Sex, Style and Stigma: A Brief History of Maximalist Fashion

By Isobel Knight

When and why did maximalism first become associated with excess, promiscuity or a lack of morals?

The Madonna-Whore complex describes the male-perceived dichotomy between innocent ‘saints’, and sinful ‘whores’, putting women into the strict categories of Madonnas or Mary Magdalenes. It’s a trope that pervades the media, nowhere more blatantly as in Disney’s Cinderella. The heroine is passive with regards to her future and relationships, and dresses simply – even her showstopping ballgown is a ‘tasteful’ pale blue.

In contrast, her ‘Ugly Stepsisters’ adorn themselves with bright colours, feathers and multiple accessories, and overtly attempt to win the prince’s affections. They are unequivocally malicious, yet the association of this nastiness with flamboyancy or ‘ugliness’ is rooted deep in societal perceptions of fashion and femininity.

Maximalist fashion – including brash colours, statement accessories, colourful eyeshadow and animal print – has long been associated with sex workers. Historian Alain Corbin claims that by the late 19th century, ‘the prostitute had become woman as spectacle’: their profession demanded that they be seen, and maximalist fashion was utilised to ensure they stood out.

Sex workers have long pushed the boundaries of mainstream fashion. Their work does not require men to view them as innocent, therefore they are freed from the restraints of ‘tasteful’ dress. Camille Paglia, a controversial feminist scholar, claims in her essay collection Vamps and Tramps that prostitutes are ‘heroines of outlaw individualism’; through the subversion of societal expectations of behaviour and dress, they acquire power.

The 1920s saw an enormous shift in fashion history, as women of all social classes and professions began showing more skin, cutting their hair short and embracing a more avant-garde, androgynous look. In Weimar Berlin, maximalist fashion went hand-in-hand with the decadence and excess of the time, with paintings such as Otto Dix’s Metropolis depicting an explosion of colour, texture and flesh.

However, the fleeting glamour of nightlife obscured a dark reality. A huge number of Germans lived in extreme poverty due to hyperinflation and the lasting effects of WWI, and the popular coping mechanism of escaping to cabarets and jazz clubs left many feeling that the country was falling into a state of moral decay. Yet again, maximalism became associated with depravity; an ugly symptom of a society focused on pleasure-seeking and ‘superficial’ pursuits such as fashion. Deliberately flamboyant looks became synonymous with vice.

In the 90s, a subculture emerged that epitomised maximalist fashion: New York City’s Club Kids. Their looks pushed the boundaries of make-up and over-the-top fashion; they saw club culture as a means of creative experimentation, an escape from the restrictions of the daytime world. The scene received negative attention for its rampant drug use and scandalous outfits, especially following the murder of Angel Melendez. Despite this, Club Kid style lives on, a testament to the timeless appeal of dressing up and forming a persona.

It’s inextricably linked to Camp, the essence of which, Susan Sontag claims, is ‘its love of the unnatural: its artifice and exaggeration.’ Camp and bad taste are predominantly celebrated by the queer community; the connotations connecting fashion with morality appear to be an exclusively heterosexual phenomenon, hinged on age-old patriarchal ideals of submissive femininity, where women must remain subject to male objectification, never sexualising themselves.

The most prominent example of maximalist fashion in 21st century pop culture is the Capitol in The Hunger Games – citizens of Panem’s capital adorn themselves in enormous wigs, hats and elaborate dresses, whilst those from other districts live in poverty. It’s a simplistic notion of what fashion looks like in a world of extreme wealth disparity. In reality, the Western world consumes meaningless, mass-produced pieces from sites like Shein at an alarming rate. Those who genuinely care about the pieces they wear and often buy vintage or second-hand are significantly less of a problem to the environment than mindless hyper-consumerism. Even if the clothes themselves have connotations of excess or greed, colour and print usually have little to do with price.

It can feel as though the world is hell-bent on minimalism. Influencers such as Love Island’s Molly Mae live in a world of neutral colours and clean surfaces. This love of bland interiors and staying in (often called the ‘clean girl aesthetic’) is deemed by many as morally superior to wearing a full face of make-up and going partying. This is not merely an online phenomenon.

The white wedding dress is the most on-the-nose example of the minimalist ‘Madonna’. According to Freud, men can only love ‘Madonnas’, but do not desire them sexually; they desire the ‘Whores’ yet cannot love or respect them. It’s a vicious cycle that feeds into dangerous stereotypes about women and how they present themselves. These clear distinctions of course do not exist, and only fuel negative perceptions of women’s sexuality.

Though often looked down upon, the styles of sex workers, club kids, cabaret performers and drag queens have inspired haute couture enormously; Galliano’s AW03 collection for Dior was an homage to the theatrical beauty of showgirl style, Valentino’s SS23 show took inspiration from 80s club culture, and the 2019 Met Gala was entirely dedicated to Camp. The commercial success of shows such as RuPaul’s Drag Race and singers such as Lady Gaga suggest there is a place for maximalist fashion in the mainstream.

Yet, for the style to be severed from its connotations with immorality, the stigma surrounding the marginalised groups who created it must be addressed, and society must ask itself: why is it so terrified of anything out of the ordinary?