Dressing the body is never just about covering skin – it is a deeply symbolic act. Clothes “mediate between the body and the social world,” making our identity visible and inscribing social expectations onto us . In other words, the suit, the dress, even the veil, carry meaning far beyond function: “garments… are imbued with meaning and have a deeply symbolic character,” as Roland Barthes noted – clothing forms “a system of signification,” a true code through which society communicates status, gender and ideology . I know this keenly, growing up in Iran: the simplest piece of fabric can become a political statement or a personal confession. As Joan Twigg observes of dress, clothing fixes identity in the visual realm, letting “social expectations act upon [us] materially and culturally” . Every time we don a suit, skirt or veil, we enter that cultural script. Even social psychologists have coined a term for this: enclothed cognition, the idea that clothes influence how we think and behave . Virginia Woolf put it vividly nearly a century ago: “Vain trifles as they seem, clothes… change our view of the world and the world’s view of us…. Clothes that we wear, they mould our hearts, our brains” . In short, we do not merely wear clothes – clothes wear us, reshaping our subjectivity in subtle, powerful ways.
Anthropologically and historically, subverting dress has long been a way to subvert power. Cross-dressing and gender play show up in the pagan rites of Dionysus, medieval carnivals and Elizabethan drama, moments when society briefly topsy-turvies its own rules . As Mikhail Bakhtin described carnival, such events are a “temporary liberation from the prevailing truth and the established order” . In those liminal moments – a masked parade, a drag show – hierarchical codes are suspended and even mocked. When men wear skirts or women wear suits, it reveals the fluidity of gender and undercuts the idea of fixed categories . Peter Ackroyd puts it plainly: “when one social code is breached, they are all at risk” . My work lives in that breach. By dressing in a way that straddles conventions, I aim to expose how arbitrary those conventions are.
Even beyond such dramatic moments, the history of the suit and dress shows how clothing has coded masculinity and femininity. In the 19th century, the men’s suit became the uniform of patriarchal authority. Observers have noted that the Victorian black suit was a “signifier of middle-class masculinity, authority, respectability, and self-discipline” . The suit jacket and tie emerged as symbols of corporate, colonial and bureaucratic power. In response, women began wearing suits as acts of rebellion: the 1980s “power dressing” trend saw businesswomen in padded-shoulder jackets and neat pant suits to claim their own respectability . (The same period saw rock icons and new-wave artists donning pinstriped jackets and skirts, rewriting codes yet again.) In the 1970s, even lesbian feminists adopted what they called an “anti-fashion” to resist the male gaze . As one retroactive fashion account notes, feminists in that era deliberately paired bowties, suit jackets and loose silhouettes to “dress against” sexist expectations . In each case, the suit or dress was weaponized – either to uphold the status quo or to subvert it.
This political nature of tailoring is doubly intense in my own context. In Iran, clothing is legally enforced; garments carry the weight of religion and state. For many years, women here were literally forced to wear the chādor, a full-body cloak, as a symbol of modesty. Even today, as the Mission magazine reports, “women are still required to wear head coverings in public, and immodest dress… is not acceptable for a person of any gender” . In other words, the veil has been politicized as an instrument of control. But as a queer, nonbinary designer, I see an opening in that imposition: if covering is compulsory, what happens if one chooses to cover in a new way? If a woman is told “cover up,” the very act of covering becomes charged. If a man dons a veil or skirt, he becomes a provocateur. The meaning of the veil flips when removed from compulsory contexts. My designs play with this flip. For example, one of my recent works incorporates a headpiece reminiscent of a chador but in sheer fabric and rainbow embroideries – a statement that the veil can be re-read as art and identity.
For instance, in a recent magazine cover I presented myself wearing a suit-like ensemble made of glossy black vinyl and strappy harnessing (left). The silhouette nods to a classic double-breasted jacket, but it is deconstructed – the chest is bound, shoulders are overstated, the body is both armored and vulnerable. This visual is meant to make the viewer ask: what does it mean for a queer person to stand in a “suit” that exposes rather than conceals?
Behind such images are theoretical currents: fashion theorists remind us that dressing is a practice of self-formation. Joanne Entwistle, for example, calls dressing a form of “training,” a “technical and practical accomplishment” that draws on our cultural knowledge to shape how we see ourselves and others . By learning how to wear a garment – how to sit, walk, or even gesture in it – we rehearse our social role. Marxist or feminist readings would say we internalize power in the cut of a coat or the hem of a skirt. But I’ve seen also that we can undo that training. When designers play with cut and cloth, they re-train us to see anew. I design with that in mind. Each stitch is deliberate: am I reinforcing a rule, or cracking its foundation?
This play with codes is evident among many contemporary queer designers. Take Rad Hourani, a Montreal-based innovator often credited with inventing “gender-free” fashion. Hourani’s philosophy is blunt: society’s “predetermined declarations of gender” impose rigid dress codes that “limit individual expression and reinforce inequalities” . He asks: why should a cut or color belong only to “male” or “female”? Rad argued that clothing began purely functional but got overlaid with symbolic meanings of nobility, religion and especially gender . So he set out to demolish those overlays. In 2007 he launched what he called the first fully gender-neutral ready-to-wear collection . This line used a new sizing system (no “men’s” or “women’s” sizes) and featured draped, minimalist garments in black-and-white. It was, as the designer put it, a liberation of costume from social constraints . The silhouettes were ageless – neither overtly masculine nor feminine – inviting people to project their own identity onto the clothes. Rad’s project redefined what a “suit” could be: no longer a male uniform, it became a fluid canvas.
Charles Jeffrey is another maker I admire. His Loverboy label grew out of London’s club scene and takes its cues from punk and drag. Jeffrey’s runway shows are a riot of color, pattern and wit – a deliberate refusal of sober tailoring. As one writer describes, Jeffrey deliberately “breaks gender roles by combining them, conveying androgyny like a young kid going crazy in a dress-up box.” Look, for example, at a recent Loverboy ensemble: a structured gray pinstripe jacket, cut like a traditional men’s blazer but cinched at the waist with an exaggerated buckle, paired with a pleated skirt beneath. The model’s lips painted bright red and cheek adorned with a sticker, the effect is both subversive and playful 【33†】. There’s no polite code here – he will tear open a trench coat, layer tartans, ruffles and even wings over a tailored suit jacket . He’s essentially saying that a garment signified as “men’s” is just as much a playground for carnival as a ‘women’s’ dress is. (Charles’s own story – leaving traditional CSM pattern-cutting to design how he actually dressed himself – mirrors this ethos .)
New York-based Harris Reed takes a similarly theatrical approach. Reed came to fame at Central St. Martins, and their graduate collection went viral because it was so extravagant. In one look, Reed layered a dainty white bridal veil and lace top over black bellbottom trousers – “a new take on the modern bride,” one report noted . In another, a bright pink tulle tutu bursts from beneath a sharp black tuxedo jacket, asymmetrical and flamboyant. Reed himself explains that the goal is to blend Victorian formality and glam-rock fantasy; the result looks like “a tutu over a tuxedo; a hoop-skirt cage over bellbottoms; [and] a lace veiled hat in supersized-parasol dimensions” . Notice the juxtaposition: the tuxedo (traditionally male, somber) is folded into a joyful disguise of fabric. Reed says the contemporary scene is dominated by “a feminine, theatrical spirit” – meaning that many queer designers now take traditionally masculine clothes and make them lush and over-the-top . Indeed, Reed points out that fashion today is moving away from strict “men’s” and “women’s” wardrobes altogether: “We do not want seasons. We do not want men’s and women’s categories… not this person wearing Versace… but reinventing the garment narrative,” he told GQ . In other words, we the people (or users) are actively rewriting the code that designers used to dictate.
My own work dances in this space between codes. I take classic tailoring – lapels, waistcoats, double-breasts – and twist them. A recent piece might feature a sharply cut suit jacket in luxurious silk, but worn with a floor-sweeping tulle train; or a velvet bridal-style veil attached to a menswear hat. The meaning shifts instantly. For a straight observer, a man in a veil is reading queer identity; for a queer, it’s an affirmation of choice. The suit itself becomes political: a symbol of sovereignty or protest, depending on who wears it. “Clothes are powerful,” Rad Hourani once said. “They codify masculinity and femininity, race, age, wealth” . I take that to heart: as a queer Iranian, my suits often riff on both Western power dressing and Middle Eastern tradition. Sometimes I drape a Persian calligraphy print across a jacket, or embroider the words “برابری” (equality) onto a lapel. These acts reclaim clothing as an instrument of freedom, not coercion.
Philosophically, I am drawn to the idea that gender itself is a costume we wear – not something innate. Judith Butler famously argued that all gender is performed, akin to drag taken daily. In that sense, a tailor’s mannequin of a “man” or “woman” body is just one of many theatrical props. When a designer stitches a skirt onto a suit, or cuts a tuxedo jacket for a woman, they expose the performance. As Butler might say, they parody the myth of an “inner truth” to gender. And I see that in my street: a youth wearing a hoodie over a skirt under a trench coat, mixing everything, dismantling the idea that clothes have only one stable meaning.
Culturally, the stakes are high: what we wear can align us with power or make us vulnerable. In Iran’s strictly segregated society, I once made a unisex dress for male and female models alike, knowing that in public it would confuse onlookers and perhaps offend authorities. (It did both – I was labeled a “pervert” on state TV .) But it also illustrated how futile it is to police bodies. When someone of any gender dons a veil or a suit unexpectedly, it “reveals the fluidity of gender,” as the literature says . The very sight unsettles the viewer’s assumptions – which is often my goal.
From a sociological angle, dressing this way is also about community. Gay and queer subcultures have always used style to signal belonging. The famous examples – Oscar Wilde’s green carnation, leather subculture, rainbow flag pins – all show that even simple accessories become secret language . Myriads of us know the thrill of being understood by a look. The recent revival of women’s suits on runways (Yves Saint Laurent’s Le Smoking, or Lady Gaga’s neon suits ) ties into a larger trend: mainstream fashion recognizing what queers have known for decades. As Refinery29 observes, suits aren’t a new queer invention – they’ve long been part of our wardrobe – but now non-LGBTQ designers are co-opting that style . For me, each collection is both personal expression and participation in that lineage.
Psychologically, wearing a subversive suit can transform the wearer. I’ve felt it myself: pulling on one of my sharp custom suits puts me into a kind of battle readiness. This is the famous enclothed cognition: studies show people act more confidently or calmly depending on their garments. Virginia Woolf’s poetic line—“they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues”—captures it . A suit shapes posture and attitude; a ballgown changes one’s self-perception; a veil might engender introspection or defiance. I intentionally design with that psychological shift in mind. I once made a suit with lettering from protest posters. When a queer client wears it, I know they feel they carry an idea as much as an outfit.
Anthropologists would say I am engaging in what Marcel Mauss called the techniques of the body. Every gesture becomes charged: the way one buttons a cuff, the way a tie is loosened or a skirt sways. In effect, I train new gestures. One of my most talked-about pieces was a coat rigged to swing open and reveal a contrasting lining when the wearer extended their arms. It literally turned a movement of welcome into one of confession. In an interview, Rad Hourani pointed out that clothing “codify masculinity and femininity” through cuts and colors , but when we animate garments ourselves we can recode them. This aligns with the view that fashion is a continuous negotiation between body and society . In my shows and exhibits, I often invite audience participation – changing lapels, removing veils – to stress that identity is malleable.
What is the political suit in all this? It’s the suit worn without apology, or worn deliberately against the grain. We see politicians in suits as symbols of the establishment; I wear them (or parody them) to signal resistance. In Iran, a male official’s suit enforces gender norms by its absence – women cannot wear men’s suits publicly. I once displayed an entire male tailoring kit beside a woman’s dress form, to question who is allowed to “suit up.” On a broader stage, I remember when famous men like Billy Porter or Jaden Smith appeared in ballgowns on red carpets – the media frenzy proved just how loaded a suit or dress can be when the wearer is “out of place.” Each of those moments was a sociological experiment: it briefly collapsed gender codes for everyone watching. The fallout is mixed (criticism and praise), but it forces a conversation about why we care about clothes.
In some ways, this is the ultimate goal of queer tailoring: to render the garment neutral, or to create a new meaning altogether. Look at how some designers treat the veil. A veil in Western bridal tradition means purity and patriarchal promise; in Middle Eastern practice it has meant piety (or compulsion). Queer designers have begun reimagining veils – lace headpieces, cages over faces, mesh layers – not as devices of concealment but of revelation. Harris Reed’s wedding-inspired looks, for instance, turn the veil into a couture spectacle under a sky-high hat . By placing a veil over a man’s face, or using it in protest art, we reclaim its power. Similarly, I have designed masks and hoods with florals and graffiti as brazen veils that say: here I choose to hide or to be seen.
Through all of this, the core idea holds: clothing is symbolic language. My job as designer (and the calling of my peers) is to play linguist. We unpack the old syntax – the strict rules that “suit equals man” – and introduce new grammar. In doing so we urge society to read clothing as a dialogue, not a decree. Anthropologists tell us no culture leaves the body entirely unmarked ; sociology reminds us attire is entwined with power. So we wield the suit, the dress, the veil precisely because they are powerful objects.
To illustrate, consider this look by Charles Jeffrey. The model’s jacket is a classic double-breasted pinstripe – a symbol of masculine business wear – but it is tailored tight and paired with a short pleated skirt under the jacket’s hem. The oversized, padded shoulders and red lipstick signal queerness. The image demonstrates Jeffrey’s camp strategy: take the language of the suit and infuse it with drag and romance .
In concluding, I would say: fashion can be an engine of liberation. Every stitch can knit together anthropology, psychology and politics. When I see a queer reinterpretation of a suit or veil on the runway, I see a question posed to culture: “What if this code were broken?” And by doing so, we often discover that what we assumed was natural was only deeply social. As I quote Adam and Galinsky’s idea of enclothed cognition and Woolf’s portrayal of clothes shaping our mind , I remind myself and others: the threads we choose to wrap around our bodies are threads we use to weave new identities.
The revolution in my field is, at its heart, a philosophical one. Radically rethinking the suit (or dress, or veil) is akin to reimagining the self. It is a deeply queer enterprise: we disrupt gender binaries not for novelty, but to illuminate how narrow they’ve become. I stand here – a queer Iranian who must blend cultures – believing that every suit I design can be a manifesto. In the words of the late fashion philosopher colette, “It’s not just clothes we’re talking about: it’s the self.” And if a suit can challenge a regime or a veil can dance on a runway, then we have begun to reclaim the power of identity one garment at a time.