On an otherwise nondescript day in September, Alexandra Obochi, a candidate for the GTCO fashion week, posted a video that set social media ablaze. The video initially appears akin to the standard fare of entry videos—Obochi dons a white vest and blue jeans, her hair packed into a bun—but upon closer inspection, several peculiarities come into view. In contrast to the typical svelte applicants, at size 16, she is plus-sized. Following the customary strut and a curt introduction, she breaks into a long-winded monologue, calling out the lack of inclusivity, particularly for bigger women, in the world of fashion. Her monologue contains many bold assertions and pointed criticism. “Did you know that the average size African woman is a size 14 and above? Yeah, and 67% of Nigerian women fall into that range, yet I have never seen one on your runway.” No conclusive research supports these claims. Studies, however, reveal that African women tend to have higher BMI than women of other racial groups.
Regardless of the veracity of her claims, her monologue points to a broader issue—the exacting and often stultifying beauty standards in the world of fashion. As such, it resonated with a vast swath of people and almost instantly set off a cascade of impassioned debate. On one end of the spectrum, cynics excoriated her using an array of tactics, from dismissing her critique as gaslighting to skewering her with scathing insults. On the other end, inclusivity advocates championed her as a beacon, a stalwart fanning the embers of a brighter future. But most people lay somewhere in the middle, stirred by, and invested in, the conversation, but also unsure of what to make of it. Last weekend, during the Lagos fashion week, Obochi walked the runway for rising couture house Oshobor, reviving the conversation with an intensified vigor.
The conversation of inclusivity in fashion is well overdue. Diversity, equity, and inclusivity have been some of the significant ideological shifts of the last decade. The winds of change have blown across almost every facet of society and industry—from the corporate world to media and industry. But puzzlingly, it has all but eluded the world of fashion, in Nigeria but more so globally. Some types of modeling—fitness, catalog, promotional—have less exacting standards but runway modeling remains stringent. Models have to meet a certain height threshold. More controversially, they often have to be willowy and paper thin.
Conversations around body weight and beauty standards tend to be fraught on social media. This naturally makes these conversations the ideal sparring ground for trolls. But Obochi’s diatribe cuts deeper, transcending mere grist for mundane squabbling, because it forces us to reckon with our deep-seated biases and contradictions. “All bodies are beautiful” is perhaps the most popular platitude of the past decade. We echo it in solidarity with Lizzo as she chafes against antiquated beauty standards and deploys it almost as a sacrament to exorcise fatphobic trolls. And so, it’s almost impossible to opt out of the conversation, hold a neutral position, or support the status quo without feeling the internal tug of a moral contradiction.
Even the most hawkish body-positivity activists tend to shy away from canvassing for runway representation for larger women—not the slightly above-average women we routinely see trotted out as tokens for inclusivity. The most common rationalization usually goes that clothes sit better on svelte bodies. Another subordinate but yet equally notorious justification is the view that some things are just the way they are; tradition. These rationalizations, and excuses, are confections that allow otherwise progressive people to hold these contradictory views. If all body types are equally beautiful, if we agree that beauty standards are a product of social conditioning, how then can we so blithely dismiss calls for runway inclusivity with the excuse that clothes sit better on a particular body type?
The forces of change have all but whittled away trenchant discriminatory practices in most parts of society, or at least established these practices—everything from fat phobia to sexism—as archaic, vestiges of a distant past. The ice has almost entirely thawed. But it almost feels like a part of society desperately seeks to preserve a relic of this quasi-archaic era. This explains our collective rectitude, our equivocation, on the subject of inclusivity in the world of runway modeling.
This widespread ambivalence that has upheld the status quo in runway modeling, that has shielded it from the forces of change, even in the most progressive societies, is not entirely from a malicious place, however problematic it might be. It follows from the human tendency for deference to tradition. The concept of modeling, as we know it today, came into existence in the mid-1800s, courtesy of Charles Frederick, the world’s first couturier. Frederick favored lithe ladies with particular proportions. In addition, he often required his models to be generic, and nondescript, in every way possible. The reason was that he intended for his models to serve as living mannequins, and animated hangers for his clothes. These models had to be effacing so as not to draw attention away from the clothes. Until the mid-1900s models were still referred to as mannequins. Centuries have passed since Frederick’s time, and his ideas, however practical they were in his day, feel out of step in today’s world. But somehow, it’s still the dominant position in the world of fashion.
Some of the world’s most canonical designers have defended the ideas of their long-dead predecessors with a fervor that evokes religious extremism. Karl Lagerfeld, the most influential designer of the second half of the 20th century, was perhaps the most tenacious advocate of this tradition. His obsession with svelte, and often anorexic, models chafed against the rising tide of liberal feminism, and yet he remained steadfast in his defense of tradition. In an interview with Focus Magazine, when pressed on the subject of inclusivity, he asserted that the world of fashion trafficks in “dreams and illusions” and that “no one wants to see round models.” In a more scathing riposte, he said “These are fat mummies sitting with their bags of crisps in front of the television, saying that thin models are ugly.”
Today, these comments would elicit a wave of condemnation. However, even in our self-profession of progressiveness, our silence, or defense, of this tradition indicts us as much as Lagerfeld’s shameful comments indict him. Steve Jobs once said, “Everything around you that you call life was made up by people that were no smarter than you and you can change it.” As idealistic as this quote reads, it alludes to the truth. The world of fashion is the way it is because society today is very comfortable with the status quo. There is no tenable reason for the asinine standards in fashion today. In a tell-all memoir, The Vogue Factor, former Vogue Australia editor-in-chief Kirstie Clements describes in harrowing detail the extreme lengths models often go to remain thin. The portrait she paints is chilling. Fainting spells during shoots are commonplace. These models, often underage or a little over eighteen, contend with body dysmorphia and anorexia, their sense of normalcy irrevocably tainted.
But even without deferring to the pool of problems the current modeling standards have engendered; even in a hypothetical world where these problems didn’t exist, the bias towards thin models would still be asinine. The standards for runway modeling need to be torn apart and rebuilt to reflect the times. More diversity, and more representation, are needed. A world where models of all stripes can aspire towards runway modeling would be awe-inspiring. Regardless of what the Western world decides to hold steadfastly onto, the fashion industry in Nigeria is still in its infancy and is therefore more malleable. We sit at an existential crossroads that will shape generations to come. It’s therefore imperative that we move in the right direction.
Moving in the right direction also means that the issue of inclusivity is prosecuted in the right way. In the pursuit of inclusivity, it’s not uncommon for well-intentioned individuals to suspend the rules for marginalized groups. This was the case for Obochi. As she walked the runway for Oshobor, her gait was conspicuously awkward. Against the backdrop of the more experienced models, she looked out of place, her hands over her mouth, as if signaling a strange admission of some guilt.
Inclusivity and merit should never feel mutually exclusive. Plus-sized models should be vetted like everyone else. Being slender alone is not enough qualification for being a model. Slender aspirants still need to have certain physical features, know how to strut with poise and exude confidence on the runway. Suspending these rules for plus-sized models, under the guise of fostering diversity, undermines the concept of inclusivity because it implicitly assumes the position that they cannot compete on equal terms. This conversation is a little more nuanced, there are instances where marginalized groups deserve a slight nudge. For example, university applicants from underprivileged communities. But a sweeping suspension of the rules is the wrong way to pursue inclusivity. In the long term, it perpetuates the narrative that non-thin models do not deserve a place on the runway, the narrative that they are simply tokens for a quixotic ideology. The world of fashion is long overdue for a paradigm shift. Models of all stripes deserve representation on the runway. However, in pursuing inclusivity, care must be taken to avoid the trap of enacting self-defeating policies.
