Lifestyle
A Fashion Revolution at the Met
Fashion has always sat uncomfortably in the great art institutions of the West, the question of whether it belonged under the same roof as masterworks and heroic marbles a subject of perennial debate. After all, these creations weren’t hung on a wall or put on a pedestal; they were (cue dismissive sniff) worn. They may have been a part of pop culture, but could they really be classed with high culture?
In London and Paris the answer was to relegate dress to separate museums of decorative arts — the Victoria & Albert and Musée des Arts Décoratifs. And in New York, while the Metropolitan Museum of Art may have swallowed its pride in 1946 and deigned to accept the clothes, it put the new fashion department in … the basement. Talk about a metaphor for museum hierarchies.
This week, however, the Condé M. Nast galleries, a 12,000-square-foot permanent space, is being unveiled for the Costume Institute. The galleries have replaced the former museum gift shop, just to the right of the information desk in the Great Hall. Rather than being hidden below ground, the fashion department is now the first thing people see when they enter the museum.
Shh. Listen. Hear that? It is the sound of 80 years of argument ending.
And it is a reflection of the simple fact that it is now fashion that gets people through the doors of these august — some might say old — institutions. It’s the thing everyone can relate to and comfortably opine on, unlike, say, de Kooning, because, hey, everyone wears clothes.
If in doubt, simply consider that of the 10 most-visited Met exhibitions in modern history, half of them were Costume Institute exhibitions. No other department is represented more than once. Or consider “Costume Art,” the exhibition that opens the new space.
This year’s fashion blockbuster — the one celebrated by the Met Gala on Monday night — “Costume Art” both acknowledges fashion’s role as the new entry point to the museum and makes the case for why the change is long overdue. It’s as if the exhibition were holding out its hand and saying to all who enter, “Hello, let me be your guide to the treasures we have throughout this place.”
The show suggests that fashion — or “the dressed body” — is the essential connective tissue of the 17 different departments and 19 collecting areas of the Met, the one element present in every discipline, no matter what century or art form is under discussion. It does this by pairing approximately 200 garments and accessories with 200 pieces of art borrowed from across the museum’s six miles of galleries.
You see the connection from the moment you enter the soaring new space, through an anteroom just off the Great Hall, dedicated to what is now termed “naked dressing.” Think Dilara Findikoglu’s 2023 sheer dress with strategically placed coils of hair, like Lady Godiva fashion cosplay, paired with an 18th century Venetian bronze nude, the hands strategically placed just like the hair. That’s one way to hook ‘em.
The Museums Special Section
It’s no accident that the entry also includes a double-sided vitrine that houses four mannequins. Two of them face outward toward the grand staircase and wear sheer body stockings, one by Vivienne Westwood and one by Andrea Adamo, each with a silver fig leaf over their nether regions. Andrew Bolton, the Costume Institute’s curator in charge, has never been afraid of playing to the crowd.
Created by Miriam Peterson and Nathan Rich of the architecture firm Peterson Rich, which also designed the exhibition, the galleries have been conceived to fit seamlessly into the existing semiology of the museum. They are floored in white granite, replete with classic pedestals and platforms, and bathed in a soft glow (since fabric is too fragile to be exposed to daylight, this has been created by recessed uplighting). It’s as if the new galleries had always been there; as if fashion had always belonged.
Rather than dress up the exhibition with fancy scenography, or guest film directors as Bolton has often done in the past, the space allows the interplay between fashion and the rest of the galleries to sit front and center. It is, after all, a relatively straightforward idea: an Issey Miyake molded gold breastplate and a mini-me Etruscan cuirass! A Fortuny pleated Delphos gown and a Greek terra-cotta vase featuring a figure in a pleated gown! A Rei Kawakubo for Comme des Garçons armless felted construction and a stone Henry Moore with the exact same curves.
And really, it’s hard to argue with the connection between Van Gogh’s “Irises” and the Yves Saint Laurent jacket that reproduced that painting in sequins, or the Loewe shirt by Jonathan Anderson that did the same on a feather-festooned couture version of a concert tee.
But such banal relationships are actually few and far between in the show, which is after something deeper and more complicated. There is, thankfully, no Mondrian “Broadway Boogie Woogie” with matching dresses in the exhibition; no Warhol soup cans and Warhol soup can shifts.
Warhol is represented, natch, but by a Richard Avedon portrait of the artist’s bullet-scarred torso, juxtaposed against a Coperni dress, its slashes resected with silver spirals. Even those Van Gogh irises turn out to be linked not just by flowers, but by the mental health struggles of the men who made the works, the way both the designer Chet Lo’s gowns covered in little knit spikes and Picasso’s “The Blind Man’s Meal” reflect the importance of tactile understanding.
Indeed, the organizing principle of the show, rather than chronology, is the body itself: both the kinds of bodies that distinguish us, and the bodily experiences we share. And that is the product of a fairly radical rethinking of how fashion relates to art.
For decades, the justifications for considering fashion as an art form involved denaturing it, separating it from its practical purpose and corporeal reality, and focusing instead on its textile value — embroidery, beading, decoration — or its construction. With this show, Bolton is slyly subverting that idea, suggesting instead that it is fashion’s dependence on the body itself that makes it central to any and all art practices: That the real connective issue between fashion and art is the way in which both are used to challenge and shape perception — of the body, of beauty; of who we are and how we see. Understanding the one helps to understand the other.
That’s why the clothes in this exhibition often sit atop the art, a subtle upending of the traditional status quo that speaks to both Bolton’s thesis and the department’s new status. It’s also why the exhibit layout serves to guide you through a maze of bodily types in its two main galleries, the Thom Browne gallery, and the Michael Kors and Lance Le Pere gallery. Among them are the classical body, the corpulent body, the disabled body, the pregnant body, the inscribed body, the anatomical body and the mortal body.
(The terminology, the product of consultation with different interest groups, can be a little abstruse, but the taxonomy has led to one real change: the creation of mannequins beyond the unrealistically thin and sylphlike.)
You don’t have to get any of this to enjoy the show, of course. It may be less magical than some Costume Institute shows such as 2011’s “Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty,” 2018’s “Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination,” and even last year’s “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style.” But it is delightful to happen upon an unexpected treasure, such as a miniature Egyptian Omphale figure that seems to glow from within, or Fred Tomaselli’s 1992 work “Behind Your Eyes,” a life-size male nude with a body built out of pills that the Met acquired in 2019 but that has never been shown. Or, for that matter, to discover the beauty in the blood red venous structures of a Robert Wun gown, like a flayed dress.
The fashion masters (Worth, Vionnet, Kawakubo and so on) are all here, sure, like the old masters, but so are many more names most people will not know. As a sign of what sort of role fashion is going to play in the Met going forward, “Costume Art” is a clear statement of intent.
The last room in the exhibition acts as a bookend to the first, focusing not on nudity, but on skin itself before disgorging visitors into the Byzantine galleries. Anders Bergstrom’s wrenching “Brown Bag Test,” which wrestles with early-20th-century racism and the way skin tones were used for discrimination, is there, along with Christian Louboutin’s set of “Hot Chick” stiletto shoes in eight different shades of nude. Both are set against the backdrop of the original brick and concrete outer wall of the Met, which was hidden when the Great Hall and grand entry staircase were added in 1902.
The wall was uncovered when the gift shop was demolished, and it has been left in its original state, as if to remind you that it, too, has been here all along. It’s just that, like the foregrounding of fashion in art, it took this long for everyone to realize it. Now that they have, there is room for an even more interesting question: What’s next?
Cinematography by Jensen Gore.
Costume Art
Members Preview, May 5, 7-9; opens May 10 — Jan. 10, 2027, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1000 Fifth Ave., 212-535-7710; metmuseum.org.
Goth Shakira wears a Blumarine jacket, vintage Jean Paul Gaultier top from Wild West Social House, Jane Wade bra and Ariel Taub earrings.
My ex-boyfriend, whom I just got out of a relationship with, had a pure heart and was a loyal lover. However, he lacked ambition and his family didn’t have the best values. I don’t see myself raising children with him because I don’t want my kids to be surrounded by his family. (I broke up with him on the night of his birthday because his sister got violent with me.) We dated for over a year and I’d always be the one to take care of the check when we’d go out on dates. He had no network, so we would always hang out with my friends and colleagues. Am I wrong for leaving him? Is his loyalty worth going through all that?
Girl. (“Girl” is a gender-neutral term of endearment, by the way.) I’m going to need you to take a deep breath, look at your gorgeous self in the mirror and relish in the fact that you have made the right decision.
First, let’s focus on the good. Loyalty and purity of heart are beautiful traits that many, many people on this earth have. When you find someone who does, and then combine that with your attraction and attachment to this person (along with the reality that many, many people also lack these traits), it makes sense that you’d be feeling like your ex is a rare find that you might not encounter again. However, you can care for someone, and also acknowledge the truth that the life they are setting themself up for is not the life you envision living — or, crucially, the life that you envision your children living. A long-term partnership is so much more than love. It requires a shared vision for fulfillment and happiness, based on compatible values. It necessitates a wholeness from both parties, wherein two individuals take ownership and accountability over their own success and well-being. It is loving to let someone go so they can live their life in peace and free of judgment, and even find someone else whose version of an ideal life more closely matches theirs. Most importantly, letting someone go who you know is not aligned with the life you want to live is a deeply self-loving act.
The meaning I glean from your words is this: It’s not so much that you yearn for him romantically and fear you made a mistake simply because your life is empty without him. (In fact, it sounds like you were the one adding a lot of value to his otherwise limited existence through your resources.) It seems that you feel guilty for leaving him behind as you went on to pursue a better life for yourself. That kind of feeling is more caretaking, and dare I say maternal, than loving (at least the kind associated with romantic partnership). He’s your ex, not your son. Unconditional love is only healthy and appropriate in the context of a parent-child relationship, and that’s not the situation here. People who engage in romantic relationships with men — women, femmes, gay men, etc. — are socialized to be ever-forgiving, to have infinite patience and compassion. The lines get blurred when you do feel kindness and genuine compassion for someone you care about. It can be difficult to discern when you’re being too harsh, and when you’re just setting a healthy boundary. Society makes it difficult for us in that way. But we don’t have to succumb to that pressure.
You can’t fall in love with someone’s potential. If a person, especially a man, shows up to a relationship as someone you can’t envision spending an extended period of time with, then that’s not your person. Not only is it impossible to truly “fix” or “change” anyone, it’s simply not an efficient or productive use of your precious energetic and material resources. Of course, we all change over time, and hopefully in positive ways. But that change needs to be self-directed, coming from within each individual. “Change” exerted on another through force robs the receiving party of the dignity of authoring their own life path. Even the verbiage of your question indicates that you’ve already extended a lot of generosity and patience toward someone who didn’t feel like working toward social and financial independence, and setting boundaries with their family should have been a top priority. I can sense your exhaustion underneath the guilt. That’s the root of the matter. And what matters is you.
I can sense your exhaustion underneath the guilt.
Loss is just space. It can hurt and feel empty at first. But it also allows you the room you need to expand your world with abundance, not shrink it and drain it into scarcity. Affirm in your heart and in your mind that love itself is an infinite resource. If you channel the patience and generosity that you once put into your ex into a life where you are fulfilled to the utmost, the right person (or people) will find you.
And, girl. Some time from now, when you are loved by a man who takes his own dignity seriously, and supports you in the feminine energy of rest and calm that you deserve to experience and embody, you will be so grateful to this current version of you that had the courage to let go. I’m proud of you.
Photography Eugene Kim
Styling Britton Litow
Hair and Makeup Jaime Diaz
Visual Direction Jess Aquino de Jesus
Production Cecilia Alvarez Blackwell
Photo Assistant Joe Elgar
Styling Assistant Wendy Gonzalez Vivaño
The kiss finally happened at a Halloween party Chatterjee hosted at her apartment, while the two were watching “American Psycho” on the couch at 3 a.m., when everyone else had gone out for food. “We’re sitting so close our legs are touching and I’m freaking out,” Braggins said.
“I looked at Abby, and I was like, ‘I’d rather kiss you than watch this,’” Chatterjee said. So they did. About a month later, they were official.
On April 10, Braggins suggested they take a trip to Home Goods in Brooklyn. When they ended up at Coney Island Beach instead, Chatterjee was none the wiser. It was an early morning, so the two, along with the dog they adopted together, Willow, enjoyed having the beach to themselves.
Braggins ran ahead with Willow and crouched behind some rocks. When Chatterjee got a glimpse of Willow, there was a bandanna tied around her neck. It said, “Will you marry me?” Braggins pulled out a shell with a ring in it. The answer was yes.
A few days before, Chatterjee had proposed to Braggins amid a gloomy, cloudy sky on top of the Empire State Building.
The two were married on April 21 at the New York City Marriage Bureau, in front of three guests, by Guohuan Zhang, a city clerk. Afterward, they celebrated at Bungalow, an Indian restaurant in the East Village, with a few more friends.
Though Chatterjee’s parents were not present at the wedding, one of the couple’s most meaningful moments came in 2023, when Braggins traveled to India to meet Chatterjee’s family for the first time. Chatterjee had never brought a partner home before, and she had warned Braggins that same-sex relationships were still not widely accepted there. But by the end of the trip, Chatterjee’s mother had embraced Braggins as family, telling her, “I have two daughters now.”
I was comfortable being called “weekend girl” and had even coined the nickname. We met running on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. Our first date followed: a run through Pacific Palisades. We talked about food. Our second date: dinner. We talked about running. I was coming out of a sticky romantic relationship and into a new job, so a casual fling seemed appropriate. We had endless common interests; making plans was easy. He was the best kisser I’d ever come across, but I still liked my solo weeknights.
It continued that way for a few months. There were sleepless nights of laughter and love-making. I didn’t care where he was on a Wednesday. I had a dumpy, dark one-bedroom further south on the disregarded part of Bundy Drive, and he had a well-appointed and nicely lit two-bedroom, so weekends were at his place or occasionally the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs. Things were light and fluffy until he made a proposal.
“Do you want to be adventure buddies?” he asked while we dined at the hotel bar.
“Well, yes, I like that title. Does that mean I’m not ‘weekend girl’ anymore?”
“Adventure buddies” had a nice ring, but it was vague.
“I was thinking we can clear out a closet at my place, and you could spend more time there.” He faced forward.
We organized the closet the following weekend. I was wearing a T-shirt and just my underwear, while he was wearing his sleeping shorts, no shirt. We agreed it was a fantastic Friday night. I woke up in the morning to a warm California sun and hot coffee, sipped on the balcony. Noticing that the outdoor space got just enough light to wring out some tomatoes, we headed to the nursery to top off our nest.
I had been a serial apartment dweller with limited outdoor space, so I never knew the color of my thumbs. We plucked three healthy tomato plants and three pots. We added plant food and tomato cages to the cart. The staff offered their expertise several times, and I wondered if I was wearing something that screamed “gardening noob.” We declined the help, as it seemed easy enough; put the plants in the dirt and water them.
Two blissful months later, we were getting some tomatoes and lots of loving. We were planning adventures, date nights and what we would cook with our forages from the farmers’ market. It was effortless. We spent most of our time just the two of us, but we were slowly integrating our respective worlds and families. I was the happiest I had ever been, and I felt fortunate. Gratitude is due when your biggest problem is the sad-looking tomato plants on your balcony. Something was wrong.
Back to the garden center we went, bringing a leaf as a specimen. They said we had an unidentified pest and pointed us to the neem oil. We got back to our babies, and as we started to spray, there they were: hornworms. They were bright green with pokey stinger-looking things on their butts, and they were as long as my index finger. There were dozens of them. We loaded them into a giant mason jar, but it was too late. My green dreams were now caterpillar nightmares. Maybe we should have asked more questions in the beginning? How did I not notice this sooner?
“Wanna get froyo?” I was a sucker for mochi and figured that would cheer me up.
“Sure, just gonna take a quick shower.” He set his phone down and hopped in. I went to grab my mascara and saw the white and blue messages light up.
“I wish I were with you tonight, but Em is here.” No name, just a number. I scrolled up — boobs but no face. Who was this girl?
I didn’t move to L.A. to become an actor, but I sure put on a performance that night. I let the phone go black without a word as the shower shut off. We ate the yogurt and called it an early night. I lay mummy-style and wide-eyed next to him through the sleepless night. By daybreak, I had a plan.
I spent the next morning with his iPad reading through text chains. “You’re so gorgeous,” or “I’d love to take you to dinner,” or “I am not with that girl; you are the one for me.” There were nudes and sexts and I love yous. And so, so many people. I gasped and shook while reading the first few lines, but it became more like entertainment as the minutes passed. It was more than two hours of reading material. I was hungry and had planned to get my nails done, so I grabbed the wallet he had left on the table and helped myself to a champagne lunch and a mani-pedi.
I got home before he did and prepped myself for the fireworks. The bubbles and the “five-more-minutes” foot massage helped boost my confidence.
“Babe!” he exclaimed, excited and clueless.
“Babe!” I parroted. “I just finished reading your iPad! What a productive morning!”
I was calm while he paused.
“Oh my god. Get out. I can’t believe you violated my privacy,” he yelled.
I responded without defensiveness. “It’s sad. I thought I loved you. But it turns out you love 13 others — and that ain’t gonna work for me.” With calculated confidence, I directed him to pack my things from the closet. I was eager to get back to my dungeon-like, safe apartment.
“I hope you get help. It seems like you need it.” I really did care for him, and it was hard to drive away.
It was a lot to take in over a short time, but I am grateful for the lessons. For me, integrity is paramount and asking questions up-front is a must. Even when the dating gets tough, I won’t settle for less than the truth. This summer, I will be companion planting basil, dill and marigolds with my tomatoes and an occasional spritz of a natural insecticide.
The author is an entrepreneur and working on a book about overcoming betrayal. She splits her time between L.A. and Michigan. She’s on Instagram: @emilybrynwilliams.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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