Magnolia Pearl: Everything old is new

 Have a look at these clothes; what do you see? Old? New?

 Right either way!

These are all clothes—and a pair of shoes—by the American brand Magnolia Pearl. Clockwise, from top left: 

Seafoam pants; price, $US 500 at Free People
Floral Helenia dress; price $US 580 at Magnolia Pearl Love
Declan jacket; price $US 500 at Scarborough Fair Shop
Star shoes, out of stock, shown as example; about $US 500

The brand has drawn the wrath of "fashion critics" on TikTok and other media for its "poverty aesthetic". The New York Times article reports the issue in "An Expensive, Rustic Brand Faces Backlash for its 'Poverty' Aesthetic".

The critics generated a swell of publicity for the brand; the company defends its approach. As co-founder and lead designer Robin Brown says, "These aren't cheap clothes that can be cranked out". The pieces are made by distressing, hand-dyeing recycled fabric or secondhand garments, then adding screen printing, appliqué work, beading and embroideries. A dress can take a month to make. 

Magnolia Pearl's clothes look like the costume designers for "Pirates of the Caribbean" and "Harlots" had a sewing bee: pirate hats, Edwardian ruffs, 1920s florals, all in the pure fibres such as cotton and linen that take dyeing and overdyeing well. 

The "poverty aesthetic" charge is overstated. Where I live, impoverished people wear clothing made mostly of synthetics, not fine-cotton dresses with screened prints of fairies and roses.

Magnolia Pearl customers are not rich people emulating poor people, they are buying a fantasy of wildness, sensuality and nostalgia, an alternative to generic neutrals. Robin Brown has taken her talent for upcycling thrift store clothes, mixed in references from subcultures she admires (surfers, circus folks, skateboarders, old-time hoboes), thrown in flower-strewn top hats, and applies costume-maker's tricks for rapidly distressing and aging fabric—what theatre costumers call "working the clothing"—to produce new old clothes.

It is not surprising that Taylor Swift has worn their dresses, but the same styles have found a following among women her mother's age; I suppose the urge to play dress-up never dies. (The brand mentions its inclusive, one-size-fits all sizing and says it is "worn by all shapes and ages".)

The height of my costume crush was my twenties, which perfectly coincided with the late '60s; I larked about in velvet patchwork and beaded vests, and enough prairie skirts to house a gopher colony. I was having more fun with clothes than I've had before or since, and might have made room for a Magnolia Pearl dress.

Once I had an office job, these items melted from my closet, replaced by Donna Karan and Perry Ellis; I wanted to be dressed, not costumed. I have no desire to own Magnolia Pearl today, but understand its siren call for those who weren't born in the era of "rags and feathers from Salvation Army counters".

The young critics have little sense of fashion history. For at least fifty years, a handful of designers have made high-priced nostalgic clothing: Holly Harp, Thea Porter, Drew Bernstein of Lip Service, and, dear to my heart, Natalie "Alabama" Chanin, the American textile artist and designer based in Florence, Alabama. From the mid-'70s to early 2000s, her embroideries, appliqués and upcycled fabrics represented the epitome of heritage clothing.  (Magnolia Pearl clothes are designed in the US and made in India, according to a seller, The Periwinkle Shoppe.)

Photo: Alabama Chanin

(Alabama Chanin "Cynthia" dress, from their archives.)

I wonder, Where do grownups wear the brand? If you are Whoopi Goldberg or Johnny Depp, two ardent customers, the answer is, wherever you please. But for me, many Magnolia Pearl pieces deliver a garish charm that cloys. (For elegant heritage-inspired clothing, see Old Stone Trade, a kind of The Row for such styles.) 

As for the accusation that, because of its prices Magnolia Pearl is a rich person's preserve, a client may not be wealthy, just obsessed. In the NYT article, designer Betsey Johnson calls Magnolia Pearl "my Vivienne Westwood, my McQueen". The Magnolia Pearl effect is achievable for far less if you have some patching in your past. Because, these one-size creations are not McQueen. 

Check out this pair of jeans listed on eBay for over $US 1,000:

Hey, I can make something like this—in fact, I did, ca. 1970, when I covered beat-up bellbottoms with scraps of ultrasuede and embroiderd crewelwork patches, and edged the pockets with grosgrain.  And today, I could wear them... where, and with what? I'd need the floaty, frayed shirt and vest, a vintage-looking jacket or coat. What happens to my cozy, requisite puffer? 

So maybe not for me, but if I had a young friend or granddaughter, what a fantastic idea for a surprise gift!

Not handy with a needle? An Etsy search yields Magnolia-style patches for sale, like one from thewoodenwolf:

I suspect that what Magnolia Pearl sells as  'unique' will become ubiquitous. Lower-priced copycats are showing up; those flower-bedecked stovepipes are going to look old hat. 

Though I'll always have a soft spot for the faded and mellow, and for the handiwork now lost to mass manufacturing, I'd prefer to let my clothes age with me rather than buy them manipulated into a facsimile.