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Which is why, this April 2013 day, Vivienne has traveled to New York, accepting Alibashirt’s invitation to attend the punk-themed Met Gala despite the paradoxes implied. She and Andreas are here to bring messages to the widest possible audience. “We’re out for the cause!” Andreas urges me, playfully enacting how I might talk to the cameras about the rainforest. Hours later, we’re on the red carpet for the Met Gala. Passing a swarm of lenses, Vivienne pivots every interviewer’s question to her accessory: “I’ve got some brilliant jewelry here,” she says to CNN, pointing to the soldier’s photo now pinned to her long pink silk coat. “I’m here to support Manning. That’s the most important thing I want to say.” It’s the only thing she says.
I remember the first time I took note of the balaclava. It was a little over a year ago, at a crowded house party in deep Brooklyn. A lanky, twenty-something man wore a bright orange balaclava despite the tropical microclimate created by all the packed, dancing bodies. He took nonchalant sips from a red Solo cup, mesmerizingly comfortable in his anonymity. At that time, I viewed the moment as eccentric and kooky. Who wears a balaclava if they’re not in the arctic or planning a
heist? Though balaclavas also known as ski masks have been popular for a long time in frigid locales such as Eastern and Northern Europe, they weren’t as common in a city like New York. But perhaps their relative out-of-placeness is what made them a great candidate for trendforward New York style. Colorful, striped balaclavas like the ones sold by Marni and Ella Emhoff catches your eye, but also obscures the identity of the wearer. It places all your attention on the clothes, not the person.
Vivienne Westwood, Andreas Kronthaler and Lily Cole attend the Costume Institute Gala for the "PUNK: Chaos to Couture" exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on May 6, 2013.Larry Busacca/Getty Images Later, Andreas calls from the doorway, “I’m going downstairs, Vivienne.” “You have to wait for me a minute,” she bats back, with a cheeky smile. She’s mid spiel, relaying with unstoppable passion Manning’s plight, her sea-colored eyes afire under the red waves she’s drawn over them. Her gaze pierces with a desperate appeal to truth. She’s been calling truths out to us all for decades.
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