Fashion instantly mocks sensible inventions in clothing, subjecting them to unfunctional usage as soon as they appear, so they can seem authentically desirable and never merely convenient. This happened to belts, pockets, and fastenings of every kind, to helmets, aprons, and boots; they are no sooner put into use than into play

– from Sex and Suits, Anne Hollander (1994)

It’s no big secret that fashion designers make use of reference garments time and time again. Aside from the practicality of learning from those who have successfully designed before, here at Bog, we have a couple of theories for why this is. Firstly, because most humans share a similar shape (some combination of a head and torso plus arms, legs, feet etc.) it’s quite hard to reinvent the wheel when it comes to the basic shape of clothing. And when people do, the garments are often quite impractical for day-to-day wear because of a requirement for clothing to work in tandem with our anatomy. Our second intersecting theory is that references in clothing are likely to dictate a subconscious emotional response in the wearer.

Think about it: what are you wearing now? It’s likely that many of you are wearing denim, perhaps a pair of blue jeans. Where does this garment come from? Maybe you have your own specific reasons, but it's likely you’re wearing these jeans because they’re comfortable, a ‘wardrobe staple’. Why wouldn’t you wear them? But maybe there’s something also at play concerning what they symbolise. Maybe you’re into old workwear and you’re wearing them because you enjoy thinking about the history of denim and gold mining and California and all that stuff. Or maybe you’re into the fact that they became a symbol of rebellion in the 1950s, being banned in American schools for fear of turning kids into delinquents. Or maybe it’s the countercultural aspect that was really cemented in the late 1960s. Or is it grunge in the 1990s? Maybe it's none of these, and you’re into Tremain Emory’s Denim Tears which subverts all of these references we just mentioned and restructures the conversation around denim and its origins.

When you look closely, the garment is a conversation. Once you are able to read clothing, the references embedded in each silhouette, panel, stitch or zip begin to create a language, that of signals, not words.¹ Here at Bog, we’re obsessed by the quest to find the root of each shape, the origins of each fabric and the first use of any technique, which almost always will lead you to a form of clothing created for utility.

We believe that it is within the realm of ‘utilitarian’ clothing that the most innovative developments in design have appeared, from the beginning of weaving (approx. 3400 BC) to the invention of GoreTex (1969 AD).

And it is within the realm of contemporary menswear that the reference garment really shines, so we thought it best to do a story on these garments with an archive focused on menswear: the Westminster Menswear Archive. Established by Professor Andrew Groves in 2016, the archive is home to over 2000 garments collected for the purpose of education. Alongside curator Dr. Danielle Sprecher, Professor Groves collects both historical, antique and vintage menswear, as well as contemporary fashion design in order to create a reference library of men’s clothing. Housed in The University of Westminster’s Harrow campus, the archive is first and foremost an educational resource used to give students access to some of the most innovative and important design from the last century.

From prison clothing to PPE, here we talk you through some pieces which we’ve found in the archive. Alongside these pieces, we have accompanying ‘designer’ clothing which, through their cut, shape, material and societal connotations, mirror these original reference garments.

When entering prison, new inmates are automatically entered into the Incentives and Earned Privileges (IEP) system, which penalises ‘bad’ and rewards ‘good’ behaviour. One thing that sets these ‘good’ and ‘bad’ prisoners apart is whether they can wear items of clothing that belong to them. This jacket, despite looking quite chic in appearance, does not belong to an inmate and is to be worn as a prison uniform. In essence, it is to degrade the individual who wears it, removing their ability to partake in one of the only expressions of individuality you have inside the carceral system. As Jane Tynan argues, “the uniform is hegemonic; it establishes and legitimises state or corporate power through control over the body”.²

But yes, we agree, the look of this jacket is decidedly ‘menswear’: no-one would bat an eyelid at someone sporting this on Dimes Square or Newington Green, Shibuya or Le Marais, but it’s part of a uniform used to mark those wearing it and work to control the body residing within it.

Established in 1994, Joe Thorpe and Adam Hunter’s brand Vexed Generation responded to the immediate social and political conditions in London during the mid-to-late 1990s. Preoccupied with the degradation of civil liberties, growing understanding of the effects of air pollution and the proliferation of street surveillance, Vexed Generation’s design details often attempt to counteract what they perceived as incrementing state methods of violence and control. This indigo denim jacket designed in 2000 feels close to the prison jacket we’ve just been looking at. Its cut is more complex, yet the fabric chosen – its lightness in weight and the silver metal zipper inserted in its front – seem responsive to the prison jacket. In Nathan Joseph’s 1986 book Uniforms and Nonuniforms, he states:

The sartorial equivalent of metaphor consists of the borrowing of the social characteristics of another – status, relationships, and attributes – by adopting his dress.³

Vexed were deeply concerned by the Criminal Justice Bill of 1994 which has been credited for turning the UK into a surveillance state, and was responsible for obliterating a set of civil liberties by criminalising many aspects of life in England, such as raves, as well as ramping up ‘stop and search’ powers for the police.

When we look at these denim jackets side by side, it’s impossible not to see similarities. As we’ve mentioned, materially they are alike, but it is their interaction with the body of the wearer that is perhaps the most intriguing element of their relationship. As we’ve seen, the denim prison jacket is a garment used to control incarcerated bodies, while Vexed Generation were concerned by freedom and attempted to resist the criminalisation of civil liberties through clothing design. And so this relationship is inverted: one garment designed to restrict, the other to liberate.

It’s likely you’re all quite familiar with the aesthetics of PPE (personal protective equipment) these days, and this Delta Plus Deltatek 5000 Overall is a pretty standard piece of gear you may have seen the likes of before. Notably useful for its use within industrial farming where there is frequent use of pesticides, its fabrication – of Deltatek, a fabric which is coated in a Polyethylene film ensuring that no nasty skin-melting or lung-destroying chemicals can get in, with taped waterproof seams – is well designed for the modern chemically-laced disaster. It is resistant to liquids, liquid aerosols, solid particles, radioactive contamination and ‘general infection’. It was in the 1980s that plastic tape began to be universally used to block the holes made from stitching in seams and it has been used for waterproof and safety clothing since.

Carol Christian Poell is the undisputed reigning monarch of is-it-art-is-it-fashion, conceptual grail-of-all-grails type clothing. Seams, to Poell, are highly important. He is well known for five different seams within his constructions, as laid out by Christian Michel in his essay ‘Thought Without Concepts: Carol Christian Poell’s Paradoxical Aesthetics’: the “scar-stitch, overlock-seam, invisible-seam, chain-seam” and, of course, the “taped-seam”. ⁴ The taped-seam is a regular seam that is reinforced with a transparent tape (technically: "thermosolder taped"). Traditionally, this kind of tape helps rendering the garment waterproof; visually, it highlights – exhibits – the seam, which is usually a hidden part of the garment, concealed by the lining. There is another seam, or better said, an evolution of the taped-seam, that appeared later: the meltlock-seam, where the seam is overmelted with a transparent tape, thicker though than the taped-seam. Carol Christian Poell has now removed the lining from most of his jackets since 2003, which makes the tape on the inside, and the seam that it covers, twice visible: because the lining no longer hides it, because the tape underlines it, making it visually more significant. The tape is used like a joint in architecture – a part of the structure, which simultaneously unites and separates. Let us note, while we are dwelling on the subject, that the Poellian garment is like a work still showing the traces of its own construction, defining itself as the palimpsestic memory of its own history.

– From Christian Michel’s essay ‘Thought Without Concepts: Carol Christian Poell’s Paradoxical Aesthetics’ in Philosophical Perspectives on Fashion (2017)

Poell’s work is so compelling, so attractive, as his methods of construction are complex and deeply theoretical. Designs take on elements of anatomical or medical practices usually carried out on a living (or once-living) body, transcending simple garment-making and creating an effect unparalleled by his contemporaries. Skin is frequently evoked through the designer’s use of material: heavily treated leather with veins visible through its opaque surface (achieved by injecting paint into the animal before it was skinned); transparent tanning; garments whose edges never totally meet, joined by threads that take on the look of scarring or medical stitching; accessories made entirely from human hair; a handbag made from a taxidermied piglet – legend goes that he once even tried to get permission to use human skin for a garment.

Poell, not to be off-brand when it comes to showing his work to the world, has hosted fashion shows in sinister industrial spaces that might now be defined aesthetically as ‘liminal spaces’: an abandoned warehouse, a factory, a canal, a slaughterhouse and a prison, each place a site of tension between bodies and industrial capitalism. So when we find these taped seams in the lining of this jacket for his Spring-Summer 2003 collection, seams that are designed to keep the atmosphere out of a garment, the joins take on an acute meaning: they are the barrier between body and air, between man and the world, his suit.

Here we have a funny inversion of our references. This example of the Explosive Ordnance Disposal MK VI Blast Jacket is from 2007, and the other garment we’re looking at, the Levi's ICD+ Storage Jacket is dated to 2000. So we can’t say that the designer was looking at this jacket per se, but the design of this Explosive Ordnance Disposal suit jacket is similar to those designed in the 1990s, so we’re running with it.

This garm is one layer of the British Army EOD (Explosives Ordnance Disposal) technicians’ uniform. Cut from Kevlar and Nomex, the pockets can hold an array of tools, although what these tools are remains a trade secret so that counter-disposal methods cannot be easily developed. The various hardware on this jacket would allow the attachment of a shrapnel-resistant ‘ballistic vest’, a sort-of flak-type jacket, and foam inserts would be worn underneath in order to prevent damage from explosion shockwaves. Pockets are cut in a sloping shape across the back – although we don’t 100% know why, we can imagine it would be easier to grab whatever you need from them on the shorter side with the longer side keeping them in place.

When Massimo Osti began designing in the 1970s, and throughout the 1980s, his work felt decidedly utopian, using references from military garments and workwear in order to subvert them and, as he stated in a 1991 interview with Gap Italia, to dilate “the concept of ‘free time’”, to “[extend] it, at least in clothing, into the working hours of the day.”⁵ He was a man who had lived and worked his entire life in Bologna, a central point of conflict during Italy’s ‘Years of Lead’, and a city in which the council managed to remain predominantly Communist until 1999, despite all the odds. Osti used clothing not to change the world, but to communicate his position on the world. His approach to design, which seeks to bring the feeling of leisure into the fabric and cut of something we might wear, was an attempt to use his designs to communicate how he thought the world should operate, which was a society where, perhaps, there is no exploitation: a world without capitalism as we know it.

But at the end of his career, when he’d left C.P. Company in the hands of Moreno Ferrari and Stone Island with Paul Harvey, Massimo Osti’s own work took a turn. Innovative fabric developments, one of Osti’s key legacies, went from spectacular uses of technology – such as the use of reflective fabrics or heat-responsive tech embedded in textiles – to becoming a more subtle, subdued affair. His brand Left Hand (est. 1993) could be seen as the apex of his new, anxious attitude to technological development, demonstrated through his creation of fabrics such as the slashproof K-Cotton (Kevlar lined cotton) and Thermojoint (cotton bonded with PVC which can supposedly withstand levels of radiation from nuclear contamination). Both of these materials were used to create unassuming, classic shapes (an overcoat or field jacket, for example) leaving the technical mastery to lie within the structure of each fabric.

But it was with two rather commercial brands that his most blatantly tech-heavy work would be developed. In the early 2000s Osti was invited to design the Philip’s-Levi’s Industrial Clothing Division Plus (ICD+) range, a collection of outerwear with wearable technology integrated into its design for the modern wearer on-the-go. Osti was responsible for working out what each garment would look like, while designers from Levi’s and Philips were responsible for the actual integration of the tech into each garment. This example of one well-documented ICD+ jacket (there’s a whole section of the Massimo Osti archive dedicated to unreleased prototypes for this range) undeniably mirrors the design of an EOD Blast Jacket. The multiple attachments (now an MP3 player and brick phone rather than life-saving armour) and its raised, three-dimensional pockets with a sloping cut, imitate the shapes developed for utilitarian use on the EOD Blast Jacket.

Before 1917, pilots in the two organisations that preceded the RAF, the Royal Naval Air Service (RNAS) and Royal Flying Corps (RFC), had a hard time keeping warm. Open cockpit planes were the norm, and even on good days pilots reaching heights upwards of 8000ft were at high risk of frostbite. Costume for aviation was based on pre-existing motoring clothing designed for military use, but it was private men’s outfitters or tailors who tended to cater best to pilots’ needs. A typical aviator’s costume is described in advice published in L’Aviateur magazine:

For long-distance flights one has to dress warmly, especially the extremities and, above all, the feet. It is quite easy to protect the hands by means of gloves and muffs fitted to the control column. However, the legs must remain free in order to have full control over the rudder. Therefore, as the weather gets cold or one finds oneself having to fly at high altitudes, one should put on warm trousers, boots a size too big and numerous pairs of socks (two or three), one of which should, if possible, be of paper. Thus it is necessary to forget all about high lacedboots and thin socks; fur bootees are recommended for combating frostbite. Gloves should be large and not confine the fingers; flesh swells up when cold, and tight gloves can reduce circulation, allowing frostbite to set in. We would suggest, rather than gloves, however fur lined and warm, a pair of mittens with the thumbs separate: they are quite flexible enough and conserve heat much better.

Under the helmet wear one or two balaclavas, one made of fine wool or silk (absolutely necessary). For facial protection, avoid grease at all costs; it freezes at low temperatures to a solid film which causes frostbite. If you wish, rub your face with glycerine and wipe it off carefully afterwards. The best way to protect the skin is to wear a leather or cloth face mask, fur lined, with an opening for breathing. Avoid mufflers, the long ends of which may catch in the struts, or even in the propeller. Never fly in a képi (service cap).

Regarding the clothing of the body, a leather outfit is still the most practical. A good warm sweater and paper underclothing will enable you to face the cold comfortably. To avoid stomach chills, we recommend a flannel sash.⁶

The winter of 1916-17 was particularly freezing. The pilot’s usual attire was hardly enough on a warm summer’s day, never mind a winter that almost broke troops’ morale. It was during this winter that RNAS pilot Sidney Cotton made a game-changing discovery. In the middle of servicing his plane dressed in greasy blue overalls his squadron received an enemy approach warning. With no time to change, he hopped into his plane wearing his mechanic’s outfit. Upon landing, he discovered that he had been the only airman who wasn’t frozen stiff. “On examining my overalls I found they were thick with oil and grease”, he explains in an excerpt from Flying Clothing, “and I decided that they must have acted as an airtight bag and kept the body heat in.” Immediately he asked for leave and commissioned Robinson and Cleaver, an Irish nursing and aviation clothing manufacturer, to create a suit to his design. Before long, Sidney Cotton’s suit, which he named the Sidcot (after himself of course) became standard military issue, like the one we have presented to us here.

The suit had a warm lining of thin fur, then a layer of airproof silk, then an outside layer of light Burberry material, the whole being made in one piece just like a set of overalls. The neck and cuffs had fur pieces inside to prevent the warm air from escaping. I had deep pockets fitted just below either knee so that pilots could reach down into them easily when sitting in the cockpit. I asked Robinson and Cleaver to register my design, and for a name I took the first three letters of my Christian and surnames-'Sidcot'.

– From Flying Clothing by Anthony Harold & Louise Greer (1979) The emergence of the double-breasted shearling jacket is sort of a design enigma. When looking at this 1970s sheepskin jacket produced by Aquascutum one might think: a classic. But it sort of isn’t. Let us explain: it is loosely based on a reefer jacket, a coat initially worn by Navy ‘reefers’ who were the ones whose job it was to furl or unfurl the sails in order for them to catch the maximum amount of wind, but it also bears resemblance to early flight clothing due to its militaristic ambience and use of shearling. Its design, however ‘classic’ feeling, has no root within the military, but is a civilian invention of militaristic feel.

Although we can’t really discern an easy and obvious line between the Sidcot suit and this shearling jacket, our connection is a bit more diffused, hidden within the web of clothing design and early innovations in material development for the military. Aquascutum, meaning aqua (water) scutum (shield), took its name from the technical innovation that marked its rise to prominence in 1853: a completely waterproof wool. Originally established by tailor John Emary in 1851 this brand of innovative menswear won him a deal to produce coats for the Crimean War, during which they proved to be excellent both as waterproof garments and as very early pre-camo camouflage – it is said that one General was saved from capture when his Aquascutum cloak disguised his form on the ground.

Military references in ‘classic’ menswear design have always been present. In fact, if we want to make a very loose generalisation, most fashionable menswear comes from clothing initially designed for the military at some point or another. Aquascutum’s role as a military clothing supplier has shaped its design direction in the proceeding years and, perhaps only in the imagination, this shearling reefer wouldn’t look out of place on the body of an early 20th century pilot whose main objective, before the Sidcot, was to wear as many layers of paper, wool and sheepskin as possible to keep himself warm.

This excellent navy blue jersey tracksuit dates from some time in the 1950s. Once belonging to a member of the Cambridge University Athletics team, M. Orrell, we’ve found a similar suit in the V&A and a few photographs with this tracksuit in the background. The first is at the 1952 Anglo-American inter-university athletic meet, where athletes from the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge competed with Yale and West Point from the US, and the next is in a photograph of amateur athlete Roger Bannister as he crosses the finish line at Oxford University's Iffley Road Stadium in 1954 having been the first recorded person to run a mile in four minutes (see here and here). So, here we clearly have an early example of the tracksuit in a thick cotton jersey.

Jersey began as a fabric primarily used for underwear. Taking its name from the channel isle of Jersey where it is said to have originated, this knitted fabric gained popularity in the late 1800s with the invention of the knitting machine as its tight, complex knit could be perfectly executed by the new machines and the increasing popularity of sport in middle and upper class life increased demand for a light fabric that would ‘give’ with the body as it was put in motion.⁷ It is within the mythos of fashion that Madame Coco Chanel was the first to use jersey in a non-underwear context in 1916, but dress historian Patricia Campbell Warner attests that jersey was adopted for tennis clothing and swimwear all the way back in 1879, with the first jersey tops (primarily used for baseball) emerging in 1887. We can see that this predates Coco Chanel’s 1916 collection by decades, although she certainly started a trend, as The International Herald Tribune reports at the time, “only within the last ten days have these costumes sprung up like mushrooms overnight, in the streets”.⁸

The tracksuit really came to be what it is today on the fields of American colleges. In her essay Hollywood and Sportswear Campbell Warner lays out how American college students in the 1920s became the idealised youthful image of fashion, broadcast to the world through Hollywood’s depictions of Ivy League life through films such as Buster Keaton’s College (1927) in which she claims the earliest on-screen representation of the tracksuit appears in a now-iconic grey jersey.⁹

This Vivienne Westwood tracksuit from her Worlds End Autumn-Winter 1983 collection entitled ‘Witches’ is a fabulous example of Westwood’s ability to use intricate historical cuts to create something that feels entirely new. In blue jersey, a very similar colour to that of M. Orrell’s, Westwood has redesigned the tracksuit in the shape of sportswear and underwear from the late 1800s, referencing the first uses of jersey. The top mirrors the shape of a shirtwaist, the first sportswear separate for women (and the first ‘ready-to-wear’ garment) and the bottoms clearly adopt the shape of early men’s undergarments. Here Westwood has picked apart the history of the tracksuit and reformed it into an image of its origins.

Illustrations from Keith Haring graced this entire collection, and her use of jersey was, in part, a response to the landscape of New York where she met Haring in 1982, at which time she first interacted with hip-hop fashion. It was within this collection that she would introduce a triple tongued trainer which is said to be the first ever example of a trainer designed for a fashion brand.

You can feel the hum of static emanating from the surface of this General Dynamics jacket, the yellowing acrid smell of sweat, salt and laboratory rising from its PVC surface. This waterproof membrane from the 1970s would have once belonged to a member of General Dynamics’ ‘Electric Boat’ division, the nuclear submarine wing of arms dealer General Dynamics’ output. The company was first founded in 1899 and in 1952 was reorganised under its current name, spreading their expertise into building other vehicles for armed destruction as well as continuing with their submarines. In 1954 the company launched the first ever nuclear submarine, USS Nauticus, and five years later built the USS George Washington, the world’s first ballistic missile submarine. General Dynamics remains the fifth largest defence contractor in the world.

This inflatable jacket released by Michiko Koshino in 2018 picks up the safety signalling of this submariner’s jacket. There is a trend in contemporary aesthetics leaning into the look of mid-century safety gear, and this particular jacket takes design features from the period both literally and conceptually. Clearly we can see that hazard-yellow has been turned hazard-orange and that the text falls upon the same part of the body, although one key thing sets them apart physically while binding them conceptually: the fact that, like a pair of child’s armbands, this Michiko Koshino jacket can be inflated with human breath.

Inflated plastic has symbolised safety in hostile environments since the 1950s (think lifeboat, life preserver, etc.) It speaks to a history of plastic and air as sites of protection, as promoted by the American government during the Cold War. The Cold War, for those who don’t know, was a period of time between the end of the Second World War and the 1991 fall of the Soviet Union and was primarily a conflict waged within the realms of technological advancement between the USA and USSR. Nuclear technology and the ‘Space Race’ were the primary sites of this competition.

In her essay ‘Cold War Front Lines’, Caroline Maniaque traces the evolution of globular plastic structures from their origins as protective coverings for US missile defence systems (see the geodesic domes of the DEW line) to consumer products used as American propaganda during the Cold War.¹⁰ Lightweight, expendable pneumatic structures in new airtight fabrics (plastics like nylon and PVC) were developed for military uses as well as aeronautical purposes, predominantly for life-supporting structures, such as NASA’s Stay Time Extension Model (STEM) which could support two astronauts on the moon for up to eight days. The application of air within garments was, at this time, also being used to support life in high altitudes – first being developed for military flight suits, and then, of course, the spacesuit. And so alongside their aesthetic connection, there is a conceptual line we can discern whose centre lies within the technical developments of the Cold War, both regarding the race for nuclear armament and the exploration and domination of outer space.

It was only in the latter part of the 19th century that doctors’ uniforms began to be constructed of white cotton. Before this, in order to hide the stains acquired when operating on patients, the garb worn by surgeons was a heavy black or dark blue frock coat. Soaked through with dried body fluids these were nicknamed ‘blood and pus coats’. As the importance of hygiene in medical practice became more widely understood, the dark cloth was swapped for a white, light cotton, in order to overtly demonstrate the cleanliness of each surgeon. This costume was also a way of showing off their elevated, official status as registered medical practitioners and to distance themselves from an increasing number of street doctors or ‘quacks’.

At this time, there was a growing association between clothing and disease. This relationship can be traced back to the 16th century to Girolamo Fracastor, the so-called father of epidemiology, who first theorised that disease might spread through particles attached to cloth. When cholera spread rapidly throughout Europe in the 19th century, the association between clothing and disease became embedded in the collective imagination. In badly affected areas, ‘infected’ clothing was collected and burned, thus the idea that cloth could be a carrier of disease was cemented.

Here the seeds of contagion, while they existed in the bodies of the ill, did not travel on their own. Rather they attached to so-called fomites, from the Italian word for tinder or “touch-wood.” In 1546 an Italian physician and poet, Girolamo Fracastoro, had proposed a theory of disease based on this fomite idea, to counter the Galenic model, proposing that spores, tiny living things that were themselves corrupt, physically transferred disease from one individual to another. But he theorized that the "seeds" were hard-pressed to do their work alone; "mobile fomites" were the most likely culprits. "I call fomites such things as clothing, linens, etc., which although not themselves corrupt, can nevertheless foster the essential seeds of contagion, and thus cause infection."

– From Shoddy by Hanna Rose Shell (2020) It was in the 1880s, around the same time that surgeons’ gowns were transitioning to white cotton, that Dr. Gustav Jaeger’s concept of health clothing took Europe and America by storm. Jaeger argued that natural, undyed fabrics – namely wool – were to be worn to preserve the health of the wearer, and that these materials could prevent disease due to them being natural, light and breathable. Fast forward half a century to 1929, and the Men’s Dress Reform Party is officially established, a group of English men who are dissatisfied with men’s dress, claiming that it is unhygienic and degenerate. They hated suits because they were such a hassle to wash, hence their traditionally dark fabrication (just like the uniform of the surgeon) and promoted the wearing of clothing that could liberate men – predominantly middle or upper class white men, that is. We’re all for liberation through dress, but the organisation had pretty sinister politics and were connected with the early 20th-century eugenics movement.

The design of this black linen jacket is clearly based on light, loose medical dress, the sort that emerged at the turn of the 20th century. Workers for Freedom, designed by Graham Fraser and Richard Nott, was a London Fashion Week stalwart in the late 1980s and early 1990s. The name, which for most of us probably evokes some kind of Marxist sentiment, was allegedly just a nod to the creative freedom of a designer. You might be thinking: 'really? Was this the only reason for their name?' But, considering they were fine with posing with Maggie Thatcher after being named designers of the year in 1990, and that they are quoted as saying “No-one could be more capitalist than we”, perhaps their politics weren’t very radical after all. They were well-known for their “rich-hippie intellectual clothes” (we all know one of them…) using predominantly natural fabrics – leather, linen, cotton and wool – in muted, earthy colours and loose, exaggerated shapes. Their politics were definitely not as offensive as the MDRP’s, but we think that their society and Dr. Jaeger would have definitely approved. Sorry, not sorry!