The Paradoxical Freedom of Wearing a Uniform
When I say "uniform," you probably think of the single outfit foisted upon students, athletes, and even those genuinely despicable Minions for the express purpose of squashing individuality. That's usually a uniform's intended function, after all.
But there's a more nuanced type of uniform, one inherently driven by personal style. Done right, a uniform actually becomes exquisitely expressive, with a wardrobe properly guided by the uniform principle flipping the apparent constraints of routine into a truer expression of self.
There is an "I" in "uniform," you know.
This kind of uniform dressing is already employed by plenty of famous practitioners. Pharrell has massaged a uniform out from a series of recognizable silhouettes while his pal and KENZO overseer NIGO is perpetually dressed in faded denim jackets and jeans. Meanwhile, Zoë Kravitz and Channing Tatum epitomize a form of complementary couple style that's astonishingly well-balanced (and well to-do).
At least part of a celebrity's wardrobe can be chalked up to stylists — it's easy enough for A$AP Rocky to make a handsome habit of dressing in Bottega Veneta when he's given carte blanche to next season's duds. But, special access or not, the best-dressed famous folks adhere to a level of consistency indicative to uniform dressing.
To be clear, when I say "uniform dressing," I'm not referring to an actual uniform, like the identical shirts and shoes that inform a cartoon character's closet, as much as a traceable form of dress. Though this kind of "uniform" can be shaped by specific staples, they can vary greatly if the wearer so desires. Here, the singularity is a recognizable trait, not necessarily singular items.
As such, a stylistic uniform can be affected by shape, color, silhouette, proportions, or any combination thereof. Hence why Pharrell's seasonal commitments to short-shorts and flared jeans is as much a form of uniform dressing as NIGO's ever-present sunglasses and newsboy cap, and why those guys' recognizable looks are never boring.
You'll often see this angle on uniform dressing in creative fields, where precious brain space is better spent on work than wearables. Doubly so for fashion's most in-demand minds, who almost exclusively dress in uniform.
"I wore only Prada for, like, 15 years," Raf Simons said in 2021, the year he joined Prada as co-creative director and presumably began to once again wear only Prada. "I couldn’t imagine having to change outfits every day," Rick Owens once said (and clearly still believes) . "I’m not really into clothes. I wear one outfit like a uniform."
And Dries Van Noten holds himself to identical grey sweaters, navy scarves, and beige slacks because, as he told me, "being a fashion designer, you have to make decisions the whole day. So, the last thing I want is... to choose between a red sweater and a yellow sweater with purple pants or green pants."
These folks leverage the reliability of a uniform into an outlet for creative freedom. However, these are fashion people — they must also look good. And thus, they iterate, gently varying a handful of core items that shape a recognizable but not entirely same-y uniform. The results are inevitably stylish.
"My all-navy uniform is my way of saying, ‘I do create clothes and a million other things, so I have no time to think too much about my look. But I’m paying attention to it anyway because I’m still a fashion designer, and a man with a precise aesthetic,’” Giorgio Armani once told us. He's not alone.
In the '80s, Donna Karan put forth Seven Easy Pieces, an early stab at a fashion-conscious capsule wardrobe. Phoebe Philo's devotion to Stan Smiths and dark slacks has situated her as a uniform dressing muse for over a decade. The late Azzedine Alaïa was one of the truest uniform wearers in fashion, dressing exclusively in silk "Chinese clothes" and "gymnast shoes" his entire professional life.
And then there's Steve Jobs, perhaps the most famous practitioner of the style-savvy uniform. Jobs conscripted himself to a wardrobe of chunky grey sneakers, blue jeans, and a black turtleneck, but you'll notice that it's not just any shoes or shirt. Jobs' uniform was hyper specific: New Balance's 992 sneakers, blue Levi's 501 jeans, and black Issey Miyake turtlenecks made to Jobs' taste.
This is a key difference between uniform as conformity and uniform as personal style (and a big factor separating people who attempt to channel Jobs by merely tossing on a black turtleneck — sorry, Liz!).
Stylish uniforms are built atop by unique codes reflective of an individual's taste. Guided by their demarcated interests, a stylish individual can fill even an expansive wardrobe, intelligently selecting garments that fluidly mesh. This is the stylistic freedom engendered by uniform dressing.
And this is why Tyler the Creator's perpetual prep perfection is apparent whether he's wearing Lacoste, Louis Vuitton, or his own le FLEUR* line, always balancing cropped pants with tailored outerwear and statement headwear. Same for Jennifer Lawrence, whose understated steeze remains consistent whether or not she's wearing The Row (though she's pretty much always wearing The Row): Flowing tops, ankle-length slacks, and low-profile footwear.
These are less direct uniforms than Bill Cunningham's blue chore coats but they're uniforms nonetheless, made expressive by a recognizable framework.
If that sounds paradoxical, consider the golden cage of a wardrobe stuffed with clashing clothes. Ever struggled to find something to wear? You know what I'm talking about.
To embrace uniform dressing is to become a kind of proactive Marie Kondo, framing your wardrobe with the well-defined guardrails of taste. Much like Kondo-ism, this also takes practice but anything worth doing does.
Because good style, like good music, is born in the absence of extraneity. Those are the sounds shaped by the notes you don't play, according to Debussy and Miles Davis, and the outfits informed by the clothes you don't wear.
