In the spring of 2001, Imitation of Christ presented their debut collection not on a traditional runway, but inside a funeral home on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. It was a setting that immediately signaled subversion—guests entered not just a space, but a statement. The models walked a slow, ritualistic loop around a casket strewn with lilies, as if paying their final respects. But this was no ordinary funeral—it was a burial of mainstream fashion as it stood at the turn of the century.
At that time, the language of sustainability had not yet entered fashion’s mainstream vocabulary. Terms like “upcycling” were virtually unheard of. Yet that’s precisely what Imitation of Christ was doing: reclaiming discarded garments, reconstructing them by hand, and presenting them as both artifact and act of resistance. The brand's ethos—principles before profit—stood in sharp contrast to the excess and spectacle that dominated the fashion industry. Their work wasn’t just anti-fashion; it was a protest.
To truly understand the rebelliousness of this collection, one had to be attuned to both the inner workings of the industry and the subversive humor the designers employed. Nothing about the show was incidental. The tags sewn into the garments read *\$0.00*—a symbolic gesture rejecting consumerism, even as the pieces themselves were priced at \$4,000. This paradox was not lost on the audience; it was part of the message. Fashion, they suggested, could be both deeply critical and deeply complicit.
The clothes themselves echoed the tone of the setting. Black dresses dominated the collection, not in the service of timeless chic, but as a sartorial nod to mourning. Laces and drapes silks made up the fabric pallets. One particularly striking piece of the black dresses was a dropped waist ballgown like with leg-o-mutton sleeves. Abstractedly painted on the waist, what may seem like a religious figure. Another standout piece featured a braid pinned to the fabric—a likely reference to Victorian mourning jewelry, in which hair was used as a keepsake and worn close to the body.
Other garments disrupted traditional expectations of modesty and formality. One look featured a backless dress paired with short shorts and fishnet stockings—an outfit outwardly inappropriate for a funeral, and intentionally so. It mocked the idea of dressing “appropriately” in a world that rarely questions what such codes serve. To further add to the this subversion of appropriate funeral attire, was a beautifully white silk draped dress. Meanwhile, men wore tailored suits with unfinished lapels and with their ties fastened backward, a playful yet unsettling reversal that seemed to suggest a desire to undo fashion’s forward march—or perhaps to mourn what had been lost in its wake.
Imitation of Christ didn’t simply debut a collection; they staged a cultural autopsy. They asked who fashion was for, what it discarded, and whether it could be resurrected in new and meaningful ways. In a time before sustainability became a buzzword and virtue-signaling became marketing strategy, this collection offered a raw, unfiltered vision of fashion as ritual, rebellion, and requiem.