Climate grief, clothing, and the lessons we need to learn from history

“Climate grief” and “eco-anxiety” might simply sound like buzzwords, borne out of a sudden awareness of the perilous state of the planet thanks to Extinction Rebellion or David Attenborough’s Blue Planet 2, but for me they evoke a strange sense of comfort. Like the diagnosis of a chronic condition, naming what ails you might not bring a cure, or even relief, but it does bring a certainty, a confirmation that you are not alone, and (hopefully) guidance on how to manage your condition. 

These aren’t twenty-first century problems either, the preserve of “snowflakes” who don’t have anything better to worry about. Philosopher Jeremy Bentham was concerned about animal welfare back in the 1780s, emphasising the need to recognise the fact that animals can suffer, and to treat them accordingly. JRR Tolkien experienced a profound sense of distress at the industrialisation of the countryside around his childhood home, and this feeling threads itself throughout the Lord of the Rings trilogy. And in the 19th Century, the excesses of the fashion industry led to the onset of eco anxiety and, eventually, attempts to atone for our actions. 

By the 1850s, the Industrial Revolution had increased the speed and volume of clothing production, and Britain’s colonialist invasion of other countries had opened up rich new sources of materials. Not content with exploiting our fellow humans, we also began to exploit the natural world on a much larger scale. Iridescent jewel beetles were shipped back from British owned slave plantations along with the cotton to make the dresses their brightly-coloured wings would adorn. Whole hummingbirds and birds of paradise were stuffed and posed on hats and fans. Sealskin was transformed from a useful fabric worn by the indigenous people who lived in close proximity to seals to a sought-after fashion accessory.

Our desire for exotic fashions had already had a noticeable effect on wildlife. Beaver fur had been popular for hat-making for several centuries, leaving the European beaver population decimated. Thanks to changes in fashions and construction methods, baleen or “whalebone” was being phased out as a boning for corsets, but coastal areas remained conspicuously whale-free.

In his book Wild Ones, Jon Mooallam talks about “shifting baseline syndrome”: the natural world we grow up with is the one we regard as normal, and we find it hard to imagine the abundance of wildlife that previous generations would have taken for granted. 

However it is possible to radically change perspectives within a lifetime. William Temple Horniday was a hunter and taxidermist who became a fierce advocate for animal conservation, once he realised that the best way to preserve animals for future generations was alive in their natural habitat rather than stuffed in a museum. 

Horniday wrote an impassioned letter to the New York Times in 1913, demanding an end to the use of feathers in fashion. “The whole matter is up to the women,” he wrote. “On their heads is the blood of the slaughtered innocents.” I think it’s important to acknowledge the sexism at work here - Horniday apportioned no blame to the hunters, feather merchants and dealers who profited from the industry and supplied the demand. This is still how criticism of the fashion industry plays out today; commentators criticise young women as vain and frivolous while ignoring the multinational companies raking in huge profits and exploiting a largely female workforce. Women in the 19th Century were instrumental in changing the public’s opinion on exotic furs and feathers; they were the founders of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds in Britain, and the Audubon Society in the US. Their campaigns ultimately brought about laws banning or restricting the sale of certain pelts and plumes for the fashion industry.

Horniday felt frustrated by the limits of his activism: “I tried to inject the courage into the hearts of men, but today I think that speaking generally, civilised man is an unmitigated ass.” I can’t help but empathise with that statement. Mooallam puts Horniday’s frustration into context, offering hope to all environmental activists: “Like all of us, his imagination was hopelessly trapped in its own moment, its own lifetime. He could only see the world through the tiny keyhole of the present.”

Despite the excellent work done by animal rights charities for over a hundred years, our conservation efforts have not kept pace with our voracious appetite for more clothes, and our relentless desire for new things. We’re still killing animals for clothes, but we are also making synthetic fabrics from their eons-old compressed bodies. We are destroying natural habitats to farm fashion, and our careless production methods mean that we are polluting the planet for generations to come. 

The fashion industry is more vast, complex and environmentally devastating than anyone at a previous point in history could have imagined. Yet we all have the opportunity to be, as Mooallam puts it, a tiny counterweight to that shifting baseline. Fast fashion in its current juggernaut state didn’t exist 25 years ago. The industry doesn’t have to be like this.

In the spirit of acknowledging my climate grief, I went along to Extinction Rebellion’s grief procession on a rainy Saturday in October. I put together a Victorian-style mourning outfit, complete with exotic bird puppet/umbrella. I find the Victorian cult of mourning quite fascinating, especially as I don’t think we always do a great job of dealing with grief in the present day. Although I disagree with the idea of imposing a compulsory dress code on anyone, being able to signal emotion through the wearing of a certain colour of clothing felt oddly freeing. I didn’t have to explain my grief or my anxiety to anyone, and being surrounded by so many other people who felt the same way gave me a lot of strength and reassurance. I’m still working on not feeling overwhelmed by my emotions around climate breakdown, but looking back through history has helped me see the potential for hope.



The podcast 99% Invisible features an episode called “Wild Ones Live”, which features Jon Mooallam reading excerpts from his book with musical accompaniment. I find it tremendously reassuring to listen to, it’s one of the few things that can always soothe my eco-anxiety.

Exhibition photos taken at the V&A’s Fashioned From Nature

It's time to ask "Who Made My Merchandise?"

In the excellent costume collection at Worthing Museum in West Sussex there is a patchwork maxi skirt from the 1960s. Interspersed between delicate floral prints in apple green and buttercup yellow, there are a couple of plain rose pink panels, and on one of these the skirt’s owner has embroidered Leonard Cohen in a flowing script reminiscent of the “best handwriting” that used to be taught in schools. 

I wanted to ask the original owner so many questions - was the embroidery a spur-of-the-moment decision, or carefully planned? Was it done specifically for a certain festival or concert, or just as a general declaration of loyalty to, or love for, a favourite musician? I was intrigued by the juxtaposition of the sunny, cheerful nature of the ditsy floral prints, and the emotional intensity that I associate with Leonard Cohen songs. If I was to choose an article of clothing to represent the mood that Leonard Cohen songs evoke in me, it would not be this skirt. Was its owner finding different meanings and feelings in this shared experience of popular culture? Or was the juxtaposition deliberate, drawing attention to the fact that this brightly dressed young woman also felt intense emotions but didn’t want them to interfere with her aesthetic? 

At a time when we can buy merchandise to advertise our love of almost any musician, film, TV show or musical, customised clothing proclaiming our pop culture allegiances is becoming a cultural artefact, more likely to be found in a museum collection than at a concert or a convention. 

Mass-produced merchandise has invented its own ways of offering a personalised experience to the buyer. Band tour t-shirts are a covetable souvenir, a way to say “I was here, I experienced this particular moment with my idol”. Fan-designed t-shirts, often a mash-up of different beloved sci-fi stories, are a wearable in-joke, a way of finding your tribe, the people who unapologetically love what you love. 

But, like everything fun in life, your fave is (probably) problematic. We are getting used to asking fashion brands “Who made my clothes?” but are we asking the same questions of wearable merchandise? We are often drawn to stories because they have a message that resonates with us; they show us a way of being in the world that feels important to explore. At a time of international political turmoil, they help to realign our moral compasses, teaching us courage, compassion and strength. 

And yet, a cultural phenomenon that urges us to “do what is right, not what is easy” partners with a fast fashion brand to sell as much cheap, sweatshop-made merchandise as possible. I understand the argument that merchandise for books and films that are so meaningful for so many people should be widely available and affordable. But when an Isle-of-Wight based start-up, Teemill, is able to make affordable print-on-demand merch using natural inks and ethically sourced t-shirts with a 24hr turnaround, while running a training programme for local young people, shouldn’t some of the richest people in the world and Hollywood mega-corporations be able to do the same thing? 

I’m always excited when I’m able to buy a piece of ethical merchandise. The ongoing collaboration between the Star Wars franchise and sustainable shoe brand Po-Zu has resulted in me owning three pairs of incredibly comfortable shoes while also letting me wear a subtle logo of something I’ve loved since I was a teenager. I was also able to use “but it’s made from recycled materials!” as an excuse to buy a Hamilton tote, despite the fact that I already own approximately 50 tote bags. 

When The 1975 announced that they were going to start a recycling scheme for the t-shirts they have sold to fans, re-printing deadstock t-shirts rather than making new for each tour, a predictable criticism was thrown at them - wasn’t it hypocritical to be tackling t-shirts when they were flying to international tour dates? By that criticism, all music, TV, film and theatre is hugely environmentally damaging and we shouldn’t consume any culture at all. I have looked at the way that costume departments in film and TV are grappling with their environmental impact in a previous post, and for full disclosure I’ll point out that my day job is within this industry and I don’t want to be made jobless!  I think all forms of the arts are crucial to a healthy, functioning democracy as they give us ways to process our feelings, a window into the experiences of others and lightness and beauty in dark times. Give us bread, but give us roses too.

But at a time when we are grappling with the need to engage with the world in a fundamentally different way to avoid irreversible climate breakdown, I’d like to gently suggest that the way we engage with pop culture also needs to take on a less passively consumerist and more curious role. I’d love to include hundreds of words here about cosplay, crafts and transformative works, but that might have to be a separate blog post. Buying merchandise is a way that most of us interact with our idols, and I think it’s also a way we can advocate for positive change. Obviously I realise that the main objective of selling merchandise is to make money. But I’d like to suggest that we take inspiration from our heroes and start asking awkward questions of the people who are taking our money. Either that, or grab your embroidery kit, fabric paints or knitting needles and start making your own homages to the things you love.