Camille Charrière On Being The Poster Woman For The Naked Dress
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a modern woman in search of a good night out must be in want of a transparent dress. I should know: I tied the knot in one.
In fact, I’ve been wearing iterations of barely there partywear so much this past year that I’ve inadvertently become a face of the phenomenon. Right on cue, a notification pops up on my phone. ‘Why always naked?’ one of my Instagram followers asks pointedly under a recent post of mine. Touché.
In the picture, I’m standing in the orchestra stalls at the Royal Opera House in a see-through Saint Laurent dress, flanked by a crowd of chic theatre-goers, all of whom are dressed up to the nines. But I haven’t always been this... nude.
Once upon a time, stepping out of your front door with your derrière and nipples on show would have been unthinkable, even for the most fashion-forward. But lately, whether you look to the catwalk or your favourite celebrities, near-nudity has become ubiquitous.
From Florence Pugh going braless in a cloud of Valentino pink at the brand’s couture show in Rome to Rihanna’s transgressive approach to maternity wear (such as the time she dressed her bump in nothing but sheer layers of black lingerie) and Emily Ratajkowski’s viral closing look at Nensi Dojaka SS23 (the designer has spearheaded the fashion-flasher trend), showing a lot of skin is officially in.
There have been variations of the so-called ‘naked look’ since the 1930s (torso-hugging and flesh-coloured rather than see-through at that point), but it was Jean Louis, dressmaker to the stars, who really sent Hollywood into a frenzy with his illusion designs in the 1950s. You’ll know his most iconic creation: the body-skimming gown Marilyn Monroe was famously sewn into to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to John F Kennedy, sparking rumours of an affair between herself and the President – the very same dress Kim Kardashian controversially wore to last year’s Met Gala.
In the 1960s, Jane Birkin reinvented the look, giving it gamine appeal with shorter, risqué hemlines. And then, of course, came that metallic dress worn by Kate Moss to the Elite Model Agency Look of the Year party in 1993, which the super- model apparently didn’t even realise was transparent until the newspapers the next day, when the effect of the camera flashes upon the fabric became clear.
Today’s version involves wearing sheer fabric of various deniers depending on your bravado – typically a dress, cut close to the body, and that may or may not come with built-in underwear.
Anyone who follows me online will know that my personal dedication to the trend runs deep. I first fell in love with the idea of naked dressing during my days running the blog Fashion Salad, having seen Kate Moss in that aforementioned silvery slip.
My infatuation started with a vintage find I picked up on Portobello Road for £10. I was trying to copy my ultimate muse, but the itsy-bitsy, spaghetti-strap number ended up lying at the bottom of my wardrobe for years. Back then, as a relatively conservative French lawyer-turned-London girl about town, I lacked the confidence to go near-nude. Moss’ gossamer- fine dress seemed to have no place in my life. It’s not that I wasn’t going out – I’m never too far from a dancefloor. Rather, I simply didn’t have the flair to style it, nor, more importantly, the audacity to challenge the judgemental types. As you will learn if you give it a whirl, strangers have a lot to say.
Later, I moved on to Galliano’s bias-cut gowns; fell in love with sustainable naked-dress label Kitten by Kate, which makes flirtatious pieces from deadstock silk-chiffon; shot a cover story in sparkly mesh (and proudly sent the magazine to my grandfather); and had a Nensi Dojaka crescendo in Atonement-green at the British Fashion Awards, followed by the grand dénouement of having an actual thong on display in my Harris Reed wedding dress.
Unsurprisingly, my commitment to naked nuptial dressing caused uproar among the twitterati. The online vitriol sent my way was alarming, with comments ranging from ‘hideous and tacky’ and ‘she looks more like a hooker than a writer’, to ‘porn has entered mainstream culture’.
Moreover, it sparked controversy among my relatives; my brother still hasn’t recovered. None of this has deterred me. In fact, I’ve lost count of the number of body-revealing ensembles I’ve slipped into after dark. At this point, it’s a way of life. But, contrary to what people might think, my obsession with the sheer stuff doesn’t have anything to do with looking (or feeling) hot.
So, what changed? Post-lockdown and out of my insecure twenties, I began to own the reality that, for me, this look is about the female gaze. Radical self-acceptance – or, rather, the desire to celebrate your body – is required.
That realisation happened when I was on holiday in Greece three years ago. I was attending a wedding with friends and it was a boiling-hot day; the scantily dressed seemed sensible. There I was, with my body very much visible, dancing on the cobblestones without squirming in embarrassment, despite having felt too shy to go topless with the others on the beach a few hours before. It felt freeing.
I no longer cared what naysayers thought – that my boobs were not perky or full enough, or the wrong shape – nor whether it would impact my brand relationships (not to mention displease family members). This was me. There was no hiding, no facetune-ing, no filtering, no form- enhancing chicken fillets. The naked truth, like it or lump it.
It would be deceitful not to acknowledge that, despite my own body-image struggles, I have the privilege of existing as a slim, able-bodied white woman. Sizeism runs rampant in the fashion industry; I’m all too aware that the naked dress can be received differently depending on the wearer.
But for me, peeling away the fabric has felt like a celebration of the lessons I’m learning with age. It’s the freedom to wear what makes me happy within my body. As Maria Grazia Chiuri said when she created a nude-colour dress for Chiara Ferragni: ‘This illusion of nudity aims to remind women of the right that they have to show and handle themselves without feeling judged or guilty.’
There’s a perception that, by wearing a naked dress, you’re looking to get attention from men. In my case, it’s the opposite: I think we do it for other women, and as a way of navigating our own bodies and insecurities. Some say it’s ‘brave’, but they wouldn’t have the confidence to do it themselves. That was once me, but I didn’t know what I was missing out on.
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