The Workwear Fingerprint

If you’ve spent any time in the South, odds are you’ve driven along idle stretches of country roads that are lined with fields filled with cattle and hemmed by rusted barbed-wire fences. If you haven’t, the essence of the rural southern experience can be summed up in a single scenario: a tractor creating bumper-to-bumper traffic on a two-lane county road. These unassuming, Wordsworthian scenes were the backdrop to my childhood in rural Alabama. Until I was sixteen, I spent my summers on my grandmother’s farm – tending the garden, driving cattle, and bailing hay.. Just me and the hardest-working eighty-something I’ve ever met. Thursdays, however, were always special. We would hop into her 1980 Ford F-150 and make the twenty-minute drive into town to a large sale barn – an auction house. From dusty aluminum bleachers, we would watch all kinds of cattle being hauled out and sold one by one. “Granny,” as we always called her, would lean over and explain the goings-on of the cattle industry. After establishing her best estimations for the going-rates of a particular breed of bovine, she would wave and chat with the other farmers that knew her and my late grandfather. They were sturdy men with calloused hands who had earned the holes in their coveralls. They were the kind of men that woke up before the sun and took their Folgers black. If I’m honest, they always scared me a little. I would always cower behind my grandmother, head lowered and fists clenched until she would force me to introduce myself. They would wrap one of their rough palms around my tiny hand and enthusiastically shake it – smiling all the while – unaware of their strength. When I think about workwear, they are the image that is seared into my brain. Men like my dad. Just working to put food on the table for them and theirs.

Though my relationship with workwear has ebbed and flowed over the years, it’s slowly but surely become the cornerstone of my wardrobe. Versatility and reliability being the primary reasons I keep coming back. But I’m not the only middle-class artist reaching for this breed of garment on the daily. Over the last several years, people from all corners of America’s socioeconomic jungle are hitting the street, office, and coffee shop in storied workwear brands. Carhartt, Filson, Dickies, Red Wing… y’know, brands that helped carry the industrial boom of the late-19th century. So I’ve been asking myself: why are we, mostly people who have no practical use for workwear in our day-to-day, so obsessed with it? Why is the utilitarian aesthetic so pervasive across cultural boundaries? I don’t have a complex and scholarly answer, but I do have a hunch.

In the rich tapestry of American culture, workwear stands out as a prominent thread woven into our collective mythology. It's not just the American laborer who is drawn to its appeal; workwear embodies the spirit of unyielding dedication to one's craft. As blue-collar workers emerged as the paragon of the American working class, the logos of companies that provided them with durable garments became emblems of unwavering perseverance, stoicism, and tenacity. Those brands quickly became icons of industry, mirroring the virtues of their hard-working consumers with the rock-solid build and unyielding durability of their products. Workwear is an integral part of the romantic idealism that fuels the pursuit of the American Dream. For those outside the working class, our collective obsession with workwear seems to be partly connected to the idea that hard work always pays off. We believe that if we put in the hours, we'll get what we deserve. Deep down, we all secretly desire a piece of that mythical American story, even if it's not entirely true. As humans, we crave concrete evidence that the tireless effort we pour into achieving our aspirations is worth it. We yearn for something that serves as the Argo to our golden fleece - a vessel that propels us through stormy seas towards the fabled shores of success and fulfillment. BUT, before we delve too deep into my philosophical musings, let's take a moment and rewind to the gilded age of the 1990s – when we laid the groundwork for workwear’s current iteration.

For good or bad, the ‘90s were one of the most exciting and interesting times of the 20th century. I always think of it as an enigmatic exclamation point before the new millennia. That decade saw a lot – the fall of the Soviet Union, the dawn of the Internet, Nirvana, the Clinton administration… and for God's sake how could we ever forget Beanie Babies? A lot happened, too much to list out here, but I would argue one of the most important things that happened in the ‘90s, at least in regard to my experience of fashion, was the birth of streetwear. Unlike many other big cultural moments in America, streetwear was a proper, worldwide phenomenon that paid no attention to pre-established political borders or language barriers. It pushed back on the longstanding conventions put into place by corporations and gave the power back to working-class people. In a way it democratized the fashion industry, putting more of a focus on casual, pedestrian clothing. It gave us the freedom to circumvent the traditional cycle that told us what to wear or what to think. Now, we could decide what “cool” meant. It emerged alongside the anti-fashion sentiments of grunge, and they both embodied rebellious attitudes that rejected traditional fashion norms and emphasized comfort and individuality. The streetwear and workwear styles also embraced similar practicality and ruggedness. When all three were combined, we had this oddball, mismatched gumbo of political ideology.

There’s a long list of reasons why workwear appealed to the grunge and streetwear scenes, but skate culture seems to have played a big part in merging several of those ideologies. Workwear’s minimal design, durability, and accessible price point make it the ideal choice for someone slapping pavement on a regular basis. I don’t need to tell you that Dickies have had a death grip on skate culture for 30 years. If you skate or you know people who do, odds are, you own at least one pair of the iconic 874. Regardless, it's safe to say various American subcultures had successfully hijacked the utilitarian aesthetic and practicality of workwear, and retrofitted it to operate within their world of grunge, graffiti, and guardrails. The skate scene at that time also dared to become the walking juxtaposition that mixed durable, utilitarian garments with luxury fashion brands – creating looks that are sometimes impossible to distinguish between then and now. Plenty of workwear brands were in the mix when it broke into more mainstream fashion, but I’d argue a little deal between Carhartt and a German designer, Edwin Faeh, had a lot to do with giving workwear the staying power that led to its recent reemergence.

In 1989, Carhartt signed a licensing agreement with Faeh’s brand Work in Progress (WIP) to distribute products throughout the European market. In 1996, WIP began to manufacture its own versions of classic Carhartt garments and styles – quality, durability, and comfort still at the center of their ethos. The first WIP collection launched in 1997 with pieces redesigned to fit the needs of an urban lifestyle: slimmer cuts, minimal designs, etc. This marriage of these seemingly opposite worlds is, at least to my knowledge, the first proper, most long standing combination of these two styles. WIP’s enduring popularity in skate culture has led to collaborations with infamous streetwear labels from A.P.C. and Vans to Japanese icons like Junya Watanabe and Fragment design. Suffice it to say, workwear has been leaving its dusty fingerprints on everything we know about fashion since the early 90s. The visage of American utilitarianism is virtually inescapable. During the last several years, in the whirlwind of brand collaborations and hype culture, workwear has begun to slowly slither its way back into the mainstream. Many brands have worked to actively capitalize on this new fusion of work and play. Following in WIP’s footsteps, Dickies has recently seen its fair share of brand collaborations, and 30 years’ worth of demand led to them finally adapting their designs in a way that is more tailored to the fashion and streetwear markets. But it doesn’t take long to realize that the influence goes much, much deeper than that. You can’t scroll through a site like Bodega, END, or Concepts without seeing chore coats, flecked selvage denim, overalls, and double-knee pants. A variety of functional designs developed during the Industrial Revolution have been reimagined and redesigned to be elevated to the status of a luxury product. Regardless of how you or I might feel about that, it is an interesting and complex collision of cultural paradigms. Seeing that these tools, so integral to the infrastructure we enjoy every day, are somehow inspiring the upper echelons of fashion and design? It’s so ironic it’s almost silly, but, somehow, also beautifully poetic.

Streetwear and workwear are part of the same chord – unified by a similar principle. Although their goal might not necessarily be the same, they still share DNA. They lend their ear to the thing that holds this whole damn thing together: need. Whether it’s the practical need for safety and warmth or the spiritual need for artistic self-expression, they both identify and magnify an individual’s pain, success, ambition, and sorrow, then give them the platform or the tools to make shit happen. The connective tissue between these two fashion styles can be summed up in one word - tools. Like a shovel or a paintbrush, streetwear and workwear are the garments of the laborer, whether industrial or cultural. I think that’s what it really comes down to. These are concepts that go beyond fabric – ones we often fail to acknowledge. The last few years have exposed so many forces that are actively working to pull us apart. But an ironworker in Birmingham might have more in common with a skater from Brooklyn than you might initially think. Because two or more things can be true at once.

Maybe it’s just me, but I believe that workwear, in any iteration, is a symbol of grit – regardless of where you clock in and out. It’s a testament of an unyielding dedication to hard work. Whether you're a farmer in Idaho or a professional in New York, workwear represents the values that have defined our country for generations - values like perseverance, determination, and a relentless work ethic. These values are woven into the fabric of iconic workwear brands like Dickies and Carhartt, and they transcend social and economic boundaries to create a shared cultural identity. Chore coats and overalls might be a short-lived fashion statement that eventually fall back into obscurity, but I’d like to think we’re all participating in this big love note to the Americana mythos. Because I believe that, deep down, we all share the indwelt desire to know that the work we do matters, whether we're on a production line or in a corner office. That's why workwear holds a special place in my heart, and why I feel a retroactive connection to the grizzly farmers I met back in Alabama.

Workwear has left its dusty fingerprints all over me, too.