The showcase of Richard 
Quinn’s 
Spring 
2019 
line 
opened 
with 
what 
many 
fashion publications would 
call a “luxe morphsuit.” The 
first four models were covered 
from head to toe in skin-tight 
black velvet accompanied by 
tonal tulle cocktail frocks, 
commanding silk capes, a pair 
of lilac pants and a striking 
blue satin a-line dress, covered 
in a jeweled vine of ruby red 
roses (with a matching bag!). 
The initial onslaught acted 
as something of a palette-
cleansing agent for the looks 
to come, the first of which 
were an abrupt change in 
tone. That’s not to say that the 
collection 
lacked 
cohesion. 
In fact, different ideas were 
neatly tied together through 
a range of silhouettes, but 
the “luxe morphsuit” concept 
was particularly interesting 
because of the jarring, almost 
sinister allure it held. The 
models were obfuscated by 

this stylistic choice, and it 
afforded them a kind of agency 
that can only be wielded by 
playing the role of a silent 
actor.
Quinn’s masked foray fits 
neatly into a larger movement 
of labels tapping into concepts 
first brought forward by the 
Dada movement in the early 

20th century. Perhaps the 
first to introduce this idea 
since Maison Martin Margiela 
in 2009, Gucci debuted a 
model covered in crystals 
in the fall of 2017. Demna 
Gvasalia’s Balenciaga, a house 
with a reputation for pushing 
stylistic directions to their 
absolute 
extreme, 
posted 
photos on their Instagram 
of models similarly covered 
in 
pantyhose 
as 
well 
as 
digitally manipulated images 
that either multiply figures 
to the point where they are 
rendered unrecognizable or 
do away with them entirely. 
The first and most notable 
installment of these is a 
digitally manipulated closeup 
of their blockbuster knife boot 
in a compiled money print. 
The 
sharply 
pointed 
boot 
lurches toward the viewer in a 
penguin-toed fashion, only to 
vanish into thin air at the mid 
calf. Another photo features 
a 
house-branded 
“Space 
Hunters” tee and a pair of suit 
pants hanging over a drying 
rack with a model creeping out 
from underneath. The photos 
might 
feel 
categorically 
dissimilar, but they instill that 
same sense of relative unease 
as Quinn’s morphsuits, which 
they achieve by tapping into 
the uncanny. 
We all have agreed notions 
of what reality is supposed 
to look like and they become 
linked to metrics of mental 
clarity and basic safety. Dada 
artists like Marcel Duchamp, 
Hannah Höch and Sophie 
Taeuber were among the first 
to introduce the idea that 
those notions can be upended 
through art. By creating work 
that 
undermines 
universal 
norms, like the expectation 
that a pair of boots will be 
connected to a pair of legs or 
that clothing will be modeled 
by a person and not a faceless 
morph, the viewer is asked 
not only to question the work 
itself but the environment 
surrounding them. As one 
might expect, exploring the 
strange vegetations and fears 
that occupy the unknown can 
also be a chance to consider 
or call attention to existing 
problems in the sociopolitical 
sphere.
RuPaul’s Drag Race Season 
10 finalist Asia O’Hara was 
seen alongside her sisters 
during one of her pre-finale 
appearances covered in black 
mesh, a protruding rib cage, 
ruched 
knee-length 
dress 

and matching halo crown. 
Speaking on her sartorial 
choice, O’Hara told London’s 
Metro “I think there comes 
a point in the competition 
where 
some 
non-majority 
queens or non-perfect queens 
start to fade and disappear 
into 
the 
background. 
My 
dress and my attire was 
just a visual representation 
of exactly how I was being 
perceived.” Around this time, 
Asia was also receiving death 

threats for suggesting that 
4th runner-up Miz Cracker 
shouldn’t 
continue 
in 
the 
competition during episode 
10. It should be noted that Asia 
was the only Black queen (or 
queen of color, for that matter) 
to have made it to the final 
four and has been vocal about 
the disparity in treatment she 
has received in comparison to 
the other finalists. In visually 
reflecting 
her 
experiences, 
ranging from lack of credit 
to virulent aggression, her 
look helped forward the long 
overdue conversation around 
race issues in the Drag Race 
fandom. 
Vehicles of Dadaism remain 
a piercing and cogent tool 
at the disposal of artists 
regardless of their chosen 
medium, 
whether 
that 
pertains to getting onlookers 
to sit up in their seats during 
fashion week or addressing 
issues that permeate society as 
a whole. In choosing to isolate 
themselves, Asia, Quinn and 
Demna are in good company.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
b-side
Thursday, February 13, 2020 — 6B

SAM KREMKE
Daily Style Columnist

At three in the morning at 
some point during the winter of 
freshman year, Pizza House was 
just a quick, frostbitten walk away. 
I had avoided this destination 
many times before, but now I was 
swept up by the masses to this 
greasy heaven for the buzzed. I see 
the archway to the establishment 
and shudder at what will become 
of me tomorrow, a month from 
now, years away. Visions of weight 
gain creep through my mind in 
between shrieks of excitement 
from the night.
My group of eight friends, most 
of whom I begged to go back to the 
dorms with me, dramatically ogle 
pizzas and shakes on the menu. I 
think, “Oh god. What am I going to 
order? I can’t not order anything, 
because no one likes that person. 
I can’t order any of the things 
everyone else wants to order 
because then I will lose all control 
and become a giant blueberry.” I 
hear my mother in the back of my 
head warning about how anything 
eaten past 4 p.m. just turns to fat.
As the waitress skillfully makes 
her way around the loud, crowded 
table, I begin to sober up. I see my 
aunt who is constantly struggling 
with her weight in between Diet 

Cokes and donuts; she ended up 
alone, living with her parents. 
My other aunt got a divorce after 
having kids because her husband 
couldn’t take her changing body. 
My grandmother always told me 
how crucial keeping your weight 
down is. My father recalls with 
pride when my mother was able to 
lose 25 pounds in two months for 
her sister’s wedding. 
I 
hoped 
to 
avoid 
any 
conversation 
about 
the 
appearance of my body with my 
family by upholding the routine 
set for me by my mother before I 
went to college. I would avoid all 
food past 4 p.m. and put all sweets 
and carbs under intense scrutiny 
before consuming. Above all else, 
for the love of God, no late-night 
eating. 
Throughout my teenage years, I 
attended ballet class and rehearsal 
from 12 p.m. to 10 p.m. every day. 
One night, I came home, sweaty 
and exhausted from the day. I 
picked out a peach in the kitchen 
and collapsed on the couch to 
enjoy it. My mother was also on 
the couch.
“What do you think you’re 
doing?”
“Eating a peach. I’m hungry.”
“It’s only going to turn to fat, 
you know.”
“I’m hungry. I’ve been sweating 
and exercising for the past five 
hours.”

“Then drink water.”
I didn’t budge. I took a bite and 
felt the juice run down my chin. 
She glared at me.
“Throw it away.” She said. I 
didn’t move. 
“What? Do you want to be 
obese like Aunt Jenny? It’s in your 
genetics. You’re already halfway 
there anyways. I’m just trying to 
help you. Throw it away!” She said. 
What was I doing sabotaging 
myself? Didn’t I want to be 
beautiful? Didn’t I want to find a 
husband that would love me? No 
one could truly love someone fat. 
And then there was my career to 
worry about. I wanted to be an 
actress. It would be significantly 
more difficult to get a job if I 
gained weight. My father would be 
disappointed in me. I began to cry, 
but I threw the peach away. 
As my mother’s screams echoed 
in my mind, I remembered all the 
other times we would go out to 
dinner, and she would mock me 
for whatever I chose, even if it 
was the salad, because she had 
the discipline to not eat anything, 
meanwhile I would have to work 
off the croutons at the gym later. 
As the waitress made her way 
to me, I panicked. I had never 
eaten so late in my life, let alone 
at a place where everything was 
forbidden. 
“And what would you like?” She 
asked. 

“I’ll have a cup of fruit and some 
water, please.”
Everyone at the table went 
silent. Everyone else had gotten 

towering, extravagant milkshakes. 
“I’ll just split the pizza with you 
guys.”
“Just get a shake. They’re so 
good here. It will be worth it, I 
promise.” My friend urged me.
I could hear my mother warning 
me against it. I would never be 
loved, only pitied. I would never 
be successful. 

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll have the 
smallest chocolate shake you 
have.”
Well, that was the end to those 
voices of shame in my mind. Upon 
completion of my drink, I floated 
back to my dorm. Everyone was 
full and blissfully unaware of 
whatever we ate at the restaurant. 
I went to ballet the next morning 
and looked the same. 
A couple months later, I met 
a boy who I was blindingly in 
love with. He was a senior and a 
stoner, but also a connoisseur of 
ordering the most extravagant and 
delicious things at restaurants. 
The first time I spent the night, he 
suggested we go grab some food 
at around one in the morning. 
Fleetwood Diner smelled like 
burned butter and burgers. He 
ordered us milkshakes, fries, 
hippy 
hash, 
sandwiches 
and 
pancakes. I could feel the voice 
of my mother screaming as she 
melted into nothing in the back of 
my mind. 
I ate more than he did. We ate 
and ate and ate, and laughed, and 
ate until I was in a food coma. We 
would work it off later, anyways. 
I was getting used to this whole 
late-night eating thing. It looked 
good on me, too. I filled out my 
jeans and bras. I developed cute 
little cheeks people could pinch, 
and above all else, I was really, 
really happy. 

I enjoyed the time I spent with 
my friends more at restaurants. 
I enjoyed the time after eating; I 
enjoyed indulging in it. 
I remember going back home 
after the first year and giving my 
mom a hug. I never realized how 
frail she was. We were the same 
weight, but I felt like I had to be 
very gentle with her. 
Now, I’m a senior and have 
figured out how to balance my 
eating habits. Through both a 
nutrition class and learning how 
to enjoy life more, it seems strange 
to recall all the times my mom 
projected those toxic values onto 
me. She is a good person — I don’t 
want to put my mom completely 
on blast — it’s just a difficult world 
to live in as a woman. She came 
into her womanhood as anorexia 
was being glorified in the media. 
Women still live in a world of 
unattainable beauty standards. In 
a world of implants and photoshop, 
it’s easy to get lost comparing 
yourself to others. However, it 
really doesn’t bother me much. 
I think what’s most important is 
how you feel instead of how you 
look. Thankfully, I have amazing 
friends who always make me feel 
beautiful.
Funnily enough, when I was 
approached to do this article, it 
was very late and I was on my way 
to a friend’s 21st birthday. I stayed 
for the cake. 

Silencing the voices of shame in my mind at Pizza House

NATALIE KASTNER
Daily Arts Writer

COMMUNITY CULTURE REVIEW
DAILY STYLE COLUMN

The photos might 
feel categorically 
dissimilar, but 
they instill that 
same sense of 
relative unease

Velveteen Dreams:
Dada’s stylistic emergence

Quinn’s masked 
foray fits neatly 
into a larger 
movement of 
labels tapping 
into concepts 
first brought 
forward by the 
Dada movement 
in the early 20th 
century

U’s ‘Latin Xpressions’ is 
admirable but mediocre

My 
mother 
thought 
she 
was in for a night of flamenco 
when she agreed to accompany 
me to “Latin Xpressions” this 
weekend at the Power Center. 
Regrettably, she was wrong.
“Latin 
Xpressions,” 
an 
annual show put on by the 
Department of Dance, featured 
multiple works choreographed 
by Spanish or Latin American 
choreographers 
as 
well 
as 
School of Music, Theatre & 

Dance 
faculty. 
Performers 
included guest artists as well as 
BFA students at the University.
Right from minute one, I 
wondered why this show had 
been called “Latin Xpressions.” 
Pieces were set to Latin music: 
I caught a lively castanet beat 
or delicate marimba in almost 
every song. Yet, the dances 
themselves were far from Latin 
styles. Almost all numbers were 
modern dance except for one, 
which may have been included 
in the lineup just to label the 
show as vaguely Latin. I wasn’t 
expecting this twist, and it was 
clear that the audience wasn’t 
either; confused chuckles and 
hesitant 
applause 
followed 

most 
pieces. 
The 
program 
and posters featured dancers 
in red tops and long flowing 
black skirts, leading me to 
believe I’d be watching a night 
of flamenco-style pieces, not 
modern dance with a few 
tinges of Latin influence. A 
friend later told me that the 
program was choreographed 
by people of Latin or Spanish 
origin, 
but 
there 
was 
no 
introduction to the program to 
offer that insight.
The first few acts were 
enjoyable at best; the last two, 
“Interlude 3” and “End With 
You,” were phenomenal. The 
show kicked off with “Prized 
Possession,” choreographed by 
Rosie Herrera, a lovable and 
quirky piece. Each dancer had 
large swaths of velcro on the 
chest of their costumes, and 
each embrace with a partner 
was followed with a slow 
burn, crackling rip as they 
pulled apart, an amusing and 
appreciated addition to the 
dance. But after the applause 
died down, I could already 
sense the unease from the 
crowd: Is this what they’d 
come to see?
The following performances 
were 
similar: 
pleasant 
but 
unsettling. 
Frequently, 
flamenco 
music 
switched 
abruptly to jazz, leaving the 
audience craving the former 
and unsure about the latter. 
“Cuca Deluxe,” a piece based 
on la cucaracha (cockroaches), 
featured dancers acting like 
insects: 
scattering 
when 
light shined on them or being 
symbolically stomped on by a 
crunching sound effect. The 
hilarity of this segment lost 
interest fast, and even more so 
when dancers were “crushed” 
but came back to life multiple 
times during the piece.
The first exception to this 
mediocrity was “Interlude 3.” 
Dancers entered the stage in 
intricately frilled lace tops and 
traditional skirts to perform a 
mixed routine with elements 
of 
samba 
and 
merengue, 
among others. Though a little 
uncoordinated at times, the 
piece moved the audience. By 
the end, everyone was clapping 
to the beat, egging on the 
dancers.
I 
dare 
say 
the 
final 
dance, 
“End 
With 
You,” 
choreographed 
by 
the 
acclaimed Ron De Jesús, a 
prior dancer with Hubbard 
Dance Street Chicago, made 
the 
whole 
program 
worth 
attending. 
Three 
rotating 

staircases of lights dropped 
down slowly from the ceiling, 
teasing the audience with a 
subtle black and white strobe 
effect. All the dancers were 
precise with their movements 
and spatially aware of everyone 
around them, creating a sense 

of harmony within lighting 
fast mounts and lifts. I had 
the magical sense that I was 
in the eye of a hurricane, like 
watching the currents and 
waves of an ocean crash around 
me while staying perfectly 
stationary.
With some more careful 
marketing, “Latin Xpressions” 
could 
become 
a 
staple, 
enjoyable 
show. 
But 
this 
weekend’s 
performances, 
while carefully executed, were 
mediocre at best.

With some 
more careful 
marketing, “Latin 
Xpressions” could 
become a staple, 
enjoyable show. 
But this weekend’s 
performances, 
while carefully 
executed, were 
mediocre at best

My mother 
thought she was 
in for a night of 
flamenco when 
she agreed to 
accompany 
me to “Latin 
Xpressions” this 
weekend at the 
Power Center. 
Regrettably, she 
was wrong

I ate more than 
he did. We ate 
and ate and ate, 
and laughed, and 
ate until I was in 
a food coma. We 
would work it off 
later, anyways

TRINA PAL
Daily Arts Writer

COMMUNITY CULTURE REVIEW

