Fashion is Dead

INTEGRATIVE SEMINAR II: RESEARCH PAPER FINAL PRESENTATION AND REFLECTION

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FASHION IS DEAD Research Reflection

 

My research project informally began two years ago. I was scrolling through Facebook and came across a targeted ad for Alice & Olivia’s Grateful Dead-inspired capsule collection.I remember being struck by the absurdity of this — to see a high-end label deriving inspiration from my favorite band made very little sense to me at the time. Up until that very moment, I viewed these two worlds — fashion and the Grateful Dead, that is — as two diametrically opposed worlds. Since then, however, I’ve seen this relationship transpire in so many forms and instances. Even six months ago, I still couldn’t quite make sense of it (why was this happening?), but I became determined to discover an answer. The original “Grateful Dead” formed in 1965 and continued to tour until 1995, when front man Jerry Garcia tragically died of a heart attack at age 53. So then, if the band broke up over 20 years ago, what engendered this sudden cultural resurgence of the Grateful Dead, particularly in the realm of fashion?

As I began to formally research the intersection of fashion and the Grateful Dead, I noticed myself becoming highly critical of what was going on. Growing up, I always wanted to find a way to merge these two worlds, and now that it was finally happening right before my eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to feel totally supportive of the intersection. I felt that there was still such a huge disconnect between Deadheads and the realm of fashion. More than anything else, I wanted to find a way to restructure the relationship so that it felt more authentic and inclusive to Deadheads; the relationship felt very one-sided. When given the opportunity to take all of my research and present it in the form of a research paper, I knew I wanted to take on a strong (and, to some degree, controversial) opinion in the form of thesis. I wanted to see if I could effectively find a way to frame this phenomenon as a mild form of cultural appropriation.  

Because I am the first person to assume this particular position on this phenomenon, the research process was not always easy. I had to take what I knew and what I understood to be true about the historical stigmatization of Deadheads and subsequently relate that to the fashion industry’s current obsession with Deadhead culture. I had no scholarly articles or essays I could pull from to support this particular facet of my argument; I could rely only on information regarding the stigmatization of Deadheads, and information regarding the resurgence of the Grateful Dead. I had to find a way to merge these two topics on my own.

I can recognize that my position on the subject is not objectively true, but I also recognize that it doesn’t have to be. At the very least, I think I’ve allowed my readership to consider a brand new position that hasn’t been presented before, and I’ve been fortunate enough to engage in countless stimulating debates on the subject matter in the past few months. Through dialogue and discussion, I’ve become exposed to brand new viewpoints, and I’ve been acquainted with aspects of the subject that I had not considered before. I’m writing about this phenomenon as it’s unfolding, which is largely why I don’t feel as though I’m done with this topic. I intend to continue my research, and I hope to write several more iterations of my paper in the future.

Admittedly, I’m not completely satisfied with the outcome of my paper, only because I don’t feel as though I’m done with this project; I still feel as though I have so much more to say, and that I still have so much more research to conduct in order to strengthen and solidify my argument of appropriation. That being said, I’m proud of myself for taking on such a challenge. I covered a topic that has not been covered before in an academic paper, and, to my knowledge, I am the first person to make the argument about cultural appropriation with regards to fashion and the Grateful Dead.

 

 

Cross-Course Reflection

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My name is Annabelle Walsh, and I am a first-year student at Parsons School of Design, majoring in strategic design & management. My interests include (but most certainly are not limited to) illustration, marketing/advertising, writing, styling, art history, and, perhaps, most importantly — daydreaming. It’s also worth noting that I have a penchant for impractical footwear, anything gingham, and the Grateful Dead. I am a self-identifying sartorialist who enjoys making (often ridiculous) predictions about prospective fashion trends.

If you’re wondering what kind of career I intend to pursue, you won’t find an answer here; I will, however, present you with a Diane von Furstenberg quote that would’ve been my high school yearbook quote had I not resented the idea of being memorialized in a platitudinous record:

“I didn’t always know what I wanted to do, but I always knew the kind of woman I wanted to be.”

I thought that by the end of my first year at Parsons, I would have a clear idea of what I wanted to do, but as my freshman year comes to an end, I can say with complete and utter confidence that I’m just as (if not, more) unsure as I was on the first day.

However, I don’t view this as an inherently bad thing. I’ve discovered a lot over the course of my first year at Parsons — I’ve discovered the things I really, really dislike, and a lot of new things I never would’ve expected myself to enjoy. I’ve tried a lot of new things, and while I’m not madly in love with every project I’ve worked on, I’m exceptionally proud of the amount of time and effort I’ve put into every assignment. From a visual standpoint, my work tends to vary; not everything I’ve produced is exceptionally strong or well-executed, but the common thread woven throughout all of my work is the extent of research, planning, and attention given to the concept/backstory. More often than not, I feel more proud of the process than the final outcome.

I’m not interested in writing just for the sake of writing, or designing just for the sake of making something pretty. I’m interested in telling a story.

I didn’t learn how to make beautiful work at Parsons. I entered this school with the expectation that I would acquire new techniques and skills — and, to some extend, I did —  but more than anything else, I learned how to foster concepts and ideas. I learned how to think critically. In my first-semester studio class, I didn’t create a single piece of work that I’d want to show off to my friends or family, but I created work that’s conceptually stronger than anything I’ve ever made before. The most powerful thing that I learned during my first year is something that seems incredibly obvious, but I didn’t discover it until my second semester: if you can find a way to inject your own values and interests into your work —  even the projects that don’t seem to allow for that —  the work won’t feel so much like work; projects and papers are opportunities for exploration and expansion.

Admittedly, my first semester at this school was absolutely miserable, and that’s strongly rooted in the fact that I felt limited by my assignments and projects. I felt that I wasn’t allowed to reinterpret my assignments to my liking. I felt confined, and as a creatively inclined person, that’s undoubtedly the most frustrating feeling in the world. As soon as I realized that I could push the limitations of my assignments and inject my own interests, inquiries, and passions, I became genuinely excited about everything I was doing. I no longer viewed my assignments as schoolwork; they became extensions of my self.

When I reflect on my first year at Parsons, I think I’ll always refer back to the personal essay I wrote at the end of my first semester. The essay effectively encapsulates my personal journey during my first four months in New York City; it is an honest account of my experiences and realizations. Admittedly, this essay is probably the project I had to spend the least amount of time on, but I honestly believe that’s only because the story had already written itself prior to my putting it down on paper. This essay didn’t require extensive amounts of research, but it did require lots of time spent by myself, mulling over my thoughts, concerns, insecurities, and fears.

Below: My personal essay, “Falling in Love With Myself” 

“I remember Saturday afternoons in high school. I would spend most of my free time in Boston, hiding in a café and drawing for hours, until I would force myself out the door so that I could make one of the late night 442 buses. In cafés, I generally kept to myself, but as I sat on a Blue Line train, still diligently working on disturbing portraits of decaying faces, I would notice fellow passengers staring intently at my work (I can’t blame them; I too would stare if I saw a teenage girl sitting on the train drawing disturbing portraits of deteriorating faces). On occasion, a stranger’s sheer curiosity would lead to conversation. Often the conversations revolved around my drawings, and almost always ended (or in some cases, began) with the same question: “are you an artist?”

My response was almost always something to the effect of, “I don’t know.” Initially, I struggled with the question only because of my age. Throughout high school, strangers often assumed I was much older (which, of course, in every context except for that moment of inquiry, I really enjoyed). When asked if I was an artist, I knew what most people were trying to get at; a more appropriate phrasing of the question would have been, “are you an artist? As in, are you an adult with a real job who gets paid real money for your art?” The answer was of course, no. It felt disingenuous to answer the question with “yes”, even if the definition of “artist” is not limited to those who create things professionally. I continued to receive the same question over and over, and concurrently I was beginning to fall out of love with my practice.The question of whether or not I was an artist was no longer simply difficult to answer; I began to resent the question so much that I actively rejected that title — or any title, for that matter. Artist, writer, designer —I wasn’t any of these things. At first, the titles just felt limiting. But as time went on, they didn’t even feel like me.

I came to New York City with a very clear answer to the question, “are you an artist?” The answer was no. I wasn’t an artist. I didn’t feel like an artist. I hated most of the work I created and suffered from very brief bouts of inspiration. I bear a really frustrating tendency to get over-excited about an idea and dedicate a lot of time and effort into its primitive stages, but I ultimately lose momentum once the project is about 75% done. Either because of non-negotiable deadlines or my own frustration with  working on the same project for too long, I would inevitably abandon my projects or severely compromise the final product. To no longer identify as an artist probably didn’t seem very appropriate for someone who was about to spend a great deal of money to attend an art and design school, which was precisely my issue. I came to this city (and to this school) feeling absolutely terrified because I no longer saw myself as an artist, but would be expected to assume that exact role for the next four years.

I adamantly pursued the role of the Non-Artist for the first month or so of school. In hindsight, I can see that I absolutely used my titular rejection as an excuse. To not identify as an artist meant that I didn’t need to try so hard in certain classes. “This isn’t me. I’m not here to be an artist,” I would remind myself constantly. I wasn’t an artist because I had no intention of making art for a living. I had effectively tricked myself into believing that I wasn’t the one thing everyone loved to label me as. I liked to pretend that I felt empowered by my fierce rejection of such descriptions, but I know I only renounced them because of deep-seated insecurities. I suffered from a crippling sense of self-doubt, triggered by an experience that stripped me of any sense of self-assuredness I once had. I resented the title of “artist” only because I didn’t feel worthy of it. My insecurities made me feel as though I wasn’t worthy of anything. Abject loneliness, however, forced me to reconsider the self-doubt I had carefully and clandestinely tucked into a suitcase and carried with me to New York.

What they don’t tell you about moving to a brand new city that boasts over 8.5 million people is that it is incredibly lonely. I never imaged making friends would be so hard. In high school, I spent a lot of time by myself, but my solitude was always voluntary. I had a handful of wonderful friends, but I often chose to partake in unaccompanied affairs. I spent countless Saturdays aimlessly wandering the cobblestone streets of Beacon Hill or feeding into my materialistic tendencies by frequenting shops on Newbury Street. I enjoyed these companionless activities because I chose to be on my own. In this brand new city, however, I have no other option but to engage in solitudinous affairs. I’ve found that it’s the absence of choice that makes involuntary solitude so much worse. That being said, I don’t necessarily view abject loneliness as an inherently bad thing. Loneliness has forced me to befriend the one person I never really liked: myself. Loneliness has forced me to become my own best friend. Loneliness has forced me to spend so much time with myself, my thoughts, and ideas, to the point where I think I’ve fallen madly in love with them. Whereas before, I felt such a disconnect from my own self that I couldn’t even identify with my creative tendencies, I now feel more connected than ever to my work. Taking the things that exist within the confines of my mind and putting them down on paper makes me feel a little less lonely. My thoughts and ideas are my friends. My drawings and my writing are my best friends. I am my own best friend. 

In a world that has felt so unfamiliar, so uncertain, and quite frankly, so lonely, my drawings and my words often feel like my only friends. I have no one but myself, and as painful as it is sometimes, it has also allowed me to fall madly in love with my work. And at this point, everything I do is for me. Is that inherently selfish? Perhaps. But I don’t feel guilty. I’m creating work on my own terms — for me. I don’t create with the expectation that my thoughts and ideas may not appeal to other people. I create entirely for myself. I don’t allow the prospective judgement of others to dictate the markings on my pages. Every word, every letter, every mark — it’s all for me. In high school, I created work that I thought was deeply personal, but it only ever scratched the surface. Now, I’m creating work that embraces my own vulnerabilities. Instead of creating detailed renderings of unfamiliar faces, I’m drawing my own face, with all of its strangely wonderful imperfections. In high school, I physically could not bring myself to draw my own self, so I looked beyond myself for creative inspiration. Now, I know I only need to look within.

Last month, I had an all too familiar encounter in Washington Square Park. On one particularly melancholy night, I fled my dorm room, seeking refuge in the park. I sat at a bench with a sketchbook, mindlessly marking the pages of my leather-bound book with stylized self portraits. An older man sitting beside me jolted me out of my daydream state, asking me if I could kindly help him figure out how to respond to an email. We began talking. Our conversation spanned from our shared technological inabilities, to him informing me that I am “absolutely Jewish” and “just don’t know it yet.” Soon enough, however, the conversation shifted to the seemingly inevitable question. Noting the pen and sketchbook in my hands, he asked if I was an artist. I thought about the question before responding with, “I don’t know.”

One might assume that since I’ve learned to love my work, I would now have an answer to the question I never quite knew how to answer, but the truth is, I still don’t. Perhaps responding to the question with “I don’t know” makes me sound unsure of myself, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. “I don’t know” no longer comes from a place of uncertainty, but rather, from a place of complete and utter confidence. I no longer feel the need to reject these identifiers, but I also no longer feel the need to have a definitive answer to the question, “are you an artist?” I may not know whether I am an artist, but I do know that I am madly in love with what I do. And isn’t that liberating?”

Writing with such honesty can be, quite frankly, terrifying, but putting my experience down on paper was an incredibly cathartic experience. I felt that after writing this paper, my perspective shifted dramatically. I came back to New York in January with a brand new mindset. I felt ready to take on second semester, and create work that was deeply personal and important to me.

My long-term research project chronicling the intersection of fashion and the Grateful Dead is undoubtedly the highlight of the latter half of my first year. I am unbelievably proud of the amount of time and research I put into this project. It really became apart of me, and I know for a fact that this project won’t be over for me when the semester comes to an end. This is something I want to continue to pursue. I’ve found a way to inject my own passions and interests into my work, and I’ve found a way to effectively merge my two greatest passions.

I began extensively researching the intersection of fashion and the Grateful Dead about six months ago. I remember talking to my friend, Gabriel, on the phone, and telling him how badly I wanted to turn my observations and research into something tangible. I was desperate for an opportunity to discuss this phenomenon in greater detail because, to me, it was so important and so obvious, and yet, nobody was talking about it. When the opportunity to explore and research a topic of my choosing presented itself in my studio/seminar classes, I immediately took advantage of it.

I conducted on-site interviews, read countless articles and books, watched documentaries and videos, spoke to family members, reached out to designers and editors  —  and all of this I did because I genuinely wanted to, not because I necessarily had to. I learned so much about two worlds that I’ve always considered myself apart of, and now my position in these worlds feels so much more meaningful. I’ve considered so many different approaches to the subject matter, I’ve discovered flaws within both systems that I was previously blind to, and I’ve had so many powerful, meaningful conversations and realizations regarding my chosen topic.

Again, this long-term project is an example of work that goes beyond the surface. I’m exceptionally proud of the physical objects I made and the papers I wrote, but I’m even prouder of  the extent of my research. I know that I can do something with this research  — I’m not entirely sure what that “something” is yet, but I know I’ll figure it out soon enough.

 

  

 

Looking forward, I know I want to continue to pursue my “FASHION IS DEAD” project. I cannot imagine abandoning this project so soon. I still have so many questions I want to find answers to. I still have so many ideas and prospective projects I want to try out. For me, this topic is so expansive and far-reaching; I could very easily integrate it into my work for the next three years, and I am absolutely determined to make that happen. I know I have the conceptual, research, and critical thinking skills.

Several years ago, during a conversation with my father, I said something to the effect of,”I wish I could find a way to merge fashion and the Dead. I would love to create Grateful Dead-inspired clothing.” At the time, the idea seemed like a far-fetched fantasy. At this point, it seems like the inevitable next step.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

INT. STUDIO: FASHION IS DEAD PROTOTYPE

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Over the past week, I have continued to develop and test my “FASHION IS DEAD” project in various ways. Last week, I joined several Deadhead facebook groups and published posts in said groups explaining my concept and my need for a model. Although I received a fair amount of positive feedback in the form of “likes” and comments, I did not discover any prospective or willing models. By Saturday, I was beginning to feel pretty defeated. I wondered if I had taken on a project that was too ambitious or unrealistic, or perhaps one that simply involved too many elements that were out of my control.

 

On Wednesday, during class, I scoured the internet for Grateful Dead cover bands playing in or near New York sometime in the following week. I figured, if I had no success in the facebook groups, I could find a model at a cover band gig. Lamentably, most Grateful Dead cover bands play in upstate New York — but I did rediscover an event that was happening right in Manhattan: “Ship of Fools,” a three hour cruise around Manhattan featuring the music of the Grateful Dead. I remember very excitedly discovering this event several months ago, only to realize it was a 21+ event. This time, however, I decided that I wasn’t going to let an age restriction stop me from attending this event. I knew I had to be there. And so, I reached out to the event coordinator and explained my situation to him — and, to my surprise, he granted me permission to attend!

 

I arrived at 23rd street and FDR Drive at 6:45, and was immediately welcomed by the sight of dozens of Deadheads, clad in their usual attire — thank goodness! As I reached the front of the line, a man holding a multi-page list asked for my name. Before I could even respond, I glanced very briefly at the list in his hands and exclaimed, “Oh my God!”

 

“Are you high?” He asked me.

“No, of course not–”

“I don’t care if you are, I’m just wondering,” he replied.

 

But really, I wasn’t! Rather, I’d let out a very dramatic gasp because I spotted an all-too-familiar name on the aforementioned list: Jim Daley!

 

Jim is the very first person I interviewed for this project, back in March when I conducted on-site interviews at Radio City. That night, Jim handed me a wallet-sized card that contained information regarding the book he’d recently published recounting his experience taping 150+ Dead shows through the eighties. He told me to check out his book on Amazon. I made a mental note to purchase it later, and subsequently added his book to my list of sources for my research paper. Two weeks later, I made a trip out to Port Chester to see Phil Lesh at the Capitol Theatre. Towards the end of the second set, as the band launched into a particularly upbeat “I Know You Rider”, I spotted a familiar face sifting through the crowd: Jim from Radio City! I immediately tapped his shoulder and reminded him who I was/how I knew him. I told him I was using his book in my research, and that I’d written about him in my sketchbook (which I coincidentally had with me that night). Jim was dumbfounded, and proceeded to tell me that he’d come to the show that night with ten copies of his book; he’d sold nine of the ten copies, and wanted to give his very last copy to me. He told me to find him during intermission. And so, during intermission, Jim brought me out into the hall and handed me a copy of his book, not before signing it and wishing me the best of luck with my project. We hugged each other for a long time before parting ways again. Shortly thereafter, a man approached me and told me that he knew he was “witnessing a very special moment” between Jim and I; he was a photographer and captured the moment between Jim and I (unbeknownst to either of us). The moment felt, for lack of a better word, completely serendipitous.

To run into Jim at the Capitol Theatre was completely fortuitous. To see his name on the list at this event, one month later, was a sign: he had to be my model.

As soon as I boarded the boat, I kept an eye out for Jim. I watched him stroll down the dock no more than twenty minutes later. I immediately waved at him; he looked astonished. I approached him almost immediately and explained that I’d spotted his name on the list, and how excited I was to see him. I told him I had something important to ask him, and so we walked over to a quieter area, and I explained the final facet of my project to him. I told him that I’d come to the event that night in search of a model, and that as soon as I saw his name on the list, I knew it had to be him. Jim repeatedly told me how humbled he was by this whole experience; he told me he would do “absolutely anything” for my project.

 

So, there you have it! I’ve found my model — and I couldn’t have picked a better one.

 

Beyond my interaction with Jim, I’ve also been communicating with other Deadheads through the facebook groups to get a sense of how to reapproach my t-shirt design. I was told to add more color (my preliminary design was a simple black-and-white composition), and I’ve had Deadheads suggest lyrics to include in my design that, for them, encapsulate what it means to be a Deadhead. I’ve been texting/e-mailing Jim, too, and asked for his feedback as well. After receiving suggestions from the community, I came up with some new iterations (as seen below):

 

At this point, I am confident that I will employ lyrics from the Grateful Dead’s “Terrapin Station” in my design. The lyrics from this song resonate with me the most of any Dead song, and the line “things we’ve never seen will seem familiar” truly epitomizes my journey and experience as a Deadhead. For me, the Grateful Dead’s discography is its own macrocosm; each song represents a different part of this much larger structure. Terrapin Station is the lifelong journey through this seemingly limitless universe.

Jim suggested lyrics from “Fire on the Mountain”:

“The more that you give

The more it will take

To the thin line line beyond which you really can’t fake.”

 

When I posted in one GD facebook group asking about words/lyrics/phrases that encapsulate the experience of being a Deadhead, I received a number of responses. One woman — an artist named Jen — suggested lyrics from the Grateful Dead’s “Days Between”:

“Walked halfway around the world

On promise of the glow.”

Right now, I’m deciding between Jim’s suggested lyric and Jen’s lyric for the back of the shirt (although I may end up using both, and simply place one on the sleeve).

 

Earlier today, I also decided to test out some of the sites I intend to photograph Jim in front of in two weeks. I felt it wouldn’t make sense to simply photograph the sites as is, so I printed out one of my favorite Deadhead portraits and held it out in front of the various spaces to get a sense of how this shoot may go with Jim. I only received a few (judgmental) stares as I photographed my little cut-out, but I’d imagine that when I do the shoot with Jim, I might receive more puzzled reactions.

INT. SEM 2: IN-CLASS PEER REVIEW REFLECTION AND EXERCISE

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Today’s in-class peer review exercise left me with a stronger, more defined sense of how to approach my research in a manner that still permits for an in-depth, holistic account of my topic, but in a more concise, digestible format. At this point in my writing process, I have demonstrated the extent of my research through a highly detailed historical account of the Grateful Dead and its respective subculture. That being said, my claim becomes lost in the pages and pages of contextual analysis. I have focused too heavily on the notion of how and why Deadheads can be considered a cultural group, and have consequently neglected the reason this matters in the context of the fashion industry’s appropriation of said culture. I knew coming in today that I had an incomplete essay; I felt that my historical outline of the Grateful Dead/Deadheads was complete, and that I simply needed to further expound upon the fashion element of my thesis (I came in with short, disparate paragraphs pertaining to the fashion component)). I’d written this paper in a highly unconventional manner; over the past few weeks, I’ve jotted down thoughts, ideas, and short paragraphs in various documents and had to attempt to put them together into a unified paper. Although I have yet to achieve that sense of unification in my paper, I feel strongly that I can effectively tackle this over the next week or so. That being said, after receiving feedback from my peers, I do wonder if it’s absolutely necessary for me to expound upon the cultural analysis of the Grateful Dead in such extreme detail. I want to cover all bases in my research, but perhaps it is true that my argument becomes lost amongst as a result of my tendency to write so extensively.

 

Moving forward, I’m going to finish writing my paper, continuing with my initial approach: to write in extreme detail, covering all aspects of the subject. After I have effectively completed this task, I intend to go back into my research and refine the details so that my paper maintains the interest of the reader throughout. 

FASHION IS DEAD: PROJECT PROPOSAL

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For the final facet of my semester-long research project, I intend to design my very own Grateful Dead-inspired long sleeve men’s shirt. This shirt will have similar design elements to other Dead-inspired garments currently on the market, but my intentions are different; I want this garment to accurately and effectively encapsulate the essence of the very subculture it is being designed for — Deadheads. Although I do intend to incorporate the Dead’s iconography into my design, these symbols will not be the only elements of the design. They will be supported by language that further reinforce the nature of what it truly means to be a Deadhead. My frustration with the fashion industry’s sudden investment in and adoption of Deadhead culture lays in the fact that there is an abject lack of authenticity. The designs currently on the market offer no sense of what it means to be a Deadhead; they fail to capture the essence of this subculture and the incontestably powerful music of the Grateful Dead. My frustration with Deadhead culture is that, for the most part, it lacks any sense of aesthetic value or integrity. Deadheads have the spirit, transcendent values, and sincerity, and the fashion industry has the aesthetic integrity — as someone who is involved in both of these worlds, I want to merge these elements in a way that is genuine, authentic, and ultimately tasteful. I feel that what separates me from other designers who have attempted to create Dead-inspired designs is my intent. Because I am actively involved in both of the aforementioned worlds, I have an understanding of, access to, and leverage over both of these systems. I essentially want to reclaim Deadhead culture and return this iconography to the people who have interacted with it in a genuine manner for decades.

 

After finalizing my design and having it screen printed onto a long-sleeve, I will call upon a true Deadhead to model it for me. I have already reached out to members of various New York-based Deadhead Facebook groups, and I intend to subsequently contact some of the contacts I made at Radio City just last month. I don’t want my garment being worn or modeled by someone who bears no understanding of the rich culture and history of the Grateful Dead; I want my garment worn by someone who is apart of that culture and has participated in it for decades. After all, I am designing this garment for Deadheads. I envision a photoshoot that takes place in front of the brick and mortar space of some of-the-moment brand or boutique (ideally one that has appropriated this culture), perhaps Off-White, VFILES, The Vintage Twin, What Goes Around Comes Around, or BAPE (or all of the above!) By placing my model in front of such spaces, I am making a statement: this iconography belongs to the people who actively participate in this culture. Designers may continue to adopt elements of Deadhead culture, but what’s important (and what I am aiming to do with my work) is to consider the origins of this iconography, and to ensure that these designs are accessible to the people who understand the implications on a profound level.

 

BELOW:

A preliminary design consideration. I do wish to incorporate the iconography, but that I also wish for my design to extend beyond just the symbols associated with the Dead. Through lyricism and language, I want my design to capture the true essence of the Grateful Dead and its respective subculture. It is important to note that the design pictured below is only my very first attempt. I want my finalized design to be informed by Deadheads; I intend to communicate with members of this community and get their feedback on what they’d like to see in a design, while also pulling from my own aesthetic values and instincts. The most crucial element of this project is the notion of participation from members of the Deadhead community. I want them to be as involved in this process as possible!

 

 

POSSIBLE FUTURES (Part Three): FASHION IS DEAD

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The peace sign: one of the most recognizable symbols. Everyone is familiar with its form as well as the connotations; it is, as the name suggests, an emblem of peace. But how many people are familiar with the origins of the peace sign? Moreover, how many people who have at any point used the peace sign — in any context — are familiar with the original intent of this symbol?
The peace sign, as we know it today, was designed and developed by Gerald Holtom for the British Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in 1958. The central vertical line is representative of the flag semaphore signal for the letter D; diagonal lines on either side of the aforementioned line represent the semaphore signal for the letter N. In this case, the “N” and “D” stand for nuclear disarmament. According to Holtom, the symbol was also originally intended to represent despair; the central lines arguably form “a human with its hands questioning at its sides against the backdrop of a white Earth.” It is said that Holtom originally considered using a Christian cross but ultimately decided against this due to its association with the Crusades. Instead, he sought a symbol that would solicit a more universal appeal.
I can openly admit to the fact that I had to search the internet for the origins of the peace sign. I, for one, am someone who has, on multiple occasions, employed the symbol, but I have never considered its original meaning or intent. This is typical of iconography. Over time, symbols often become removed from their original meaning or purpose, and while they may one point have represented something more concrete (like a campaign for nuclear disarmament), they often evolve into a symbol of something more abstract or intangible.
Imagine then, that 150 or so years from now, the music of the Grateful Dead — once considered one of the most iconic rock bands in American history —  has faded into obscurity. Because of the technological advancements of today and the future, the Grateful Dead’s discography still exists and can be accessed, but the music industry has become so saturated in the 200+ years since the Dead formally came to an end, that very few 22nd century people still bother listening to this dated, 20th century music.
Although the auditory facet of the Grateful Dead has lost most of its relevance, somehow, the visual components of the band and its respective subculture have survived. It is important to note, however, that these symbols that were once directly connected to the Grateful Dead now exist independently from the music. This iconography has been stripped of its original meaning(s) and connotation(s), and now exists as symbols of something much more abstract — they have become symbols of liberation.
One of the most prominent symbols of the Grateful Dead is the so-called “stealie”. The stealie is, in essence, a skull, cracked and divided by a lightning bolt that divides the head into two hemispheres—most typically blue and red, with the lower portion of the skull in white.
 Designed in 1969, the aforementioned symbol was created by Owsley Stanley—an audio engineer — and artist Bob Thomas. According to Owsley, his initial source of inspiration was a freeway sign he happened to pass by. This sign consisted of a round shape divided into an orange half and a blue half by way of a bold white line. The general shape and colors of the sign stood out to Owsley, who held the conviction that a similar design — a blue and red circle with a lightning bolt in the center, respectively — would make for an eye-catching logo. Owsley subsequently reiterated this idea to Thomas. With Owsley’s permission, Thomas drafted a plan for this design.
The original design did not include the skull face that would eventually become an integral component of the logo; the initial design was simply a circle divided by the lightning bolt. The skull face was added on a few days later, as a means of symbolizing the “Grateful Dead”.
The Grateful Dead first used the logo as an identifying mark on their musical equipment, and later the symbol appeared on the inside album jacket of the self-titled album The Grateful Dead. The logo subsequently made an appearance on the cover of the album Steal Your Face. From then on, the symbol was referred to as the Steal Your Face symbol (in informal Deadhead jargon, it is more commonly referred to as a “stealie”).
But what does this logo symbolize in a broader sense? Well, of course, that depends on who you speak to. The most agreeable conclusion, however, is that this is an emblem of transformation and enlightenment. Perhaps it is the lightning bolt in the cranial region that most effectively signifies those ideals — transformation, enlightenment, and the supposedly “raw powers of nature”. This imagery is juxtaposed with the facial region of the skull, which seems wildly disproportionate to the cranial region; the face almost seems as though it is being crushed by the overwhelming size of the cranium. This imagery perfectly aligns with the Grateful Dead’s music, the respective scene, and the overall philosophy of this subculture (which was informed and inspired by the music, of course). Followers of the Grateful Dead were undoubtedly transformed by the music. According to one Grateful Dead forum, fan’s “everyday masks were ‘cracked’ by the honesty, the openness and “realness” of the Grateful Dead culture, and their mundane, limited identities were left behind.” The live concert experience —  undoubtedly the most vital ingredient to the success of the Grateful Dead — contains two major themes: the loss of self and the expansion of consciousness (or, “a loss of the personal but a gain of the universal”, as one Deadhead put it). The skull and lightning symbol just happens to to perfectly symbolize and encapsulate this idea; the power of the music transforms the mind, which becomes far more powerful and expansive than the “mask” (or individual identity) assumed by the mind-bearer.  This explanation is best understood by someone who has directly experienced this phenomenon; a follower of the Grateful Dead whose mind was transformed by the boundless, tantalizing nature of the music. Such a person, however, does not exist in the 22nd century. All first-generation Deadheads are long gone. This symbol is all that remains. And, while 22nd-century people may not demonstrate a fully realized understanding of the stealie, they do still perceive it as a symbol of transformation, transcendence, and enlightenment.
Over the course of 150 years, the “stealie” has maintained its general structure (as previously explained), however, it is now devoid of its original colors. 22nd century people who interact with this symbol do not necessarily associate any particular colors with it.
 The year now is 2184. In celebration of the 200 year anniversary of the Birkin bag, Hermès reissues the cult classic. The luxury fashion house, however, has decided to put a spin on the original; the general structure of the Birkin remains the same, but Hermès has decided to commission several artists to paint on the bags, which will be subsequently reproduced and sold in limited quantities.
One of the commissioned artists has decided to employ the stealie symbol on the Birkin bag. According to his/her/their description, the symbol — which, again, is a highly recognizable and mainstream symbol in the 22nd century — aligns with the ethos of 22nd century fashion. This symbol is an emblem of transformation and liberation — and isn’t that exactly what fashion stands for? Isn’t that what every designer strives to achieve through her own designs? The artist understands that the symbol was formed at around the same time as the Birkin bag, so it is in many ways a quiet nod to the 350 year old fashion house’s rich history. The application of the symbol on this iconic bag is a suggestion that the brand should, of course, hold onto its traditions, but it should concurrently transform itself and its respective identity as the world continues to evolve.
In this particular context, the “stealie” now exists completely independently from its original identity and subculture. With very few self-identifying Deadheads left in the world (and no first-generation Deadheads left at all), there is no one to defend this symbol — it has been released from its subculture and is now property of the mainstream. In the 21st century, when fashion designers began appropriating Grateful Dead iconography, such tendencies could be framed as a mild form of appropriation because the subculture still existed. With no Deadheads left to claim this symbol as their own, it is free to exist on its own and take on a new life. It will continue to manifest in various forms, and perhaps this was always the plan. The subculture will inevitably fade out, but the iconography will resurrect itself over and over, taking on new identities along the way.
Below: Image of the Stealie Birkin with its respective packaging.
Below: Different product/packaging possibilities. I knew I wanted to infuse the stealie symbol into the classic Hermès orange packaging. For the box top, I chose to superimpose the Hermès logo onto the stealie pattern.

POSSIBLE FUTURES, PART TWO: FASHION IS DEAD

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ABOVE: A page from my sketchbook, featuring drawings of my observed site as well as some notes and observations.

ABOVE: Site diagram

BELOW (clockwise, from top left):

1: Photo taken from outside the venue, after the show. There’s always an informal gathering outside the venue after the shows, and they almost always include lots of pot smoking and nitrous oxide.

2: Photo taken during the show (first set). The lights and visuals at a Bobby and Phil show are a lot less flashy than those at a Dead & Company show.

3: Photo taken of the music hall prior to the show.

4: Photo taken in the lobby area of Radio City Music Hall, prior to the show. The opulent nature of the concert hall stood in stark contrast to the casual attire of most concert goers.

POSSIBLE FUTURES, PART ONE: INTERVIEWS

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Over the weekend, I paid a visit to one of the most famous music venues in America — New York’s Radio City Music Hall. In October of 1980, at the age of 21, my father would take the train from Boston to New York City in hopes of securing a miracle ticket to one of the Grateful Dead’s eight shows at the acclaimed music hall.  Flash forward thirty-eight years later, and there I stood outside the very same venue, on the second night of Bob Weir and Phil Lesh’s duo tour. Unlike my father, however, I did not have my sights set on a miracle ticket. Instead, I was in search of two concert-goers who might be willing to let me interview them.

I rode the F train from sixth avenue and 14th street to Rockefeller Center. I arrived at the site no later than six o’ clock, which would give me an hour or so to interact with prospective show attendees before Radio City would open the floodgates and welcome a sea of zealous Deadheads into the historical space.  Because I am innately terrible at initiating social interactions, I decided to print out a sign prior to my arrival; this sign read, “FASHION STUDENT CONDUCTING RESEARCH ON THE GRATEFUL DEAD. PLEASE LET ME TALK TO YOU!” And so, I stood proudly under the marquee, sign dangling in my hands, eagerly anticipating my first willing participant. I immediately attracted a lot of attention; after all, I consciously chose not to conform to the unofficial Deadhead dress code. Instead of wearing a bootleg tour t-shirt or an assortment of tie-dyed accoutrements, I opted for a white, puff-sleeve blouse (think: season five, episode two of Seinfeld), gingham trousers, and fuchsia platform sandals. Many passerby stopped to read my sign, but few seemed willing to participate in my elusive proposition. No more than twenty minutes after my initial arrival at the scene, I was approached by a man who must’ve been in his early sixties. After catching sight of my sign, he abruptly stopped in his tracks, lingered for a moment, before approaching me. “Fashion student conducting research on the Grateful Dead,”, echoing the phrase emblazoned on my poster, “what’s that all about?” Because I did not want to sway my interviewees in any way, I told them that I would elaborate on the purpose of my research after they answered a few questions. Luckily, my first inquirer obliged.

INTERVIEW ONE: JIM DALEY, THE TAPER

Me: First off, could you start by telling me your name?

Jim: My name’s Jim.

Me: And I’m assuming you’re here for the show tonight, right?

Jim: Correct. Are you?

Me: No, no. Just here to talk to people. I don’t have a ticket.

Jim: Maybe you’ll get a miracle ticket.

Me: I don’t have any money anyways. I’m just happy to talk to people.

Jim: A “miracle” ticket means it’s free.

Me: Oh, I didn’t know that.

[NOTE: A “miracle” ticket is a popular term amongst the Deadhead community. The terminology is a product of the Grateful Dead song, “I Need a Miracle.” It’s not uncommon to see dozens of hopeful fans standing out shows with a sign that reads, “I need a miracle”, waving one finger in the air. My first experience with this term was when I went to see the Dead in Chicago for the 50-year reunion shows. Because scoring a ticket to those shows in particular was nearly impossible, I assumed “miracle” simply referred to any ticket at all, and that anyone hoping for a miracle was willing to pay anything for a ticket. I didn’t realize “miracle” implied free. 

Me: So, did you actually tour with the Dead when they were still a band?

Jim: I wouldn’t say I “toured” with them. I followed them around for about a decade, though.

Me: Right, that’s what I meant. When were you following them?

Jim: Pretty much throughout the eighties. Started in the late seventies, continued throughout the eighties.

Me: What was your first show?

Jim: Englishtown. 1977.

Me: Raceway Park! No way! That’s my favorite show of all time–

[A friend of Jim briefly interrupts us, and Jim subsequently introduces us to each other]

Jim: Yeah, so during the eighties, I was following the Dead on tour, and I was a taper. I was one of the guys taping all the shows I went to, through 1989. I just wrote a book on it, actually.

[Jim hands me his business card]

Me: Wow, that’s incredible. Um, I feel like I should probably explain myself now. I’m here because I’m working on a long-term research project on the relationship between the Grateful Dead and the fashion industry. So I want to ask you, do you have any recollection of what kinds of things people were wearing to Dead shows back in the eighties?

Jim: Tie-dye. Lots of tie-dye.

Me: Right, of course. But when you go to shows now — whether’s it’s Phil & Friends, Furthur, Dead & Company — do you notice a difference in how people dress for the shows now in comparison to how people dressed back then?

Jim: Not at all. Look around. It’s all the same. Still the same look. There’s always been a distinct style amongst Deadheads. That hasn’t changed. It’s all about the culture. It hasn’t changed at all.

Me: Right. So you don’t think the culture has shifted at all? Do you think people still come out to these shows for the same reasons they came out thirty years ago?

Jim: Absolutely. It hasn’t changed at all.

Me: Interesting.

Jim: So what exactly are you researching?

Me: Well, I’m a student at Parsons, and I’m working on a research project where I’m investigating the relationship between the Grateful Dead and the fashion industry. I basically came here with the intent of finding someone on the older side, who might’ve toured with the Dead and could tell me a bit about what kind of styles people wore during the actual Grateful Dead-era, and then hopefully I can find someone a bit younger too, ideally someone who discovered the Dead through Dead & Company and might know something about the relationship between these two worlds.

Jim: Well, I doubt you’ll find that.

Me: I don’t know, it might be hard to find, but I think it could happen. There are some people out there who only just discovered this music.

[Our conversation is interrupted again by the aforementioned friend]

Jim: Well, we’re going to get in line. But check out my book. Look it up on Amazon. Search “Grateful Memories”. It’ll come right up.

Me: I will. Of course. Thanks so much. Enjoy the show, by the way.

Jim: Great to meet you. And good luck with your project.

 

From my interview with Jim, I could sense that he wasn’t entirely convinced that I had any prior knowledge of Deadhead culture. I have no doubt that his assumption was heavily engendered by my appearance, which only further illustrates my point. People are always surprised to learn that I love the Grateful Dead, and it’s in no small part due to the fact that my appearance or manner of dress does not align with the collective visual identity of this subculture. I have attended countless Dead shows by myself, and people (mostly men) constantly assume I’m there with my Deadhead boyfriend. They cannot fathom the idea that someone who dresses the way I do might actually know a thing or two about the music. There was one time where I actually did attend a Dead & Company show with a guy I was seeing. He knew not a single song by the Dead, nor was he familiar with what kind of crowd typically attends a Dead show (he could not believe his eyes when, after the show, hundreds of fans, clad in tie-dye and “stealie” tees, loitered outside Madison Square Garden, ingesting copious amounts of nitrous oxide by way of colorful balloons). However, he did fit the unwritten dress code more so than myself. He wore a t-shirt and bandana, meanwhile, I was sporting a pair of five inch heels and yet another over-the-top white blouse. The men sitting next to us at the show, who arrived four songs into the first set, turned to us and inquired about what songs they’d missed. “Hell in a Bucket, Cold Rain & Snow, and Me & My Uncle” I promptly responded, but they proceeded to ignore me. They wanted to hear it from the guy I was with. During the set break, they tried to talk to him about Jerry Garcia and what it was like to tour with the Dead in the eighties. Any time I tried to interject, they wouldn’t listen. They simply assumed I knew nothing, and that of course my more appropriately-dressed counterpart was the true Deadhead, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

My reason for sharing the aforementioned vignette is to suggest that, despite the sheer number of Deadheads I spoke to who were completely dismissive of the role that fashion plays within this subculture, it does in fact play a huge role. If people are genuinely shocked to learn that a girl who wears five inch heels and leopard print coats can easily distinguish between a 1972 live version of “Brown Eyed Women” and a 1977 “Brown Eyed Women”, is that not a testament to the importance of visual identity within this subgroup? The role that clothes play is an interesting one, though. The typical “Deadhead” dresses in a very particular manner, but this mode of dressing is never an attempt to appear inherently stylish. Deadheads are not pairing tie-dye camisoles with floral-print maxi skirts and subsequently asking themselves, “is this on trend?” It’s all about immersing oneself in this niche culture. The sartorial decisions of Deadheads (or, at least, first-generation Deadheads) are independent of the world of high fashion.

Shortly after concluding my interview with Jim, I was approached by another man, probably in his late fifties or so. He wore a plain red t-shirt and dark-wash denim jeans. Like Jim, he too inquired about my sign. I simply stated that I was a student at Parsons conducting research on the Dead, and that I came to Radio City in search of potential interviewees. He immediately volunteered.

 

INTERVIEW NUMBER TWO: PHIL, THE NON-DEADHEAD

Me: Could you start by telling me your name?

Phil: Phil. And what’s yours?

Me: Annabelle. Nice to meet you, Phil. Very fitting name. Are you going to the show tonight?

Phil: I am. Are you?

Me: No, no ticket. I’m just here to talk to people like yourself. So, did you follow the Dead on tour back when Jerry was still in the picture?

Phil: No, no. I’m not even a Deadhead. I don’t consider myself one.

Me: You’re very quick to dismiss the label of “Deadhead”. Is that because of the implications?

Phil: No, I mean, I just didn’t follow them around back in the day. My first show was in 1982, at the Jamaica World Music Festival. It was a three-day festival. That was the only time I saw the Dead with Jerry. I didn’t follow them around.

Me: Okay, fair enough. But you go to shows now, Post-Jerry? You know, cover bands, or Dead & Company, for example?

Phil: Yes.

Me: And when you go to these shows, are you paying attention to what people are wearing? I mean, do you notice any commonalities amongst Deadheads in regards to what they’re wearing?

Phil: Here’s the thing. It’s not about the fashion. There’s nothing fashionable about Deadheads. It’s all about the vibe. We’re not here for fashion. It’s about the music and the vibe. These people don’t care about fashion.

Me: Right. So, would you be surprised then, if I told you that there’s a handful of fashion designers who are now appropriating Grateful Dead iconography and using it in their collections? If you don’t think Deadheads care about fashion, do you find it strange that the fashion industry is suddenly invested in this subculture?

Phil: Wow. Who’s doing that?

Me: One of the designers is Virgil Abloh. He’s the creative director of Off-White. Jonathan Anderson, too.

Phil: I don’t even know who those people are. [laughs]

Me: Yeah, that’s actually sort of my point. These are my two worlds — Grateful Dead and fashion. I’ve always seen them as two distinctly different worlds, and suddenly they’re sort of merging, but there’s still such a disconnect. The fashion industry is invested in the culture, but only on a superficial level. And then, Deadheads, for the most part, don’t pay any attention to fashion.

Phil: That’s a very interesting discussion. Yeah. These people aren’t fashionable. Look at them! These people come to the show for the vibes. It’s all about the vibes.

Me: So you don’t think there’s a distinct visual identity amongst this group of people? Even if they’re not inherently stylish?

Phil: That’s it. That’s the identity. People who aren’t inherently fashionable [laughs]. These are just good people who connect through music.

Me: Right, of course. Some of the best people in the world, really. I guess that’s why I feel a bit conflicted about the sudden convergence of these two worlds. I have to wonder whether or not it’s actually genuine.

Phil: Yeah. I don’t know. It’s interesting, though.

Annabelle: Thanks so much for letting me pick your brain, Phil. I’m going to let you go now since you’re probably itching to get in line. But I hope you have a great time at the show!

Phil: Thanks. It was great to meet you.

 

Towards the end of my conversation with Phil, I had yet another man approach me. This man looked much younger than my other two interviewees. I figured he might’ve been in his late twenties or perhaps his early thirties. Interestingly, he was dressed a bit differently than most of the older folks. He wore a bright green anorak and cuffed jeans. His ensemble was not unlike the outfits worn by the young twenty-somethings who often attend my dad’s band’s gigs. Even so, I wasn’t immediately sure whether he was going to the show that night, or if he was just a random passerby who got caught up in the crowd. However, he too was curious about what exactly I was researching. I gave him the same spiel, and he subsequently agreed to an interview.

Me: Alright, what’s your name?

Ricky: Ricky. And yours?

Me: Annabelle. It’s nice to meet you, Ricky. Are you here for the show tonight?

Ricky: Yeah, are you?

Me: No. Just here to talk to people. So I want to start by asking you, when did you first get into the Dead?

Ricky: 2009. I was a freshman in college. But my parents were Deadheads. Becoming apart of this world was sort of inevitable.

Me: Nice, yeah. Same here. So, do you go to shows often? Dead & Company, Dark Star Orchestra…

Ricky: Yeah, for sure. I try to go to as many shows as I can.

Me: And when you go to these shows, do you pay any attention to what people are wearing? Do you notice any overwhelming styles or trends amongst Deadheads?

Ricky: I don’t know. I don’t pay much attention to that.

Me: So do you think that notion of visual identity or style is important to Deadheads? Do you think people consciously dress for these shows?

Ricky: No, because it’s not about that. Going to these shows, it’s about the vibe that you bring.  It’s not about the fashion or style, it’s about the music and the vibes and the energy. The music and this culture… it transcends any sort of description you try to encapsulate it with. It’s its very own subculture, really.

Me: So, to you, it’s not about fashion. Would you be surprised, then, if I told you that there a handful of fashion designers right now who are appropriating Grateful Dead iconography?

Ricky: No, not at all. It’s all connected. Art, music, fashion. They’re all connected. Art is art.

Me: But do you view that as a bad thing? The whole appropriation aspect, that is. Here are these designers who are appropriating this iconography, meanwhile, many of them will openly admit that they know nothing about the actual culture of the Grateful Dead. Virgil Abloh, for example, put a stealie on a t-shirt and incorporated it into his first collection for Off-White, but then proceeded to state in an interview that he never cared for the Dead.

Ricky: Yeah, I mean, of course, there are going to be cases where [designers] are just exploiting [the imagery] for money. Happens all the time. Anything to make a quick buck. But it’s not bad, no. Not at all. Anyone can partake in this culture. That’s what it’s all about. It’s all about inclusion. So if these fashion people wanna take part in that, they’re welcome to. With [Deadheads], it’s all about loving each other. There’s no room for negativity.

Me: I really admire your positivity. It’s made me reconsider my view on this whole thing.

[a security guard very abruptly interrupts the interview and proceeds to reprimand Ricky for very openly holding a joint in front of the doors of the venue]

Me: I’ll let you go now.

Ricky: Yeah, I’ve gotta go smoke this across the street so I don’t get in trouble. But good luck with your project.

My conversation with Ricky was my final formal interview, however, I spoke to a handful of other insightful concert-goers. Most everyone had only positive things to say. I was genuinely surprised; none of the people I spoke to viewed the appropriation of the iconography as an inherently bad thing. Nobody seemed to notice any cultural shifts amongst Deadheads within the past few years. According to all accounts, the dress code has remained unchanged and it seems that the fashion industry’s sudden interest in Deadhead culture has no overwhelming effect on the people who identify with this culture.

Just as I was wrapping up another conversation, I was approached once more by Phil, the self-identifying Non-Deadhead.

“Ready for the show?”, he asked me.

“Oh, I don’t have a ticket, remember?” I responded.

Phil then proceeded to introduce me to a  man named Keith — a high school history teacher from New Jersey who followed the Dead around in the late seventies and eighties.  I shook Keith’s hand and introduced myself.

“Keith has your ticket,” Phil said.

I reminded him once more that I had no money, and both men shook their heads. It was in that moment that I realized my conversation with Jim the Taper might’ve been somewhat prophetic:

I had secured a miracle ticket.

Keith’s only request in return for the ticket was that I pass on the kindness to someone else. His requisite is perhaps the most accurate reflection of the ethos of Deadheads. They are truly the kindest, most genuine beings. There’s a line from a Dead song (“Scarlet Begonias”) — “strangers stopping strangers just to shake their hands”. This is quite literally what happens at Dead shows. By the end of the night, strangers become best friends. A person you’d never spoken to prior to the first set will feel like a lifelong friend by intermission. By the end of the night, I’d spoken to over a dozen strangers, danced and sang with a handful, hugged people whose names I can’t even remember. As I sat in the subway station after the show waiting for the F train, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself for expecting these people to be outraged by what’s going on with regards to the world of high fashion and the Dead. Of course, they wouldn’t be. These people are far too happy to demonstrate any degree of disappointment with aspects of their culture being supposedly appropriated by external agents.

That being said, perhaps they don’t mind simply because this notion of appropriation bears no significant influence on their lives. Deadheads, for the most part, are so removed from the world of fashion (this is, of course, a broad generalization, as I’m sure there are countless listeners who are also involved in the world of fashion) that anything that goes on within that industry does not affect them. However, as someone who is so deeply invested in both worlds, I do still feel frustrated (and, more than anything else, conflicted) by this idea. And again, I can’t help but observe the sheer disconnect between these two systems. If Jerry Garcia is the figurehead of this subculture, then one might suggest that Anna Wintour assumes the same role for the world of fashion — and these two people couldn’t be more dissimilar. While Jerry was known for his kindness and compassion, Anna is known for her aloof nature. I’ve been to Dead shows, and I’ve been to fashion shows. The crowds are pretty much diametrically opposed, with Deadheads collectively assuming a similar demeanor to Garcia and sartorialists often emitting the same haughty air as Ms. Wintour (again, a generalization). Tie-dye is to Deadheads as Birkin bags are to fashion editors.

With all that in mind, I’m not entirely sure what direction I’m headed in with regards to my research. However, it’s worth noting that conducting this on-site investigation left me feeling more inspired than ever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

INT. STUDIO: WHAT’S MISSING (PART TWO)

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Above: SELECTED IMAGE. Grateful Dead bassist Phil Lesh at Frost Ampitheatre in Palo Alto, California. May 2nd, 1987.

Photographer: Kurt Mahoney.

ABOVE: Iteration #1. Mahoney’s photograph is reinterpreted to function as a mock ad campaign for the brand “Off-White” by Virgil Abloh.

 

ABOVE: Iteration #2. The headline from a recent Vogue article, which offers six sartorial suggestions for prospective Dead & Company tour attendees, is superimposed onto the photograph of Lesh.

ABOVE: Iteration #3 features a quote said by Virgil Abloh, creative director of Off-White, in an interview with the New York Times.

For phase two of the “What’s Missing?” assignment, students were asked to create three new iterations of a found image to highlight the paradigm from which it was created and demonstrate what is absent in it. The chosen image should bear some degree of influence in the system the student is researching. The student should reinterpret the image by identifying/addressing who and/or what might be underrepresented or misrepresented in the image.

For the second phase of the assignment, I sought to select an image that highlights the absurdity of this unforeseen relationship between the fashion industry and the niche subculture of the Grateful Dead.

I initially struggled with how to effectively demonstrate the relationship between the world of fashion and the Grateful Dead through an original photograph of the band; it is important to note that this aforementioned relationship is characterized by a sudden collective appropriation of Grateful Dead iconography by designers, which in turn has attracted the attention of various fashion publications and influentials. The world of fashion is now seemingly invested in aspects of “Deadhead” culture — but this fascination with the culture doesn’t seem to extend beyond the visual iconography of the band. I wonder, then, does this emblematic appropriation come from a place of genuine appreciation, or is it just another ploy to capitalize on the recent cultural resurgence of the Grateful Dead?

One of the most important things to note about the relationship between the fashion industry and the Grateful Dead is the drastic differences between these two cultural facets and their respective demographics. As someone who’s been immersed in both worlds for most of my life, I’ve always paid close attention to the people involved in these two worlds. I would often joke to my father, a self-identifying “Deadhead”, that Grateful Dead culture is devoid of any sense of visual or aesthetic sensibility. “Deadheads” seem about as far removed (or as uninterested) in fashion as possible. The collective sartorial tendencies of this group of people is best characterized by copious amounts of pattern clashing and tie dye. So, when the fashion industry suddenly began to pay tribute to the Dead, I couldn’t help but feel mildly confused. Although I would argue that there’s been a concerted effort to bridge the gap between these two groups, the disconnect is still highly evident.

 

As I began to conduct my visual research, I initially sought to find a photo of the whole band (Jerry Garcia, Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, etc). I thought I might reinterpret an original photograph of the band by swapping out their traditional attire for runway interpretations of Grateful Dead-inspired garments à la J.W. Anderson and Off-White. However, upon going through an online Grateful Dead photography archive, I stumbled upon a photograph of bassist Phil Lesh, wearing a rather eccentric outfit. After looking at the photo, I decided there was no better example of how antithetical these two worlds really are. In 1987, Phil Lesh was unironically wearing colorful tie dye t shirts, bucket hats, and wristbands. In 2017, designers are sending models down the runway in “stealie” t-shirts. How did this happen? Furthermore, I reckoned, if designers were truly aware of the cultural implications and associations of this band, would they still want to appropriate the imagery? If designers could only see the outfits Lesh, Weir, and Garcia wore during their thirty years of touring, would they still deem Grateful Dead culture en vogue? 

 

For my first iteration, I chose to highlight the irony and absurdity of this relationship by turning the photograph of Lesh into a mock-ad campaign for Off-White. In 2017, creative director Virgil Abloh sent models down the runway in bootleg Grateful Dead tour tees. But when you compare the aesthetic identity of a brand like Off-White to the aesthetic identity of the true Grateful Dead (and not just their appealing motifs), the disconnect is not only palpable, but to some degree, quite comical. The idea of making Phil the face of Off-White’s Spring/Summer 2018 campaign is inconspicuously comical.

For my second iteration, I chose to superimpose the text from an online Vogue article that offers suggestions to Vogue readers on what to wear to a Dead & Company show. When I first stumbled across this article, I found it highly amusing, because it demonstrates the post-Dead concert approach. During the Grateful Dead era, concert-goers weren’t thinking twice about what they were wearing (at least, according to my Deadhead parents). They went for the music, not to make any sort of bold fashion statement. If there was any consideration about clothing, it most certainly was an afterthought. But now that the cultural resurgence of the Dead is in full swing (we have Dead & Company to thank for that, of course), there’s now an emphasis on what to wear to a show. I found this article ironic, too, because in 2012, when Jonathan Anderson sent models down the runway in the iconic Grateful Dead dancing bear sweaters, Vogue completely failed to make any mention of the implications of this imagery in their analysis of the collection. But now that following the Grateful Dead has officially been deemed trendy and cool, Vogue feels compelled to insert itself into this culture. Superimposing this headline onto a photo of Phil once again demonstrates the disconnect. Vogue, the most elite fashion publication in the world, and Phil Lesh (in all of his tie-dye glory, no less) go together a bit like toothpaste and orange juice.

Finally, my third iteration features a ransom note-esque collage on top of the photograph of Lesh. In the early stages of my research, I came across an interview with Virgil Abloh (creative director of the aforementioned Off-White) for the New York Times. When confronted about his use of Grateful Dead iconography in his recent Spring/Summer collection, Abloh aptly responds, “I was never into the Grateful Dead, never was about it. I went to school in Wisconsin and it was a bunch of hippies. I was just into the logo.” The quote essentially confirms my theory that designers are not truly invested in the culture, but rather, are appropriating the imagery of the band for their own sake. Abloh refers to followers of the Dead as “hippies”, a testament to the perception of those who follow the band. He’s quick to make it known that he is by no means apart of that world, but that he’s simply “into the logo”. To superimpose this quote onto the image of Lesh reaffirms the notion that the fashion industry and the Grateful Dead, in their natural and intended forms, are pretty much diametrically opposed.