The J Word

There’s a certain breed of fashion critic who throws around the word "joyless" like confetti at a funeral. Usually when dissecting a collection that dares to prioritize, say, exquisite tailoring over a shower of sequins. Or maybe one that explores the nuances of minimalism, the subtle poetry of restraint. Suddenly, the lack of a flouncy hemline or a neon pink feather boa becomes an indictment against the designer's very soul.

As if fashion, this glorious, ridiculous, utterly captivating industry, should only ever be about unadulterated, childlike glee.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good dose of whimsy as much as the next person. Give me a Comme des Garçons show that looks like a Tim Burton fever dream, and I’m the first one clapping. But to suggest that every runway should be a parade of pure, unadulterated “joy”? It’s reductive, frankly. And a little bit boring.

It reminds me of this time I went to see a modern dance performance. Now, I’m no stranger to abstract art. I can appreciate a Rothko, get lost in a Twombly. But this particular piece… it was just two dancers, dressed in beige, rolling around on the floor to the sound of someone breathing heavily into a microphone. For an hour.

Afterwards, everyone in the lobby was buzzing about how “powerful” and “evocative” it was. Me? I just wanted to go home and watch an old Fred Astaire movie.

Look, fashion can be challenging. It can be uncomfortable. It can hold a mirror up to society and force us to confront difficult truths. It can be deeply, profoundly cerebral. And yes, sometimes it can be downright weird. But to dismiss anything that doesn’t spark immediate, Instagrammable joy as “joyless”? Well, that’s just lazy criticism.

It’s like going to a Michelin-starred restaurant and complaining that the portions are too small. Or standing in front of a Picasso and wondering why he didn’t just paint a nice landscape.

Fashion, like any art form, deserves to be engaged with on its own terms. To be dissected, debated, even disliked. But let’s retire the “joyless” trope, shall we? It’s tired. And frankly, it brings me no joy whatsoever.

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