C is for Collaboration

Davina Thomas on the collision of worlds

In this essay from our first issue, Davina takes aim at the cash-grab collab-fash phenomenon, already fading in allure by 2022. Flash forward to today and the mash-ups just aren’t making headlines like they used to - dare we say it, did we sound the death knell?

It’s easy to bash collaborations in the world of fashion – there are too many of them, they’re not well thought through, they’re apeing a marketing moment in time which has been long played out. A hangover from the hypebeast histrionics of the late 2010s. But there are only so many words you can put in a press release and so soon you have to turn to letters. The big X, the drop, the major, the moment. 

Collaborative is a uniquely corporate word, unlike collective. Because its origins are in work – there is no such thing as working collaboratively because what else would one do with that adjective? It is to accomplish something with a set goal, it’s a driver of productivity. Collaboration involves working with someone to produce something, but to be a collaborator is also to be in treachery with the enemy. And that’s how a lot of us feel about work at the moment; whether it’s quiet quitting or van life, hustle culture is dead and the girl boss bores us. Why make more stuff when you could thrift it, why work in an office when you could play remotely, why sell out when you could just tune out? Mocking things that make money feels right, right now. 

Brand collaborations also remind us that maybe the world isn’t enough. With sapped attention spans, we need to be immersed in more than one brand universe in the same way that we need to be watching more than one screen at a time. Just as we’re deciding we want to live slower and consume mindfully, the buzz of brand collabs feels overwhelming and out of step. 

Yet there’s an underlying philosophy that maybe this is what fashion is headed towards – a play nice, softly does it, open inclusive playground of creativity. No more the monster genius creative director. Case in point: this season, the CFDA fashion fund, a grant providing mentoring and funding to an exceptional emerging American designer, previously won by Telfar Clemens, was split between all ten finalists. Luckily, pay-day loan sponsor of the awards, Afterpay, isn’t charging them any APR. Winners all round!

This is the same spirit of unimaginative commerciality that permeates the last few years of collaboration mania. In a move I could have invented to make a hyperbolised point, it’s Michael Kors and Ellese in the most sexless tennis-themed adverts you’ve ever seen, with a McDonalds-esque logo so bad you could only pay Emily Ratajkowski to wear it. 

Collaborations can feel like a forced playdate – LVMH executives pushing Fendi and Versace together in the school yard, demanding they play nicely. But there are some brand collaborations that do bring about a childlike joy. Sometimes they can recall that golden trope of early 2000s Disney: the crossover episode. The sum might not have been greater than their parts, but the thrill of worlds colliding was unforgettable. There, the four walls of television studios where it was impossible to imagine these ridiculous fictional realms existing within, so fully conceived were they, were broken. And chaos reigned: child star ego clashes and running gags and canned laughter. Much like the best brand partnerships though, you felt in on the joke.

The breaking down of walls is a running theme through the most memorable collaborations of the last decade. Queues wound around the block for Kate Moss’ Topshop collection, and with the indie sleaze revival well upon us, you might do well to get eBay favouriting those chiffon vests and floral frocks (was there ever a more 2012 word?) once again. In a pre-Instagram era, finding a touch of that smudged mascara, morning after, cocaine glamour on the high street was to be blessed with a proximity to star power pre-teens could only dream of. H&M brought high fashion to the masses, high quality Isabel Marant pieces dripping with gorgeous insouciant French coolness at prices that were just about achievable. And that lovely high-low mix – the feeling of devouring McDonalds in a ballgown or reading Goethe on the tube – was what created the magic. There was a democratising force, and it wasn’t selling out if you were giving something back to the community and the young fan base that sustained your brand appeal. 

Now, of course, we’re all thinking about the environmentalism point, and cheap fast fashion saddens us no matter the celebrity fronting it. Sorry, Jane Fonda. But there is also the accessibility aspect to contend with. There’s no denying that these drops brought new worlds together, highlighted emerging young talent and designers and fostered early passions for fashion. In this new era of brand collaborations, where the humble Croc reinvented by Balenciaga retails for upwards of £750, it’s hard not to feel nostalgic.

That heart-stopping, hit me with a car, inject it into my veins magic: why is it so difficult for brands to pinpoint now? Why do those attempts feel like such stabs in the dark? Some land, others don’t, and no one seems to know why. 

One that’s landed, or at least generated some excitement, is Praying for Adidas. Instagram ubiquitous brand Praying has embraced the new nihilism with a range of basic tees and nylon purses emblazoned with ironic slogans and anti-design graphics. Christian symbolism and stoic aphorisms collide with bratty, Y2K, Paris Hilton style epithets. ‘God’s favourite’ is a best-seller, sported by Olivia Rodrigo.

Perhaps driven by the cool-girl led revival of their Gazelle trainers, it’s no wonder Adidas wanted in on this cultural gravy train, though their collaboration campaign may have given them more than they bargained for. Featuring TikTok star Addison Rae, a brand in her own right, the lo-fi American Apparel style images drove the internet into a frenzy. Wearing a Praying classic, a white bikini emblazoned with the words Father, Son and Holy Trinity on each triangle, America’s new sweetheart drew instant heat from both Christian conservatives and equal opportunity defenders of religious respect. Accused of that most fifteenth century of crimes, blasphemy, Rae deleted all reference to the collection from her Instagram and Adidas referred to it as their worst social media moment of the year. 

That debate aside,  there was something captivating and brilliant in these confusing images, the combination of wholesome, girl next door energy, frantic online meme culture and sterile global corporate brand codes. Even if the shoes that the collaboration resulted in are nondescript. Although maybe, that’s the point in itself. It’s a reminder of how rare it actually is for fashion to genuinely engage with contemporary life and spark debate and conversation in a way that is entertaining and engaging. It feels almost like Adidas had no idea what they were doing, wading into the chronically-online swamps of Catholic revivalism and coquette girl conflict. There’s the chaos and the comedy, that exciting ‘this shouldn’t be happening’ feeling those episodes gave you as a child. And all that from everyone’s second favourite trainer company.

What is fashion if not collaboration: working together to make something? It’s not art, it’s a production line. Hundreds of people from across the world coming together to conceptualise, design, manufacture, transport, brand and sell a product. If you buy into buying things, you can’t ignore where your stuff is coming from.  And so collaborations work when collaborators work together

Maybe just being transparent about that is all that’s needed. Like many, I was pleasantly surprised by the Gucci x Palace drop. There was little marketing fluff about groundbreaking partnerships and no big celebrity campaign. It’s just a product. And a pretty yummy one. While streetwear and luxury house collaborations are nothing new, it does seem that these two just work well together. Both have fully realised brand universes, and both encourage you to imagine yourself as someone else for a short while, whether it’s a New York dirty rich kid downtown skater slag sleaze boy or a mad dispossessed Italian countess holidaying in Marrakech in the ’70s. There’s enough overlap to feel comfortable and enough difference to make a difference.

And the collection itself is refreshingly outright in its commerciality. Pieces nod to exactly what we all want right now. There are Motomami leather racer jackets, Y2K exposed thong itty-bitty skirts, blokecore footy jerseys. There’s a bit of brand mash-up; some Gucci whimsy in the campaign, a bit of streetwear edge, logos across the board. But there aren’t competing artistic visions, and the goal isn’t to be transformative but to manifest covetability.

It’s not groundbreaking, but I’d buy it. Anyone want to loan me £2k?