SOMETHING WAS UP. A fine, soft mold had formed, colourless and clear. It thrived on surfaces beyond my reach. Another notion: someone had lightly greased the world with viscous, transparent stuff. Every edge was just a little bit thick with it. When I approached it, it retreated and settled on neighbouring objects, again ones I could not touch. Too mobile, then, for a fungal growth, and too dry for goo, since it left no residue. Unlike a fog, it travelled with me. Often, it left the distance and came up close, depositing its film on my cornea, a mucus that nothing washed away.

By fall, every moment of seeing had this consistency. Probably it was not new. I had just missed the beginning. Rather than the onset itself, I recall an eye exam in November. The optometrist’s assistant divided my sight in two, testing one eye, then the other. My chin rested on a cradle behind a mask of rotating lenses. The row of letters on the opposite wall grew more or less sharp as she adjusted the settings. I reported the results. Now better, now worse. Through separation, she discovered my asymmetry before I did: The muted atmosphere in the distance lifted when my right eye was covered; it condensed into a cloud when it was the only eye exposed.

Afterward, I played with switching eyes, comparing sides, as my pupils slowly dilated. It was the second stage of the exam. A pleated lampshade held dim light down low on a table in the waiting room. Beside me, a father read his son the story of an eyepatch. The eye it covered was normal; the patch didn’t serve it. It was worn to make the uncovered eye work harder. Are hands industrious because we’ve left them so often unclothed? Is exposure a means of their training? I covered one eye to keep my brain from combining it with the other. Numbness set in from the drops, proving that eyes are something you otherwise feel. Non-sensation felt like something too: eyelids impressed me with their subtle mass. My eyes wore them as a second skin, of bulky material, symmetrical hoods to hide their bare heads. Or to partly reveal them. A dress will sometimes fall from the shoulders until it catches in a place that is wider than its opening. Like unclosing your eyes to see who’s saying your name. I was escorted to another room. The optometrist guided a light through my widened apertures.

***

Frames seemed designed to measure someone else’s dimensions. They implied a void whose contours described all of the heads that could fill them. Most of these heads were larger than mine. Worn by me, many frames became cartoonish, however serious or playful their shape. It was powerful, my ability to caricature their boldness and self-assurance, even their modesty. Displayed on their own in sparkling glass cases, all eyes with their slender arms folded expectantly, they had the attractive remoteness of sheer ideas: Practical, intellectual, unassuming, offbeat, voluptuous. The question was how my proportions intercepted the transmission of these signals. Wrong size and the attributes of these objects clearly had nothing to do with me. Wearing them looked like an overt attempt to give myself their personality.

Apart from fit, there was the business of having to adjust to a new face. I thought I might avoid this by selecting clear frames, as though it would lessen the impact. This choice was offset by their roundness and thickness, which made them neither inconspicuous nor immaterial. I saw them plainly. In fact, I found them beautiful. If anything, they blurred my features as opaque frames could not have done, with their distinguishing outline. Perhaps I liked seeing the frames without seeing myself enhanced by them. It kept me intact.

When my glasses were ready, I left the store with them on my face and continued down the street. They did their job; the distance lost its former texture. But the abrupt distinctness emptied my surroundings of their depth. It was all equally close: the strangers who passed me, the sidewalk, the creases on the leaves. My steps narrowed to avoid collision. I tried to project the nonchalance of someone who doesn’t remember what she has on. It was a lie, my acting like I wore glasses, like I did this all the time. The evidence weighed on my nose, bore down on the tops of my ears. Really wearing them meant not feeling their touch, letting them vanish, whereas I couldn’t shake the impression that having them on my head was the main event. I saw clearly, yes, but it was them I looked at. The frames stayed within my field of vision, exceedingly near but always just ahead of me, so that I was constantly pursuing them. Like the frames, the lenses were of clear plastic, a few millimetres thick. They accumulated oil and miniscule debris. If I entered a warm cafe in winter, I saw them instantly shrouded in steam. I had the sense then that what covered my eyes concealed all of me, as when, during hide and seek, a child obscures only her face. The feeling was not diminished by wiping away the dampness. I lived behind a transparent barrier.

***

The left lens was a fake. It obstructed my good eye for the sake of the one that needed correction. Contacts had an advantage over this situation, which was that I could wear just one. At the fitting, the doctor measured my curvature and brought out the closest match. He taught me how to put it on it. Hands washed and dried. Lens on fingertip. Check for rips and eyelashes. Tug lids open. Look into mirror during approach. Press harder. To remove, pinch between thumb and index finger. It won’t scratch you. Rub to dislodge buildup. Bathe in solution overnight.

The lens was membranous and slick. I had thought them all rigid, like the ones in my glasses. It adhered weightlessly to my cornea, extending past it into the white. Light passed through it into further strata of tissue, refracting as it should. Up close, there must have been a gap between its concavity and my outermost layer. Nearsighted though I was, I could not see the numbers I knew were written on its surface. Nor could I feel the delicate sheet of plastic itself, which water permeated as it would an amphibious skin. My eye was accustomed to an aqueous environment. The moisture of the lens felt just like nothing, like an eye untouched. What garment, in fact, touched me less? How would I remember to take it off?

Susan Morrow is a doctoral candidate in German at Yale. 

‘The whiteness is inseparable from the violent action that separates it out.’

Anders Olsson, Century of Innocence: The History of the White Monochrome

THE WHITE SHIRT: A neutral surface and the basis of a man’s wardrobe – according to many-a-style manual. And thus, the white shirt is invariably presented as a garment that serves as the canvas against which the wearer’s individuality will emerge. According to this line of thought, the white shirt focuses and frames the body, while itself receding quietly into the background. Considered in purely aesthetic terms, this explanation of white is reasonable enough – but metaphysically, semiotically and ideologically it leaves something to be desired. The white shirt has throughout history often been a mark of power, luxury and wealth, and to relegate it to the background is, still today, to underestimate its potentially more aggressive participation in creating meaning for the wearer’s body.

In Brian O’Doherty’s 1976 art theory classic Inside the White Cube: The Ideology of the Gallery Space the author finds that the white walls of the art gallery confers a particular value on art by providing a clinically neutral space that allows the art exhibited to be evaluated on its own terms, shielded from the intrusion of the outside world. A similar logic might arguably be applied to the socioeconomic distinction between the white and blue collar shirt, and this dichotomy is indeed an interesting social construct. The condition for the pristine quality of the white shirt is that the environment is kept at bay. This is in opposition to the blue collar work shirt which relies on the possibility of it being dirtied. On the work shirt the results of manual labour are directly visible, manifesting a concrete – indexical, if you will – and rigid bond to economic value. The white shirt, on the other hand, rejects environmental and corporeal messiness; it rejects the social and subsequently the body – the body of others, but even, in its Platonic Form,¹ that of its supposed wearer.

In a photo shoot by Maurice Scheltens and Liesbeth Abbenes, for the magazine Fantastic Man published in 2007, this rejection of the body is brought to the point of its obliteration. Here, exclusive white shirts are folded and pressed to form a two-dimensional surface that emphatically bars the garment from bodily inhabitation. Scheltens and Abbenes hereby effectively draw out the connections between the mainstay of the white monochrome in modernist art and the white shirt. The purpose of the white monochrome is often to deliberately evade figuration. It might be seen as the ultimate rejection of the representational objectives of figurative painting and hence as a completely self-referential surface, and so its meaning comes only from its rejection of meaning as such. Scheltens and Abbenes play on this paradox by presenting the white shirt as a refined, self-sufficient surface; an ideal state, preserved only through total disembodiment. While artists of the white monochrome rejected figuration,² they were nevertheless not blind to the possibility that their blank surfaces could be filled by a meaning that arises in the projections of the beholder. The white shirt could be said to trade on a similar rejection of the meaning that comes from explicit marks (which is to say that it rejects direct contact and the ‘staining’ that might come from it) and in so doing it invites a more fluid and projective meaning to play out on its surface.

While the white shirt excludes, it is also an acutely receptive and highly charged surface, readily available for perversion. As such the white shirt is a space full of potential. Fashion designer Tom Ford has made much use of the white shirt as a surface for projection. Ford himself appears almost always in a dazzlingly white shirt with an impeccable, perfect fit. When not sealed shut by a tie, the shirt is unbuttoned – just a tad too much. Flesh pushes its way forward, intruding on the pristine surface. The effect is, of course, highly calculated. Through that one-button-too-much cleavage, the exclusivity of the white shirt is turned from something pristine and untouchable, into something highly tangible: sex, desire and glamour.

Like Lucio Fontana’s white slash paintings might be said to oscillate between presentation and disruption (Is the slash a framed sign? Or a violation of the pristine surface? Is it vagina or wound?), Ford´s chest gash results in a similar ambiguity.³ Does the aperture pose a vulgar display of flesh – a tarnish upon the pristine surface of the shirt? Or is the shirt conversely the mere background for the presentation of the splendour that is Ford’s body? This ambiguity is the very point. Ford weighs the poles of vulgar and exclusive against each other and comes up with an irresistible balance. In his white shirt, Ford’s body is both rarified, and a source of desire. Ford, fully aware of this tension, engineers it into a paradoxical lure of exclusion and invitation.

A scene in the film ‘The Comfort of Strangers’ (dir. Paul Schrader, 1990) perfectly captures this logic of the white shirt as a paradoxical surface that excludes yet elicits projective desires. Rupert Everett’s character is drunkenly inquiring into his on-screen girlfriend’s perception of herself as a sexual object. She replies by turning the tables of objectification on him: ‘People aren’t talking about my thighs or my bottom…The whole damn restaurant is talking about your thighs and your bottom’. The film then cuts to a wider framing of the restaurant; Everett’s character obliviously at the centre of the frame in his brilliant white shirt. At the same time, people around him – men and women alike – strain their necks to look at him. Isolated and unselfconscious, he is the hub of projected sexual desires. The colour white is an underlying but consistent motif in the film, a symbol of both suppression and projection.

This brief trajectory through the theory and practice of the white shirt gives evidence of the tensions and procedures of this garment. In its pure, idealised form it arguably represents the epitome of exclusivity, yet it is through wear inevitably tarnished by the body. The white monochrome in art, as literary historian Anders Olsson pointed out at the beginning of this text, performs ‘a violent action that separates it out’ and in fashion the white shirt debatably fulfills the same function. The power of the white shirt is as strong as it is evocative – through it we claim authority over the discursive meaning of our own bodies.

1. See Plato’s theory of Forms. The ‘Platonic Form’ of an object is an impartial ‘blueprint’ of perfection and here refers to the white shirt in its ideal state, which, in order to maintain its pristine cleanliness, must ultimately exclude the body. ↩

2. Monochrome painting is a significant component of avant-garde art in the twentieth century. As we understand it today monochrome painting is said to have begun in Moscow with Kazimir Malevich’s Suprematist Composition: White on White in 1918. ↩

3. Tom Ford is himself a confirmed fan of Lucio Fontana. The visitor to his Madison Avenue store was once met by an eight-foot tall aluminum slash piece by Fontana. Ford thought the idea appropriate that a men’s store would, in his own words, “be designed around a vagina”. See Vanessa Grigoriadis, ‘Tom Ford After Sex’, in New York Magazine, May 29, 2007, http://nymag.com/nymag/features/32120/index2.html ↩