Latex Transformation Story

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Latex Transformation Story






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The New Inquiry is a space for discussion that aspires to enrich cultural and public life by putting all available resources—both digital and material—toward the promotion and exploration of ideas.
“Sadness is a vital part of life…I don’t see this sadness as shameful. It has its own therapeutic implications. 
Em… twitter.com/i/web/status/15421…
Recently I came across a twelve-part essay on fashion by a French novelist and intellectual. It was a predictably tweedy take on the act of getting dressed: dry, humorless, and smelling faintly of rumpled wool. The intellectual railed at the bored tastemakers, the cruel style arbiters, and the coercive economic-driven creations of desire. He wasn’t wrong, not really. But the argument felt stale. I couldn’t help feeling that I’d read it before, and that I wanted a fresher set of thoughts.
We read this kind of criticism all the time; it is both correct and uninspiring. It needn’t have given me pause, except the intellectual seemed troubled, too. In the essay’s closing passages, he tried to imagine another way to talk about sartorial rituals and admitted—almost plaintively—that he wished he’d written something else.
He didn’t, though. I am less interested in speculating why than in dressing up his tweedy essay in something a little more dynamic. I want to know if it can be made new, and I think I have just the garment: a latex bodysuit, given me by a good friend a few weeks ago. In my short experience with the suit, it has proven anything but stale. It would look terrible on the intellectual. But I think it might flatter his essay—lending its twelve-part body a fresh latex skin—even if at first the material seems ill-chosen, the fit awkward and strange. 
A latex bodysuit asks its wearer for perseverance. It is not a garment thrown on in a groggy morning daze. The suit must be powdered, your skin should be lubed, and still the process does not usually go smoothly. The rubber pulls your skin in every wrong direction. It enumerates your drynesses. You get pinched and twisted and look, on inspection in the mirror, as though you’re wearing a well-tailored tire.
So you shine the suit with a lintless rag and silicone polish. You have to be patient because latex doesn’t reveal itself quickly. You buff your arms, and buff your legs; you run the rag over your ribs and hips. And finally, slowly, the suit admits its sheen: velvet, metal, and a liquid hint of risk.
You’re rewarded with a set of alien yous: an eel, a chunk of onyx, oil bubbling in the earth’s core. It is invigorating to feel yourself so multiplied.
Of course, the suit is also about sex. My friend wore it when she worked as a dominatrix. Before that it came from a fetish shop called The Baroness and before that from a stock of well-established cultural fantasy. Personally, I don’t think about sex while I’m wearing my suit. I am not a dominatrix or a baroness. My kind of sex clothes itself differently. My latexed body feels very distant from any question of desire.
I am probably naïve to think I escape the suit’s associations. I heard about a study where two groups of participants wore white coats while completing logic puzzles. One group was told their coats belonged to doctors, the other, to painters. The doctor-coated group answered their puzzles far more successfully. They were feeling smart, apparently.
I design my own experiments inspired by the study. I make plans to wear the suit unsexy places—the bus, the supermarket, my parents’ house—to see if I can alter its meaning. I am daunted and never do. It feels like a doomed venture. My reluctance is not a failure, I don’t think, just an alternate data-set. Another way of answering my question, producing a straightforward set of findings. I do not get dressed in a vacuum, for better or worse.
The body’s smell when the suit is peeled off, a blend of plastic, barn, and sewer
And facts don’t always mean much. They’re not always systematizable.
My friend and I are friends for many reasons, but one of the most important is that we share a favorite author. This author once wrote a newspaper column about a fuzzy red sweater given her by an admiring reader. The sweater “embodies all that is good for both of us,” she swore; it offered protection from “the wintery cold outside: the real cold as well as those other chills we experience.”
Latex is not by nature a sentimental material. But we need objects to ground our emotional connections. When I wear my friend’s gift I know exactly what our author was talking about. The suit is a site of refuge, a meeting place for our gestures of mutual care. I am not by nature a sentimental person but can’t deny, in this most unlikely of garments, the presence of something fuzzy and warm.
My suit has a scar, a sad puckering along its thigh. I ripped it in a moment of carelessness, and though I did my best to close the gash, the suit has never been the same. I flinch each time I see it, as though the injury were my own. In a sense, it is. Yet another entry in a personal history of clothing rent, soiled, and ruined. My inevitable closet-archive of the way things unravel and the meanness of change.
I choose to imagine that the suit’s rubber came from a tree on an idyllic jungle plot. It’s far more likely that the rubber is synthetic, born of some chemical compound with an unpronounceable name. I blunder through their syllables—polysiloxanes and carboxy monomers—looking for the least foreign among them. But they refuse to be recognized. The latex won’t tell me where it’s from.
10. Personalities & 11. Relationships 2
Is it any wonder that the suit has preferences I don’t understand? It insists on being stored in the dark. It abides only a narrow range of temperatures. It demands to be packed meticulously in talc. My suit has a finicky temperament, and this is where problems arise.
Because I am never so exacting. I am good at being adaptable. In dealing with the bodysuit I have to call on my maturest self and most elastic sense of empathy. That is the delicate work of bonding across sensibilities. I can’t say it’s always fun.
In the end I’m after a more fundamental sort of dress-up: a flexibility of thought, a love for new logics, a willingness to shed one’s familiar theoretical skins. I’m after an intellectual practice that exists in smart, embodied flux, a mode of thinking nurtured deliberately in words and bodies and gestures and objects. I am wondering how one truly wears an idea, for reasons more compelling than old tweedy habit.

Silent Street is one of the ancient thoroughfares in the town of Ipswich in Suffolk, England. No one knows for certain how the name came about, but one theory is that, during an outbreak of plague in 1665, the death toll amongst the residents of this street was particularly high, and thereafter the area fell ‘silent’. The story below, however, gives a more modern twist as to why the name might be apt!



Felicity’s eyes scanned the leaflet through for a second time, just in case she’d somehow misread it on the first occasion. But there was no mistake. The piece of paper that had been waiting on her doormat when she’d arrived home from work wasn’t of particularly good quality, and appeared to not be exactly professionally produced in its layout or design; fairly amateurish, in fact.

But that was never going to be a major concern for Felicity, as the offer was exactly what she’d been waiting for, and seemed almost too good to be true.

Specialist Modelling Assignments

We’re looking for women aged 18 -25 in your area who fancy a career in modelling

No previous experience necessary

When?Wednesday 28th November 2018 from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m.

Where?‘Solitude Studios’ Silent Street, Ipswich.

No appointment needed – just turn up on the day

This could be your big break! So what are you waiting for?


Exactly what was meant by ‘Specialist Modelling’, Felicity had no idea. She’d always wanted to try her hand at this sort of thing, however, but to date the opportunity never seemed to have arisen. Now, having always aspired to treading the catwalk, she knew that she simply had to give it a try. If she failed to impress and got rejected, then so be it. But at least she could say that she’d given it her best shot. And at twenty two years old, she fitted the age criteria perfectly! No time to mull it over, however, as the 28th was tomorrow!

And besides, it would give her something to take her mind off the impending court case that was coming up in just over a week’s time, in which she was a vital witness. In fact, that was understating things slightly; she was the key witness around which the whole case revolved. Without her testimony, the whole trial was likely to collapse, with the perpetrator getting away with his heinous crimes. And that, Felicity had decided, was not something that she could allow to happen.

The case concerned an assault that Felicity had just happened to be in the right - or perhaps the wrong - place to witness at the time in question. She’d been in the convenience store that evening, picking up a few items on her way home from work, when he’d suddenly appeared in the shop. With a scarf covering the lower half of his face, and brandishing a knife, he’d threatened the shopkeeper with violence if he didn’t hand over the contents of the till. What he’d failed to realise, at least at first, was that there was anyone else on the premises; Felicity having been hidden behind a row of shelves at the time. It was only after the terrified shop owner had handed over his hard earned takings, just as the robber was about to make his getaway, that he’d clocked Felicity peering at the unfolding scene from her vantage point by the tinned food section. For a moment he’d frozen in his tracks and waved the knife menacingly in her direction, albeit from several yards away, in a gesture meant to convey the message ‘don’t approach or try to follow’. This face to face standoff lasted only a second or two, however, before he’d turned on his heels and exited the shop at high speed.

But what made this brief period of time significant was that, although of such short duration, Felicity had instantly recognised the thief, despite his attempts at disguising his identity with the makeshift mask. For the man who fled the shop with his ill-gotten gains was none other than a guy she’d been at school with. Although she’d not laid eyes on him for several years, and despite the fact that they had never been close friends, Felicity still knew the instant that she’d seen him that this was a former classmate by the name of Mike Anderson. And naturally, being a law-abiding citizen who abhorred violence of any kind, she’d informed the police of his identity once they’d turned up on the scene that evening.

The upshot had been that this Mike had been arrested, and charged with robbery. At which point it emerged that this was not his first offence, and that he was wanted for a number of similar crimes, and had been in trouble with the law on many occasions in the past for burglary, fraud, GBH, ABH and a list as long as your arm of other offences. Not a pleasant character by all accounts. 

And now Felicity would be asked to step up in court and help put this unsavoury individual behind bars for a few years. It was a task that she was pleased to do, but also something that she felt slightly nervous about, even though she couldn’t really put her finger on the source of her anxiety. For despite assurances from the police that he couldn’t harm her now that he was in custody, the look in his eyes during that brief encounter was something that she simply couldn’t erase from her mind. It was a look of malice, anger and hatred that she couldn’t forget. But more than that, it seemed to Felicity that behind this belligerence there was a message. For she was certain that he had recognised her too, and that his deep staring eyes had been trying to warn her that if she grassed him up and testified against him, then he would be back seeking revenge at some point in the future. And this thought sent chills through her; so much so that, on more than one occasion since the incident, she’d seriously considered withdrawing her statement and claiming that she’d made a mistake, and that she was no longer certain of the robber’s identity. Each time she’d managed to convince herself that she was being stupid, and that there was nothing to fear. But even so, the feeling of unease was always there at the back of her mind, ready to erupt into her consciousness when she least expected it, and consequently causing a mini panic attack to break out whenever this occurred.

At least now, with the potential modelling assignment on the horizon, she had something of a less fraught nature to occupy her mind.

****

‘Solitude Studios’ weren’t exactly advertising themselves as open for business on the day of their modelling auditions. As a matter of fact, when Felicity turned up on the dot of eleven o’clock - her precise timing giving some indication of just how keen she was to impress - it took her several minutes, and saw her walking the length of the narrow thoroughfare that was Silent Street twice, before she could even locate the building in which the shoot was taking place. And even then, it was only by chance – or so she assumed at the time – that she came across the correct address. Having walked down from the Old Cattle Market on one side of the street, then back again from the junction with St Nicholas Street on the other, she was beginning to wonder whether the studio actually existed at all. Fortuitously, as she was almost back to her starting point, she noticed an old, unsigned door with badly peeling paint partially opening to her right. From behind this, a woman’s face appeared.

“Are you looking for ‘Solitude’?”

Slightly taken aback, Felicity shyly admitted that she was here for the audition, and brandished the flyer that she’d received through her door at the woman, as if to confirm the reason for her presence. The sight of the leaflet acted as a passport inside, it seemed, as immediately the door opened wide enough for her to enter the premises. As she was about to cross the threshold, Felicity peered upwards for a brief second at the stark exterior. No windows were in evidence above the ground floor. Instead several bricked up rectangular areas could be seen in the ancient building; evidence of the ‘Window Tax’ that had been introduced in the year 1696 and not repealed for 156 years thereafter, forcing owners to block up their windows to avoid the tax, and leading to the term ‘Daylight Robbery’ entering the language.

The interior proved no more inviting than the prospect from without, however. With the closing of the door behind her, Felicity found herself in an ill-lit corridor with closed doors on either side. But it wasn’t towards one of these rooms that she was now shepherded by her host, but straight ahead towards an equally under-illuminated flight of stairs, the summit of which was shrouded in darkness. As they began to climb, the woman - probably about the same age as herself, Felicity guessed - introduced herself and began to explain the nature of the assignment.

“My name’s Della and I’ll be running the auditions today. Please excuse the surroundings, as we’ve only just moved in and haven’t got around to sprucing the place up yet. I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with the less than salubrious facilities today, but the client that has commissioned this shoot is in a hurry, so we’ve had to improvise before we’re really ready.”

By the time she’d finished this speech, the pair had reached the landing, no less dark and uninviting than the downstairs corridor. There was, however, a light visible from an open door a few yards along the passageway, towards which Della led the way. As they reached this entrance, it occurred to Felicity that she hadn’t been asked to give any personal details herself; name, age, previous experience or anything of that nature. Sheepishly, she introduced herself.

“By the way, I’m Felicity.”

In the glare from the three spotlights that were now evident as the source of the illumination, the woman turned and smiled at her. It was the first opportunity that Felicity had really been given to study the woman’s features, and something about her suddenly sent a shiver up the wannabe model’s spine. For no warmth emanated from this attempt at friendliness, and the shadows cast by the lamps gave Della’s face – with its one quizzically raised eyebrow and what seemed like a knowing smirk - a sinister, almost evil look that seemed to convey the message that her visitor’s name was already well known to her. And this visage very nearly caused Felicity to turn on her heels and hightail back out the way she’d come in. Somehow, however, she managed to curb this urge to flee. It was just the dim, gloomy environment spooking her, she managed to convince herself. Everything would be fine. And besides, opportunities like this didn’t come along every day, and if she ran out now, she might forever regret it. And a second or two later, the woman was beckoning her to enter the makeshift studio, and Felicity found herself distracted from these momentary doubts, and duly did as instructed.

As had been evident from the outside, the room was windowless, and completely covering each wall, what looked like thick insulating panels had been fastened. The woman must have noticed Felicity gazing at these, for she was eager to explain the reason for this padding.

“Until recently, this space was being used by a local rock band as a rehearsal studio, hence the soundproofing on the walls. It helps to deaden the noise from passing traffic as well, so we’ve decided to leave it in place for the time being. It creates a nice quiet environment in which to work, I find.”

Aside from the lamps, there seemed to be very little in the way of fixtures and fittings, apart from a camera on a tripod, a full length mirror fixed to one wall, a small table with a closed metal case sitting on top, plus a folding privacy screen away to one side which masked one corner of the room. Slung over the top of this was a black garment of some description, although the dim light in this part of the room made the exact nature of this item unidentifiable at first. This was soon to change, however.

“Right my dear, if you’d like to go behind the screen and change into the suit provided, we’ll get started.”

Felicity had a thousand questions running through her brain at that moment, and was slightly unnerved by the lack of formalities, such as forms to fill in etc, and the fact that very few details about what she would be modelling and how the session would be conducted had been discussed. Maybe that would all come later, she thought to herself. After all, she’d not done this sort of thing before, and therefore had no benchmark against which to judge such practices. And so she meekly accepted the woman’s prompt and walked over to the panelled screen, lifting the garment from its elevated resting place as she did so. The feel of the material was to prove an even bigger surprise, however.

Although having no preconceived ideas about the nature of the attire she’d be modelling, the sensation of what could only be rubber greeted her fingertips as she removed the solitary item of clothing from its perch. In a state of amazement, she held the one piece garment up to get a better look at it. She gasped audibly. For this was no item of everyday wear, but a cat-suit fashioned from shiny latex, which - should she put it on - would cover her from the neck down to her toes, with sleeves that would sheath her arms as far down as the wrists. Even taking into a
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