring and, more often than not, dehumanising. They are necessary interventions towards achieving equity, but they are exhausting negotiations that often require compromising on aspects of ourselves we wish were treated as infallible.
Joyous and empowering transgression is much harder to come across. Instead of our identities, our experiences, our very lives being treated as aberrations, these are moments when our difference is reframed as a celebration, our uniqueness is seen as a strength. Everyday transgressions rely on our intimate moments being treated as unwanted; transformative transgressions, on the other hand, are more intentional and, crucially, arise from our experiences being centred rather than seen as a warped reflection on the peripheries of society. Queer art is a particularly exciting space for such empowerment because agency lies in our own creative interpretations of our experiences, not in the (often stereotypical) interpretations ascribed to us by others.
I have had the immense pleasure and privilege of exploring these moments of artistic empowerment through my work as a performer, and one of the most exciting creative events I have taken part in is the queer catwalk. The catwalk can be traditionally seen as an exclusive space reserved for the obscenely wealthy cultural elite, where bodies are heavily policed, and desirability is restrained through extremely reductive lenses around race, height, weight, physical (dis)ability, gender, and class.
The designs in these spaces can carry disruptive messages, but even they are constrained by broader questions of respectability, thereby preventing them from being truly transgressive or transformative. Of course, the mainstream catwalk has moved away from such notions of exclusivity over the decades, especially by welcoming a diversity of voices in both the creation and the display of fashion, but it is still a difficult space to gain access to.
Queer catwalks — at least, the version I have experienced in the Northwest of England — are a completely different world. The clothes are usually repurposed and scavenged, bringing out the beauty in the everyday and in the affordable. The venues are usually spaces used for more mainstream (read as: not exclusively queer) events — my own experiences have taken place in community theatres, art galleries, and performance halls.
While participants have to identify under the queer umbrella, audiences cover a range of lived experiences and are often invited in to witness our artistry as a means of understanding queer voices in more direct and less dehumanising ways. Eurocentric beauty standards are not only ignored but actively rejected in favour of showcasing different body types and ethnicities. Most of the events I attended also tend to favour local artists and performers, really showcasing what queer expression means in the vicinity rather than aspiring to a nebulous metropole that is geographically and culturally distant.
Everyday transgressions rely on our intimate moments being treated as unwanted; transformative transgressions, on the other hand, are more intentional and, crucially, arise from our experiences being centred rather than seen as a warped reflection on the peripheries of society. Queer art is a particularly exciting space for such empowerment because agency lies in our own creative interpretations of our experiences, not in the (often stereotypical) interpretations ascribed to us by others.
The intentionality of these events brings to mind the incredible work of madison moore, the queer, Black cultural critic, DJ, and creative director, especially his theorisation of fabulousness. In Fabulous: The Rise of the Beautiful Eccentric (2018, Yale University Press), moore develops a checklist of the core traits of fabulousness:
“(1) Fabulousness does not take a lot of money. You can achieve brilliance with very few resources; (2) It’s an aesthetic that requires high levels of creativity, imagination, and originality, but there is no blueprint for fabulousness; (3) Fabulousness is dangerous, political, confrontational, risky, and largely (but certainly not only) practiced by queer, trans, and transfeminine people of color and other marginalized groups; and (4) Finally, it’s about making a spectacle of yourself not merely to be seen but because your body is constantly suppressed and undervalued.” (Page 8)
Other aesthetic modalities, such as camp, can also touch on questions of survival and protecting authenticity against prejudice, but they also tend to focus on artistic creativity that is intentionally underground, subtle, or even incidental. What makes fabulousness and moore’s work around it so exciting is its very intentional grappling with the establishment, putting transgression front and centre, and celebrating eccentric spectacle as a radically political act. As such, it feels like the best encapsulation of how I have experienced the queer catwalk.
What makes the catwalk a doubly rewarding space for me is that my lived experience is often marginalised within the margin. I am not only queer, but I am also an immigrant from Bangladesh (a country that was formerly a British colony and has continued to criminalise queerness based on a British colonial model of penalisation), I am visibly brown (which means I am a racialised minority in the country I perform in and, in at least on catwalk instance, also a racialised minority among the participants), and my use of fabrics and design aesthetics are strongly connected to my homeland (which can often be tokenised and stereotyped as a conventionally “Indian” design aesthetic despite having very specific elements that speak to my national and cultural history).
Moreover, the messiness of my coming out journey meant that there were moments in my life where I moved away from my Bangladeshi heritage due to associations of difficulty and trauma, so the catwalk has become a healing space for me to reconnect with my heritage and proudly show it off. Thus, as a subject performing moore’s fabulousness, my use of spectacle is distinct in its messaging and intent.
My performer name is part of this intentionality and personal journey — Indigo Spice. Indigo is a nod to the blue dye that was at the core of early British colonialism in South Asia, an early indication of capitalist exploitation that led to losses of livelihoods, autonomy, and, ultimately, human lives. Moreover, the indigo revolt (or nil bidroho in Bengali) was one of the earliest planned rebellions against colonialism by Bengali working-class farmers and planters. It feels important to have a name with both aesthetic and anti-colonial history.
Spice, meanwhile, comes from a tongue-in-cheek reclamation of how brown bodies are fetishised as “spicy” in a country which used spice taxation as part of its colonial project. This reclamation comes from the House of Spice, a queer brown performance collective I am proud to have co-founded and with whom I regularly perform. They are my artistic family, coming from a range of backgrounds and showcasing an incredible variety of cultural and artistic practices.
These acts of reclamation, both individual and collective, are deeply empowering on a personal level and set the stage for performance work that carries on the fabulousness of multiply marginalised heritages. I consider two particular pieces I have worn on queer catwalks that I think (or at least hope) really speak to the idea of fabulous fabulations — the imaginative creations of queer brown art. The first is an all-white ensemble that I think of as an ethereal ghost of the muslin trade. (Note that our looks are not named on stage, but I have come to consider them as full-blown characters over time.)
Muslin production in Bengal, especially in Dhaka, relied on incredibly skilled artisans. The original process has been lost to the ravages of colonial industrialisation — especially due to the enforcement of the factory line over individual craftsmanship and the unfair taxation policies that South Asians had to deal with regarding local forms of production — but the cloth remains an integral part of Bangladeshi heritage. Its process has been partially reconstructed over the decades, and it is a particular mark of pride in our culture.
The idea of this piece being a ghost works on multiple levels. On one hand is the aforementioned loss of muslin’s own lineage. On the other hand, it speaks to the ghostliness of queer brown inheritance, a story that has been violently interrupted on several occasions, including by the ongoing global injustices of racism and queerphobia, as well as by overlapping experiences such as Islamophobia and toxic masculinity.
As highlighted by moore, the clothes are not especially expensive as individual pieces. They are not, sadly, made of actual muslin, for instance. Instead, they are a curated mishmash of white pieces, some from back home in Bangladesh (such as a white kurta), some from charity shops and online bargains here in the UK (such as a white wedding cape), with lace a commonality across the pieces. As single pieces, they are pretty and delicate. As a whole, they are a defiant statement of my continued existence despite structural attempts to erase me.
The second look has had two iterations, built around a handsewn cape as a focal point. Unlike the first ensemble, which was scavenged together from pieces I already owned, this one had a more thought-out conception. I envisioned a sort of magical guardian, a fabulous defender of queer brown justice, tapping into my love of the superhero genre with its commitment to social justice and its wonderfully camp visuals. I overlaid my affinity for the name Indigo onto this love and worked on creating a dramatically flowy cape made of multiple panels of blue-checked fabric. The fabric is a nod to the lungi, the tube skirt worn by working-class men across Bengal. Interestingly, the most staunchly patriarchal Bangladeshi men, who criticise the loss of moral values if men dress in a Western way (read here as effeminately), overlook the interesting transgression of gender they partake in when they wear the lungi.
My first outing with the cape saw me complement it with another kurta from my collection, this one a deep blue with an ombre white wax print hand-appliqued on top. Since then, I have paired it with a white shirt on which I have sewn clusters of blue checked patterns. The clusters are disconnected and patchy, another nod to the idea of interruption and erasure in my heritage. But where the ghost outfit felt more melancholic in its defiance, the shirt’s patterns are bright and vibrant, speaking to how even suppressed voices can sing beautiful harmonies together. A pair of trousers is next on the list of pieces to add.
Of course, there is no guarantee that people who view my pieces will understand the full stories I am trying to tell. Even those reading this essay may see a different interpretation, a narrative that they feel a connection with, which I am unable to comprehend. But that is part of the beauty of these fabulous fabulations.
By creating spaces where communities can see potential and joy rather than stereotypes and trauma, the visuals and atmosphere of the catwalk allow them to dream of incredible futures. While my looks draw on the material realities of the past, they are certainly not tied down to unrealistic notions of perfect “golden ages”. Instead, they let me embody a sense of liberation in which all aspects of my complex identities are treated with acceptance and respect. Where I can feel fully fabulous.
Unless otherwise noted, image credit: Josh Cadogan (joshcadogan.com).
