Fierce and confronting, an animal stands before me. She is tall and demands my attention. Dressed in a luxurious skin, this animal is frightening but familiar. I want to know her. I want to be her. This animal exists in two completely different museums as objects on display. She is both a taxidermy polar bear and a gown by couturier Azzedine Alaïa. While these objects are from different time periods, locations, and industries they share certain unexpected traits. Both are dressed forms that have been altered based on the ideals of their maker.
The polar bear before me is not a polar bear at all. It is a sculpted form, most likely made of wood, straw, and wires, that is covered with the skin and fur of a polar bear. She (although we as uninformed viewers do not know the sex of the animal) is posed standing on two legs and towers over any human who approaches her. Her mouth is open just enough to show off the vicious (but fake) teeth within. This object stands in a critical location within the Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature (Museum of Hunting and Nature). She is visible down the hall from the staircase landing on the second floor; frozen in time, begging for you to walk down the hall and enter her room for closer inspection. Upon entering her room, you realize she is not alone. There are paintings and cabinets of birds and other animals covering the walls, a contemporary sculpture to her left, and a doorway to her right. The doorway leads to a room filled with taxidermy animals: lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my. She is the largest of these animals and stands guard, equally protective and welcoming. She is most likely a hunting trophy or souvenir from an arctic expedition, but now represents more broadly a history of human interaction with nature. Hunting trophies and taxidermy mounts in natural history museums are the harmonization of nature and entertainment. They offered museum visitors of the 1800s a glimpse into a world otherwise inaccessible; the natural world unaltered by human interaction. Trophies offered a story of your triumphs to the visitors in your home. This constructed narrative is read as if it is natural because of its hyper realism. Not much about animals or nature is learned by looking at a natural history taxidermy mount. They are made for entertainment and beg for emotional reactions rather than critical thought.
Polar Bear at Musée De La Chasse Et De La Nature. June 24, 2018. Paris. Photo by Samuel Snodgrass
A similar statement could be said for the installation of Azzedine Alaïa garments at the Design Museum London. Very little interpretation or explanation of the garments is offered in this exhibit. Context is only created through a timeline of Alaïa’s life and loosely defined thematic sections. Gowns from 2017 are placed next to gowns from 1993 first, to highlight the timelessness of his designs, but also to allow for an experience of the garments as objects separate from the time they were created. Fashion, and fashion exhibition, is deeply connected to the culture and society that exists when it is made. This exhibition challenges that idea and makes you look closer at these garments as works of art and craft. The handmade nature of Alaïa’s work is apparent when nearly all other competing information is put aside. These garments are not clothes. They have an aura around them that is experiential and can only be understood through prolonged engagement.
While Alaïa’s designs are provocative in and of themselves, the garments on display in the Design Museum are not things that could ever be worn. They have been altered by Alaïa himself to elongate the shape of the body. He designed his own dress forms as sculptural objects that “resemble both the sculpture of Alberto Giacometti and the exaggerated proportions of fashion illustrations.”[1] In changing the shape of these garments to an impossible human size, our experience of his designs drifts even further from clothing and becomes a mediated experience. This is an exact parallel to the mediated experience of nature brought to us through taxidermy.
In the wild, polar bears very rarely stand on two legs. But nine out of ten times you see a taxidermy polar bear, they are in fact standing on two legs. Although the bear looks realistic, it is a complete fabrication and not natural. The naturally majestic and ferocious polar bear is frozen in time in his most impressive state. Donna Haraway, musing on natural history museums states, “no visitor to a merely physical [Arctic] could see these animals. This is a spiritual vision made possible only by their death and literal re-presentation. Only then could the essence of their life be present.”[2] Living polar bears do not always present themselves in majestic and ferocious ways. They can also be dirty, sickly, or lazy. Through death and human manipulation, they are immortal. Only through death can we feel such strong connectedness to wild or exotic animals. When they are frozen in time, we can control and own them. Only through the exhibition of Alaïa’s garments can we participate in such close observation. When worn in the world we see his work as a fleeting glimpse on the runway or red carpet.
The garment is representative of a body and the taxidermy mount is representative of a living polar bear. Since neither of these objects are real or natural, what are they? They are transcendent ideas of humanity. Taxidermy portrays the essence of an animal. Some quality present in the living animal is captured and heightened. The polar bear is posed on two legs to resemble man and to reflect the hunter’s perception of himself onto the bear. The bear is sublime and majestic, but has been conquered and killed by man. Alaïa’s designs stand on pedestals like statues, far from the everyday things we call clothes. In the same way that the polar bear is no longer a souvenir from an expedition, these garments are no longer representative of humans. They are ethereal beings or mythical beasts. Goddesses and immortal animals. They represent the vision and ideals of a single man.
With limited information and context about the garments in the Alaïa exhibit, these objects are also idealized and become representative of a life unknown to the viewer. We do not know who wore these gowns or how they existed in the world. This exhibit has an intentional focus on design and technique. After all, these pieces are on display in a museum of design. Instead of claiming accurate representation of a previous life, which is fundamental of taxidermy, Alaïa’s work is presented in a way that totally ignores any life other than his own vision.
Exhibition View of Azzedine Alaïa: The Couturier. June 18, 2018. London. Photo by Samuel Snodgrass
Key elements of Azzedine Alaïa’s work are minimal embellishments and silhouette. He “keyed pattern into the fabric of his garments, making it an integral part of their structure. These decorations alter the form of the garment and change its weight.”[3] The body is the most defining factor for the shape and drape of his garments. Whether he uses stretch fabric, leather, or metal the dresses cling to their wearer and create a second skin. This is most evident in his famous “Bandelette” (bandage) dresses which debuted in 1986. The Bandelette looks like a strip of fabric has been wrapped tightly around the body as if to mummify. There is no shape to this dress other than the body underneath. This is a striking parallel to taxidermy mounts where a literal skin is stretched over a mount. (Not to mention the fact that Egyptian mummies are considered by some to be early examples of taxidermy.) Taxidermy mounts are made to be idealized versions of animals while Alaïa’s models and clients were his ideal size: extremely tall and extremely thin. Just as Alaïa’s designs had no embellishment other than the fabric itself, the polar bear has no decoration other than what is given by the animal skin.
Being in the presence of these two animals, the polar bear and Alaïa’s other worldly humanoid, one is confronted with beauty and majesty. They have a presence you cannot ignore. This is no mistake or coincidence; they are made with the intention to be striking. The maker’s hand controls your experience. We read taxidermy mounts as reflections of ourselves, through an emotional experience of spectacle and entertainment rather than of an academic view of nature. We see Alaïa’s gowns not as personal garments worn throughout the world, but beautiful examples of a designer’s vison made with the highest technical quality. These pieces have a life prior to their current existence as museum objects that is forgotten through display. By ignoring the stories of the hunter and the fashionable woman, the museums create new narratives. By offering a holistic story, individual objects become parts of a larger experience. The bandelette dresses represent certain themes and techniques present, though less apparent, in other Alaïa garments. These iconic designs serve as entry points for his more obscure work, just as the polar bear is positioned as a gateway to a room full of other taxidermy animals. To enter such a prodigious, but cramped, collection of beasts you must first experience and understand your body in relation to a single creature: the polar bear. Despite glaring differences, these two animals are at the will of their maker. They are curated to create an emotional experience. They appear to be natural but are far more exquisite and fantastical.
[1] Fury, Alexander. Azzedine Alaïa: The Couturier. London: Design Museum, 2018.
[2] Haraway, D. J. (1984) ‘Teddy bear patriarchy’: Taxidermy in the Garden of Eden’, in Social Text, n. 11, Winter, Page 25
[3] Fury, Alexander. Azzedine Alaïa: The Couturier. London: Design Museum, 2018.