The Catalan clothing brand Desigual has once again pulled a Juan Carlos in Botswana with its now iconic "I am very sorry... it will not happen again." The reason? The latest campaign, in which, with a clearly sarcastic and mocking treatment, it makes gentrification, touristification, overcrowding, rising prices, and insecurity in Barcelona the central theme to promote its latest collaboration with the Berlin brand Ottolinger. A campaign that has ignited social media and received a mostly negative reception. Firstly, because many have perceived it as a trivialization of the problems that currently stifle the Catalan capital. Furthermore, this treatment, beyond the fact that a brand based in Barcelona is shooting itself in the foot by ridiculing the city's image, does not aim upwards as a form of denunciation. What we must be clear about is that not all irony is a critique. And if, in addition, all of this is done to sell a few t-shirts, it is even harder to find any real desire to question anything.And I say that they have pulled a Joan Carles again because it is not the first time, in recent times, that Desigual has had to rectify its advertising campaigns. The most recent one, in 2025, starred actress Ester Expósito wearing the slogan Not a doll(I am not a doll), with an apparently feminist intention of women's empowerment. The problem is that, in parallel, the t-shirt campaign Protect the dolls was taking place, to support the trans community following the attacks and harassment by Donald Trump's American government. A campaign that, in no case, was minor, but rather had a great reach, with the adherence of renowned figures such as actor Pedro Pascal, singer Troye Sivan, or designer Haider Ackermann. The campaign itself could have been good, provided it had been carried out in a parallel world. The problem is that contexts are fundamental and seeing Expósito proudly wearing a t-shirt with the phrase "Not a doll", at that moment made the reading go from feminist to transphobic.In December 2012, it launched the campaign Tengo un plan, composed of three advertisements in which three conventionally beautiful women dressed up, in a sexy and uninhibited attitude, in front of the mirror while they explained their future plans. The first, to travel to Thailand to have sexual adventures and leave her life behind, including her boyfriend. The second, to tell her family that she had a female partner. And the third, that she had decided to sleep with her boss. A campaign that, despite wanting to empower women, fell into a false representation of equality by the adoption, on the part of these three women, of behaviors traditionally associated with men.The most serious one, however, was released following Mother's Day 2014, titled Tú decides. A normatively sexy girl, after putting a pillow under her dress to see what she would look like pregnant, took a strip of condoms and poked holes in them. An advertisement that clearly treats women's freedom of choice in the clumsiest way, since, apart from ignoring the other person's reproductive consent, it disregards the risk of contracting sexually transmitted diseases.Seeing, therefore, the promotional trajectory of Desigual, we could think that at the head of the marketing department they have a monkey at the wheel, with a total disconnection from the world and what is cooking. But, seeing the repeated blunders, perhaps what they have is a clever person who, in the face of a company that is struggling with sales, has opted for the old formula that says "let them talk about us, even if it is badly". A dangerous tactic that must be executed very well so that it does not end up being bread for today and hunger for tomorrow.In any case, perhaps the latest campaign regarding the touristification of Barcelona is better thought out than we locals have been able to see. With a brand owned by the Swiss Thomas Meyer and sales directed mostly to the international market, perhaps the campaign was not intended to amuse the people of Barcelona. Perhaps, precisely, its audience was those who experience the city from the other side: as a backdrop to visit, consume, and, now also, wear.

Lately, when I try to buy a bikini, I have to face the search and capture of an increasingly difficult piece to find: one that covers my entire buttocks. While the part that covers the breasts is not problematic, when we get to the bottom part, it seems that we only have at our disposal the minimum expression of what a panty should be. Among the available options, the thong is quite present, which mysteriously disappears between buttock and buttock, given the apparent comfort of the user, and front panels so minimal that I myself wonder how it is possible to fit the entire pubic area into such a narrow strip without it protruding from either side. Suddenly, wanting a panty that generously embraces the buttocks and lower abdomen has become almost an extravagance. It is paradoxical that this occurs in parallel with the clear retreat of the topless, caused by the increase in aesthetic pressure and rising conservative values but, above all, by the threat of camera phones, capable of forever archiving your breasts on social media without your consent. But why do these fears, which have caused the liberation of women's breasts to recede, not have the same effect on the buttocks?

When we think of Dolly Parton, who died Tuesday at 80 from cancer, we think of mythical songs like Jolene and I will always love you, but also her spectacular looks. And it is that Parton was not only an extraordinary musician, but a pop icon who consciously built her own image until it became an inseparable part of her work. An aesthetic that cannot be fully understood without taking into account the context in which she moved: that of country.

At the beginning of August, during the royal family's stay in Mallorca, Infanta Sofia caused some surprise among the media for an apparently unusual gesture in the protocol of royal houses. The reason? She was wearing a Desigual dress that Queen Letizia had already worn in 2023 and that Princess Leonor had reused in 2025, during the respective Marivent receptions. In fact, Queen Letizia has repeated dresses on more than one occasion, and each time the fact has become news. But what does it say about us, as a society, that it seems so exceptional to us for a queen to repeat a dress?The reuse of clothing has been an inherent practice in fashion throughout pre-industrial history, when clothes were scarce, expensive, and often had to be passed down from parents to children. It was a practice that affected all social strata, including European courts. Royal families had record-keeping systems to document existing garments, specifying their characteristics, measurements, and decorative elements, as well as the repairs and modifications they had undergone, with the aim of facilitating their reuse within the same family. Everything indicates that clothing was conceived less as strictly individual property than as dynastic heritage capable of circulating among different members of the lineage. And when clothes ceased to be used, they could become diplomatic gifts or be passed on to members of the service to ensure alliances and loyalties. Likewise, fabrics were dismantled and reused in new garments, ornaments, furniture, or liturgical objects, and only when they had exhausted any possibility of use were they destined for paper manufacturing. The wardrobe was thus understood as a true reserve of material resources and political strategies. Therefore, what has changed between the old European courts and the current royal family for something that was completely normalized in the past to have become an exception today?

Most middle-aged men, throughout the year, resort to a very limited range among all the possibilities that fashion offers. Faced with the infinite possibilities it provides, they tend to opt for discreet pieces, neutral tones, predictable outfits, and unpretentious silhouettes. But summer temporarily alters this established order. The climate, holidays, and the feeling of being outside the routine open a small crack in this monotony. And it is precisely through this crack that such an unexpected and revealing piece slips in: the Hawaiian shirt.When we see this shirt, with floral prints and the name it has been given, we quickly suppose it represents the essence of this Pacific archipelago and the cultural past of Polynesia. But the reality is very different. Far from referring to ancestors, these shirts were born in the thirties of the 20th century, when Hawaii had lost its independence for decades and lived under American rule. Turned into a plantation economy, the islands attracted successive migratory waves, especially from China and Japan, thanks to which fabrics, artisanal techniques, and ways of dressing also arrived. In this context, the Japanese tailor Koichiro Miyamoto began to make them in 1935 under the name Aloha Shirts.The first manufacturers resorted to the materials they had at hand: rolls of Japanese fabric originally intended for making kimonos. For this reason, the first prints showed bamboo plants, fans, cherry blossoms, waves, or cranes (tsuru), motifs typical of Japanese iconography. Asian fabrics but on a garment with the morphology of the North American sports shirt. The Hawaiian shirt was therefore not the expression of an intact culture, but the product of a colonial society in which American patterns, Japanese fabrics, and Asian hands had ended up sewing a new identity. Once again, history showed that cultural purity resembles fiction much more than reality.In the late thirties, Hawaii was already a tourist destination for Americans, a phenomenon that after World War II intensified with the popularization of commercial aviation. And, with tourism, the shirt also became tropicalized: cranes gave way to hibiscus, surfers, and ukuleles. The finishing touch, however, was given by Hollywood, when it invented a consummately idyllic Hawaii. Elvis Presley, with Blue Hawaii (1961), ended up stereotyping it as a cultural myth of paradisiacal beaches, surf, women dancing hula and floral necklaces. The return of thousands of soldiers stationed in the islands also contributed, bringing back photographs, ukuleles, and shirts.And if we fell captivated by the warm sound of Elvis's steel guitars, the private detective Magnum finished the job. What man didn't want to wear a Hawaiian shirt if this meant living, even if just for a few days, the carefree and eternally summery life of Thomas Magnum: living in a mansion by the sea, drifting a red Ferrari, and the promise that happiness could be worn with a floral print?

«Kini» is no longer just the end of bikini: has become almost a suffix. Over the past few decades, it has been combined with all sorts of words to designate new ways of dressing – or undressing – the body on the beach. From the foundational bikini to monokini, the trikini, the tankini, the microkini, the burkini, the seekini or the most recent skirtkini. But if there was a turn that few of us saw coming it was the facekini: a piece that, instead of revealing more skin, completely covers our face to enter the sea. Before, however, that the brother-in-law reflex is activated and someone says that "the fashion world has once again invented another stupidity," it is worth giving it the benefit of the doubt. Because this disconcerting piece, in addition to the face, hides a story much less frivolous than it seems and, above all, offers an opportunity to question the way we look at clothes when they come from other cultures.

It's hot. Very hot. Too much. And I don't formulate this evidence as an experienced climatologist, but as a simple inhabitant of a world increasingly close to boiling point. Faced with this climatic exceptionality, which is already sensed as the new normal, the much-coveted air conditioning units, despite the immediate well-being they provide, contribute to heating the outside even more. Perhaps that's why, in the midst of a climate emergency, the oldest solutions are once again proving their validity. And is there anything more ancestral than a fan?Just a few years ago it seemed that this object had been relegated to a simple folkloric souvenir, adorned with inevitable kitsch Hispanism motifs. Today, on the other hand, it has regained its place as one of humanity's oldest, simplest, and most sustainable technologies. But, has this always been its function: to make wind? And, despite being an inseparable complement to the flamenco stereotype, is Spain really its place of origin?

The French beach of Pampelonne, which during the seventies and eighties became one of the great symbols of European body liberation, is far away. Press photographs showed stretches of sand dotted with umbrellas and bodies where the "topless was not the exception, but the rule. Neither were the Costa Brava, the Costa Daurada, the Costa del Sol or Ibiza, where the spirit hippy and the impulse of the sexual revolution turned the bare breast into an expression of freedom. Slim Aarons' photographs immortalized that carefree way of inhabiting Mediterranean leisure, where the semi-naked bodies of bathers were part of the landscape naturally, without dramatization or scandal. It was not about sexualizing the body, but precisely about freeing it from the gaze that turned it into an object and lightening it from the weight of centuries of moral demonization.That landscape, however, today seems almost an archive photograph. Not only because fifty years have passed, but also because the reality it represented has been fading away. The topless, which for decades was part of the usual landscape of Mediterranean beaches, is today an increasingly exceptional practice. Data suggests that, compared to the eighties, it has decreased by two-thirds. And the paradox is that the women who continue to practice it the most are precisely those who grew up during the sexual revolution. The youngest, on the other hand, have barely even incorporated it. What has happened for what seemed like a conquest of bodily freedom to have retreated?Breasts are exactly the same as forty years ago. What has changed is the world that observes them. When a woman decided to leave them exposed, she knew who would see them, how, and for how long. Upon leaving the beach, that exposure also ended. Today, however, a woman can leave the sand, but if someone has taken a photograph of her, her image will continue to circulate indefinitely on others' screens, becoming, in the best case, content for social media and, in the worst, an advertisement for sexual content pages. The moment a photograph escapes our control, so does a part of our body.Furthermore, social networks, along with the media, have exponentially intensified the pressure on bodies, which seem to have to respond more than ever to canons of perfection to deserve to be shown. Beaches and swimming pools have ceased to be friendly spaces for body diversity. Bodies forced to coexist with the scrutinizing gaze of others and, above all, with their own, often even crueler, the result of low self-esteem eroded by a system that turns insecurity into a business.When the feminist struggles of the seventies denounced the sexualization of women's bodies, they already sensed that this battle would not be easy. Half a century later, it continues to be one of the great open fronts. There will be those who consider it inevitable to sexualize female breasts, as if it were a natural instinct against which it were useless to rebel. But history shows precisely the opposite. During the first half of the 20th century, male nipples were also the object of censorship and scandal. Only when men began to uncover their torsos normally on beaches did that moral burden gradually fade. The sexualization of the body, therefore, is not immutable, but simply the result of a cultural construction, even if we want to dress it up as natural.The paradox is that we have never lived with so many images of naked bodies and, yet, for decades these have not been so unfree. Captives of aesthetic pressure and the surveillance society, the youngest have inherited more images of the body than their mothers, but less freedom to inhabit it.

Fashion is political. When we decide to wear flat shoes instead of heels, put on ripped jeans, or tie a tie, we are making a statement about how we want to position ourselves in the world. As feminists proclaimed in the seventies, drawing heavily on countercultural thought, the personal is political. It is no wonder, then, that throughout history institutions, ideologies, and parties have tried to appropriate the symbolic power of clothing to persuade, construct identities, and, at times, also dominate.The latest episode has been starred by Pedro Sánchez's government, which a few days ago presented DMOCRACIA, a graphic campaign built with all the codes of a streetwear brand, with a slogan that leaves no room for doubt: "When you dress, you position yourself". The initiative, framed within the acts commemorating fifty years of democracy, aims to bring this political system closer to the younger generation, with an urban aesthetic and the accompaniment of a battalion of influencers. The first reaction, I confess, is to look around for the hidden camera. It's hard to decide if we are facing an institutional campaign or a parody of gigantic proportions. But, once the absurdity is accepted, it's worth asking: is it a genuinely Spanish extravagance, or does dressing political ideals have a history older than it seems?The Neoclassical painter Jacques-Louis David, known for works such as The Death of Marat or The Oath of the Horatii, played an active and committed role in the French Revolution. Convinced that, in addition to establishing a new political and social order, it was also necessary to give it a visible form, he designed various outfits to define the appearance of the new republican citizen. Through the three colors of the flag, references to Republican Rome, and inscriptions such as Liberty, Equality or French People, he aimed to create a new visual code for a society governed by revolutionary ideals.However, the project did not prosper. History has shown that, apart from regimes that impose a certain appearance – as in the People's Republic of China, where the Zhongshan suit (Mao suit) became hegemonic attire under strong pressure – fashion is not adopted by decree. People do not simply wear what a government prescribes, but what emerges from a complex network of desires, identifications, aspirations, and social dynamics. Politics can try to dress an ideology, but not decide what society will wear.

We are immersed in Paris Haute Couture Week. The collections presented these days have left absolutely spectacular pieces, especially from Daniel Roseberry for Schiaparelli and Jonathan Anderson in his haute couture debut for Dior. But, despite the creative display that is capturing all eyes these days, there is a dress that is eclipsing them all. A very unique dress because, in reality, no one has seen it yet. And the more time passes without knowing what it looks like, the more conversations, speculations, and expectations it generates. I'm referring to the one Taylor Swift wore at her wedding to American football player Travis Kelce, held on July 3rd.Beyond the possibility that the images will be reserved for a future exclusive, this situation fits perfectly with the logic of the attention economy. In fact, a good part of the fashion world revolves around a concept that has become commonplace in the sector: hype. More than promoting a product, hype consists of building desire for it before it exists – or before it is accessible – by feeding rumors, leaks, small clues, and waiting periods that keep the conversation alive. In short, hype is the art of turning waiting into desire, because whoever controls time also controls the narrative and decides when, how, and who will have access to what everyone is waiting to see. Precisely at a time when we have become accustomed to getting almost anything immediately, it is here that marketing strategies manage to trap us. Desire, after all, usually reaches its peak intensity when we don't yet have what we want, but it dissolves with surprising speed as soon as we get it.

Teyana Taylor, an American actress and singer, presented the iconic show "Saturday night live" in January dressed in an unexpected piece: a white t-shirt, completely embroidered with sequins, featuring one of the most iconic logos of the 20th century: "I❤️NY". The piece was part of Chanel's Métiers d'Art 2025/26 collection, the line with which the French house showcases its maximum artisanal virtuosity each year. This time, however, the most exquisite luxury had allied itself with one of the most kitsch objects of tourist culture: the souvenir t-shirt. The episode could have remained an anecdote if it weren't for the fact that, since then, other celebrities – especially from Generation Z – have also revived this same symbol.

Lately, Donald Trump has been depriving us of one of the most characteristic elements of his aesthetic: his hair tuft which, with improbable aerodynamics and a generous amount of hairspray, defies the Newtonian laws of gravity. Instead, he is gifting us with a new element that is becoming a personal trademark, especially since the invasion of Iran: the baseball cap. A cap that has become a patriotic symbol and political slogan, alternating the colors of the United States flag and two embroideries depending on the occasion: "USA" and "Make America great again" (MAGA). When Trump puts on his red cap, more than simply repeating an electoral strategy, he is reactivating a much older tradition: that of turning a head accessory into a flag.

There is an idea that we have normalized to the point of not seeing it: that happiness can be bought. And we are not talking about that one-off acquisition of a long-desired object, but about a happiness built on a constant drip of small purchases, apparently insignificant but which, in perspective, draw a pattern of behavior and almost a horizon of meaning. Through consumption we build ourselves, we relate to each other, we articulate our free time and, in short, we shape our lives. This way of inhabiting the world is consolidated especially from the Second World War, when in the United States consumption projects itself beyond the strictly economic sphere to become an identity factor, even patriotic, and a mechanism of social stabilization that will end up being exported on a global scale. And, among the areas that most intensely participate in this logic, we find, in a paradigmatic way, fashion. But why does buying a new sweater or acquiring seasonal shoes make us happy?The key to this feeling is not so much in the acquisition itself, nor even in the moment we wear that skirt we liked so much in the store for the first time. The decisive moment — the one in which dopamine is activated, more linked to desire and expectation than to satisfaction — occurs just before the purchase: when we look for the item, pursue it, imagine ourselves wearing it, or leave it waiting in the digital cart. It is in this interval, in this tension between what we do not yet have and what we project, where the most intense peak of pleasure is concentrated. The purchase, on the other hand, does not end it: it reactivates it. The cycle resumes immediately, and with it the need for a new object, a new impulse.However, although the collective imaginary has associated compulsive buying addiction almost inseparably with women, it should be understood that it is a transversal behavior, inscribed in the very logic of capitalist economies. The idea that women cannot restrain themselves in front of a pair of shoes is constructed throughout the 19th century, in a context of profound contempt that uses this stereotype to question their moral capacity and justify their exclusion from the rights and freedoms derived from liberal revolutions. Consumption thus appears as proof of supposed weakness, of an inability to govern one's own impulses, in contrast to a masculinity defined by self-control.

Once upon a time, footballers seemed to have only one dimension: when they weren't sweating it out on the field, they were always seen in tracksuits. People programmed solely to perform athletically, as if there were no boundary between athlete and person. And when they appeared in street clothes, they conveyed the same discomfort as men who only dress up for weddings: outfits that seemed to wear them rather than the other way around. Times that, seeing the national teams' arrivals at the World Cup, seem absolutely past. But this transformation has taken several World Cups to crystallize.

On Tuesday, June 2, the presenter of the TVE program Al cielo con ella, Henar Álvarez, starred in an unusual scene that soon went viral. During her usual opening monologue, she complained that not a week goes by without some viewer asking her why she presents the program "dressed as a man". The question is not anecdotal.

Tulles, bows, sequins, pearls, corsets... could be the ingredients of a Parisian haute couture fashion show, but these days they are part of one of the great stages of world sport: Roland Garros. Tennis player Naomi Osaka has once again turned her entrance onto the court into a visual event, with a series of outfits designed by Swiss creator Kevin Germanier that have generated as much conversation as some of the tournament's matches. It wasn't the first time. Last year she had already surprised with a spectacular Robert Wun dress inspired by a jellyfish. This year, Osaka took to the court dressed to the nines, with a transparent tulle skirt and a bodice made from recycled pieces. Once in place, however, she sheds this first layer to reveal another, copper-colored one that blends with the clay court, but at the same time emits metallic reflections inspired, according to Germanier himself, by the night lighting of the Eiffel Tower. An authentic scenic transformation thus occurs: first Naomi the celebrity appears, almost as if walking down a red carpet; then Naomi the sportswoman emerges, ready to compete. This structure of revelation traditionally belongs to the language of fashion and spectacle rather than sport. It is not surprising that some commentators have coined the term court-ure, a fusion of court and couture, to describe this phenomenon. And all of this takes on a curious historical resonance when we consider that the scene takes place on the Suzanne Lenglen court, the great French tennis player who, at the beginning of the 20th century, understood before anyone else that transforming the players' clothing also meant transforming their place in society.

When we talk about beautiful bodies, we tend to imagine a kind of natural grace or exceptional physical attributes that only a minority of people are lucky enough to have received at birth. But what we consider beauty is not a universal or immutable reality, but a cultural construction that each society defines according to its values, imaginaries, and ways of looking. A beauty that, far from being sought for the personal enjoyment of inhabiting one's own body, needs the external gaze to exist and acquire meaning through the approval of others. It is no coincidence, then, that throughout the 20th century and as the means of reproducing and disseminating images multiplied, beauty ideals became increasingly conditioned by technologies of visibility.

A long queue of people have patiently camped out for days –and the corresponding nights– on Barcelona's Passeig de Gràcia. In the best-case scenario, equipped with chairs and camping furniture to make the wait more bearable. The gathering forced the Mossos d’Esquadra to intervene due to the risk of disturbances. A scene that has been repeated in multiple cities around the world, with even more extreme situations. In New York, they waited for almost a week, while attempts to speculate on the queue also proliferated. In Paris, where over 300 people gathered, the police intervened with tear gas to disperse the crowd. In Milan, the authorities had to cordon off the area after rushes, disturbances, and fights.But what is the reason for this phenomenon? Are we facing a new urban encampment like the one on May 15th to demand a higher quality democracy? Perhaps the genocide in Gaza has pushed hundreds of people to occupy public space? Or perhaps the teachers' strike and the fight for public education have become a global outcry. Well, no. The reason for this collective penance is none other than the tribute that turbocapitalism demands from its most faithful followers: the queues were to get the latest collaboration from Swatch with the emblematic Swiss high watchmaking house Audemars Piguet. All in all, as absurd as it is revealing.The easiest –and also the most tempting– would be to ridicule these people and label them as brainless, foolish, or superficial. It would even be comforting to make them the scapegoat for the ills of a world we increasingly recognize and understand less. But doing so would mean killing the messenger. Because, rather than condemning individuals, what we should demand is to identify the root of the problem.What drives some people to sleep on the street for days is not the desire to get a simple watch – however attractive it may be – but the symbolic reward that capitalism has been promising for decades: the illusion of a better life through consumption. Because today watches, much more than objects intended to measure the passage of time, have become one of the most desired social markers, especially among men. And even more so if we talk about Audemars Piguet, a firm located in the same Olympus of luxury as Rolex and reserved, practically, for that privileged minority that concentrates economic power.

It might seem that as societies modernize they tend to gradually shed inherited rituals laden with formality. Current times, increasingly oriented towards practicality and immediacy, have refined many social ceremonies that today seem excessively solemn: from the rigor of wearing mourning clothes to the protocols associated with baptisms or communions. However, from time to time, rituals emerge that, like stubborn salmon swimming against the current, not only survive but reappear hypertrophied, clad in a ceremonial that they did not even have in the past. This is the case with graduations. The turn is so unexpected that there are already specialized brands in this festive-academic niche and teenagers capable of patiently waiting five hours in line to get the outfit with which to publicly stage that they have finished the fourth year of ESO.

In Andalusia, everything can change in a matter of days. The black, the hoods, and the rosaries – visible expressions of penance, renunciation, and faith – suddenly dissolve into an explosion of patterns, colors, flowers, and bodies that demand prominence at the Feria de Abril. The chest-beating and stark cries of Holy Week processions give way to celebration, excess, and immoderation. If in one case aesthetics impose restraint and anonymity, in the other it demands the exact opposite: to stand out and occupy space under the gaze of others. It is not just a change of atmosphere, but also a deeper displacement: from one emotion to another, from a way of feeling and inhabiting the body marked, with almost ritualistic precision, by the calendar to another. As if faith (or its theatricalization) also had seasons. And this is where one of its most eloquent instruments comes into play. Because, at the Feria, this need to be seen is dressed up. And it does so with a garment that draws all eyes: the flamenco dress.Despite the current perception, this dress was not born as a showpiece, but as clothing for the popular classes of the 19th century. It was worn by peasant women and vendors who attended Andalusian livestock fairs, especially the April Fair, which in its origins was a commercial space and not festive. Its shape responded to the patterns of the time: a fitted bodice and a voluminous skirt, in this case resolved with ruffles. These ruffles, now distinctive of the dress, have been interpreted in various ways. On the one hand, they have been linked to gypsy and Andalusian contexts, where the movement of the body (both in dance and in daily gestures) found its correlate in clothing that not only accompanied it, but also made it visible. On the other hand, they must be placed within the framework of 19th-century women's fashion, dominated by voluminous skirts supported by internal structures such as farthingales or crinolines, which limited mobility. Without evidence that they were conceived as an alternative, the ruffles nevertheless allowed volume to be generated without immobilizing the body.