Thank goodness Angelica Hicks reminds us to laugh it off

Whilst food was once regarded as the devil amongst fashion folk – because eating was considered vulgar and made one put on weight – today, having been ennobled by its English translation, ‘food’, the system’s new bane has become irony. The idea that something might be amusing terrifies brands, communications departments and top management. But why, given that fashion is an industry that should convey pleasure, desire and hope? One might answer by quoting Franco Battiato, who in ‘Bandiera bianca’ sings: ‘There are those who put on sunglasses to have more charisma and that characteristic air of mystery’ and, adapting the previous verse, conclude: ‘You’re like quicksand being pulled down, uh uh’. Fashion is an exciting sector, and veiling it in seriousness whilst passing it off as chic is a mistake: today, above all, it should show light-heartedness rather than gloom, given that a smile is received more favourably and, above all, is kind – another attitude on the verge of extinction. To be honest, there are those who try to use less formal language, but with results that make you smile more at the clumsiness of a vacuum-packed irony – compressed into blister packs and argued out in lengthy PowerPoint exchanges between communications and marketing departments – than at the message it’s trying to convey. On this subject, I spoke with Angelica Hicks, aged thirty-three, a Londoner with an Italian mother – the designer Allegra Tondato – and an English father – the interior designer and artist Ashley Hicks. It is perhaps her noble British lineage (she is the granddaughter of Lady Pamela Mountbatten, the youngest daughter of the last Viceroy of India, Louis, and the famous Swinging London designer, David Hicks – which, in fact, makes her a legitimate claimant to the throne) that has gifted her with that explosive sense of humour that makes every one of her Instagram posts – with 947,000 followers to date – an unmissable event. Two weeks ago, her recreation – made from toilet paper, tennis net and aluminium foil – of the 2016 Versace couture gown worn by Zendaya at the ‘Spider-Man’ premiere earned a comment from Donatella Versace herself: ‘Brilliant’. Angelica, who back in 2017 – when she was just over twenty – published a book of fashion illustrations with a title that was witty in itself (“Tongue in chic”, a fashion-inspired twist on the famous English expression “tongue in cheek”, which precisely defines irony), is an illustrator and collaborates with many brands, including Gucci and Pomellato, but she has gone viral by recreating couture and ready-to-wear outfits using everyday household items: from lemon nets to chocolate wrappers, right through to recycling bags.

Living in Brooklyn hasn’t made her lose her Britishness. “I’ve worked with brands that, at a certain point, decided to change direction. At first they gave me a great deal of creative freedom, then they started asking me to make my work ‘more sophisticated’,” she says. “But I kept wondering whether being sophisticated really meant giving up the playful element of my work and of fashion itself. It seemed to me, rather, that at the root of too many decisions, the fear of straying from clichés was taking over. These days, people almost always opt for the safest solutions: the same faces, the same creators, the same styles. I think this is a short-sighted attitude, because in the end everything ends up looking the same. It seems that the more corporate side of the system continues to view irony and refinement as opposites, when in fact they can coexist perfectly.” Her approach is never vulgar or disparaging; rather, it is imbued with that intelligent cheekiness that once made the fortune of groups like Monty Python and which today seems to have disappeared, because the hypocrisy of political correctness deems it offensive. Angelica Hicks launched her account by chance, as is often the case with subversive ideas: “First came the illustrations; the videos followed later. I’ve always tried to portray fashion with a light touch, to make it more accessible. I’ve never liked the idea that it’s an exclusive world where people take themselves too seriously; for me, it’s always been something fun that everyone, in their own way, should be able to enjoy. It’s precisely this obsession with desirability that made me realise that value doesn’t lie in the object itself, but in what it represents and how it’s interpreted. When a video goes viral, there’s always someone who sees malice in it, but I never fuel that controversy because my work is, first and foremost, a tribute to design. I like to think of them as an alternative recipe: it’s like when a great pastry chef creates an extraordinary cake without revealing the recipe – I try to recreate it using different ingredients. Perhaps the result resembles the original, but there’s a risk it might collapse as soon as you touch it or turn out to be incomplete underneath. And that’s precisely the beauty of it,” she says, unaware that one of the greatest costume designers of all time, Danilo Donati – creator of the famous ecclesiastical procession in Federico Fellini’s Roma (1970), a fashion legend of the last half-century, made almost entirely from cardboard, electrician’s light bulbs and scrap materials, and of a legendary early RAI ballet that sought to imitate Busby Berkeley’s sumptuous choreography in "The Girls of the Follies" (1941) but, due to budget constraints, was made of crepe paper and glitter. Angelica follows the same principle: the playfulness of childhood, with adult awareness. “What I do is also a commentary on the way clothes are worn, rather than the clothes themselves. You could even wear a bin bag, but if you wear it with elegance, it becomes cool,” she explains. “I like to think that people can be inspired and feel more creative, because today everything has become so uniform; I’m saddened, however, to see the loss of personal expression, and as a result, my relationship with clothes has changed too: I used to look to the big fashion houses for outfits for events, but now I prefer to create something of my own. For example, for a friend’s wedding, I made a dress using a children’s play tunnel and two boob-tube dresses. It was a huge hit – everyone was asking me where I’d got it from.”

His spirit turns the absurd into inspiration for others who replicate his ideas. “It’s hugely satisfying: I prefer to think of it as stimulating creativity rather than promoting a product,” he points out. “That’s also why I started writing on Substack: my videos work thanks to illusion and magic, but I also enjoy recounting the creative process behind them. By now, it’s second nature: when I see a look on the catwalk, my first thought is no longer the dress itself, but which household object could be transformed into that same silhouette.” Her enthusiasm is infectious, so I ask her why fashion has become so boring: “I think it’s become too corporate; people are mainly concerned with the bottom line, at the expense of the human element, and so what makes a brand truly recognisable also fades away,” she reflects. “That’s the aspect I find most depressing; the loss of irony stems precisely from this. Working with companies, I’ve seen just how increasingly cautious they’ve become. You get the feeling that nobody wants to take risks anymore and that every decision is made by taking the safest route: I hope that Gen Z and this new DIY trend can change things. I recently read an article suggesting that the model on which the sector has based its communication in recent years no longer works. People aren’t satisfied with perfect, aspirational images; they’re looking for something authentic, which is why I’m becoming increasingly convinced that chic is never at odds with fun. A sense of humour doesn’t make a brand any less sophisticated; it simply makes it different. After all, that’s what I do: I recreate fashion using recycled materials and everyday objects. Hardly any of my creations are actually wearable, but that’s not the point; the truth is, you’ve got to have fun. Finally, I believe that the disproportionate rise in prices is also contributing to the growing gap between fashion and the public: I’m only thirty-three, but I remember very well when a pair of designer shoes cost 250 pounds, whereas today they cost a thousand. Just think, I recently saw a cardigan on sale for 60,000 dollars.” “Perhaps that’s also why nobody feels like having a laugh anymore,” I say to her. And we burst out laughing together.