When In Wellington
Words by Janhavi Gosavi (she/her)
When in Wellington … dress as the Wellingtonians do. But what does it mean to look like a Wellingtonian? Are we contractually obligated to dress in accordance with our artsy-political-edgy-anti-capitalist stereotype? Or is the rule that there are no rules?
I asked three different students to share their wardrobes with me. I wanted to understand how their style had evolved since leaving their home towns and moving to Wellington.
Dimitris grew up in Otara, South Auckland, in a big Pasifika household “that sometimes oscillated to 20 people”.
I asked him to show me clothes that exemplified his style back in Auckland, and his current style in Wellington. He brings a big pile of clothes into the living room and we inspect the haul.
Dimitris wore a lot of loungewear in Auckland, bought in bulk from the Warehouse: plain tees, pullover fleeces, baggy shorts. He shows me a past Christmas gift from his dad; a shirt featuring the Superman logo which has been appropriated to say ‘Samoa’.
Dimitris attended a private highschool on scholarship, and when he wasn’t in his uniform, he was wearing hi-vis to work as a traffic controller. “Sometimes I’d work 60 hours a week, to the point where I’d wear these into my free time.” He pulls on the orange ensemble and strikes a pose for me in his blue doorframe. “You know they’re selling hi-vis stuff on Balenciaga now?” he muses.
Petra grew up in Wanaka. Back then she donned long blond hair, low cut tank tops, and a certified ~straight girl~ aura.
“Wanaka’s so small, there were like three cool girls, and you know what? I was one of them,” she says with an air of nostalgia. Teenage Petra thought there was one way to be cool. All the girls in the central Otago area wore identical outfits.
Petra shows me a typical day-time Wanaka outfit: high waisted shorts, with a white shirt and a denim jacket, and black converse. She explains that, back home, Converses were worn by everyone on every occasion, even school balls.
The shorts are too short for her taste now. “This doesn't make me feel good about myself”, she grimaces while looking at her outfit in the mirror.
She then shows me a night-time Wanaka outfit, featuring a mesh black top with a bralette inside. “Me and my best friend would straighten our hair till it fucking fried, and we would walk down the streets [like this] and be thrilled when cars would honk at us. We were 12.”
“I also used to wear skirts,” she gasps theatrically. The repressed memories are all coming back to her.
Joanna grew up in Christchurch, where her style was influenced by fleeting trends and Pinterest inspo. She used to follow New York Fashion Week, and went through a preppy phase of wanting to look like she came from ‘old money’.
“I don't know why I ever had that thought [...] cos eat the rich, right?” she huffs.
She puts on a typical Christchurch outfit and struts along her balcony for me. High waisted cheetah print pants, a pleather jacket and black boots … every item is from Glassons, and she isn't proud of it.
Joanna insists tight clothing “doesn’t give me room to bloat,” so she changes into her ‘normal’ Wellington clothes: a green long sleeve under a loose denim dress, with her signature padlock necklace.
Going to university was the first time Dimitris had the opportunity to consistently pick what he wore. He said: “Wellington makes me feel so free, like I'm out of the eye of the people I grew up with, so I don't have that obligation to maintain the persona I built up.” Wellington also empowers him to dress beyond gender norms: “the gender of clothing [here] is devolved.”
Dimitris is now more resourceful with his clothing, repurposing clothes like his high school uniform pants which are still in his rotation. He pulls on an op-shopped outfit: a dress shirt, a tan blazer, matching pants, and brown dress shoes, accessorising with a silk headscarf and some shades. “I love money. If I had the money to dress like A$AP Rocky, I would. When I put on a dress shirt, I’m playing into that fantasy.”
He plays some trap and starts voguing, leaving me speechless.
Petra describes her style in Wellington as “colourful and queer”. She runs her fingers along the vast rainbow of button down shirts she has hanging in her closet. She wears a different version of the same outfit every day: turtleneck, shirt, pants, Doc Martens. It almost feels like a uniform, but with her weight fluctuating due to endometriosis, this uniform makes her feel comfortable in her ever-changing body.
Petra reckons about 80% of her current wardrobe is from op shops. “You can repurpose items and make them feel correct,” she says while ripping the shoulder pads out of a patterned blazer so that it sits better on her frame. She parades around her room in a red pantsuit, showing me her glittery drag costumes. In Wellington, Petra feels like a small part of a big city. She can be “visually queer” here, “without hurting anyone’s feelings”.
Joanna now loves second-hand shopping but hates stores like Thrift and Spacesuit because “they scream gentrification”. Instead of stalking runway trends, she finds fashion inspiration by walking down Cuba Street.
She shows me one of her current favourite outfits: a Britney Spears baby tee, low waisted Ralph Lauren corduroy pants, a 2000s-inspired crochet cardigan, a bucket hat, and some loafers. She’s Fashion TikTok’s wet dream; a trendy, conscious consumer.
Dimitris, Petra, and Joanna all use fashion to perform their identity as Wellingtonians. Their new wardrobes reflect their new lifestyles, gender expression, political beliefs, and passion for sustainability. When asked what Wellington fashion means to her, Joanna said, “There’s a freedom of expression here that's completely uncontained … people are free to do whatever the fuck they want.”