I am a fashion designer, and my inspiration comes from working-class Black women, much like my mother and grandmother.
October 1, 2021 4-min read
By Charles Harbison
Growing up in the 90s in a small North Carolina town, I was captivated by my mother, Dana, and my Grandma Hattie. During the week, my mom assembled tool sets in a factory, but weekends transformed her into a powerful, sensual Donna Karan figure. Grandma Hattie, a factory knitter, channeled a feline, Patrick Kelly-esque elegance, especially on Sundays. Their lives were a study in contrasts: the daily grind of blue-collar work against their weekend expressions of joie de vivre and confident sexuality. Fashion was their armor, their statement – suits, clutches, earrings, sheaths – a language I came to understand deeply as I pursued my path as a fashion designer. These working-class Black women are my enduring muses.
The narratives of these women are often absent from the high fashion discourse, yet they are foundational figures in American style, true conduits of sartorial innovation. They fearlessly claimed their own beauty narrative, refusing to be confined by the functional demands of their labor.
Though my grandma is no longer with us, her presence lingers. I recall her returning home from work, the scent of machinery clinging to her clothes, and the fine lint dusting her short hair. Decades later, I can still almost feel that lint between my fingers, a tactile memory from when I’d sit behind her on the sofa, picking it out as we watched Wheel of Fortune.
Weekends painted a different picture. Her hair and rich cocoa skin became the perfect backdrop for the silk sheaths and coordinated clutch-and-pump sets she loved. Holding my hand on Sundays, walking to church across the field, she was the essence of grace. My eyes would trace the patchwork details of her purse. I hold dear the memory of her in a floral broadcloth blouse, pedal pushers, sun hat, and cotton sneakers, picking strawberries. The beauty of these nurturing women will always guide me.
For my mother, proportion was paramount. Her curves were accentuated by sharp shoulder pads; her warm, earthy skin glowed against vibrant colors; even her gold earrings seemed to shine brighter. Preparing for a night out with her friends, she would array her accessories on the bed – jewelry, belts, scarves – and hang her favorite outfits on the bedroom door. Sometimes, I’d be invited into this ritual, asked to press a blouse or fetch stockings, a glimpse into her creative process. “Ivory shoes or gold sandals?” she’d ponder. Always, it was the gold sandal.
In these moments of transformation, my mother was at her most fashionable. It felt inherently feminist, a performance not for the male gaze, but for herself and her circle of women friends, many of whom were her colleagues from the factory. She was expressing personality, embracing her sensuality, feeling vibrant and alive.
Recently, I asked her about this shift from factory work clothes to pantsuits, statement jewelry, and slingbacks. “That’s just what we did,” she replied, not inclined to over-analyze. Pressing further, she added, “It just made us feel better. More feminine. Especially after such hard work all week.”
While I could see the joy and relief in her expressions as she dressed, she hesitates to dissect her dressing process. To verbalize it seems indulgent, a privilege she feels is not fully hers to claim. Society often overlooks the self-affirmation of Black working-class women.
I reflect on Black women in the 50s and 60s, service workers at the heart of the civil rights movement. They strategically used clothing and accessories as tools for liberation. Rosa Parks’s composed demeanor highlighted the brutality of Jim Crow – would a white woman dressed similarly have been treated with such violence? Many Black women adopted the visual cues of affluent white women to assert their equal worth.
The fashion industry, then and now, often profits from insecurities. It’s a hierarchical system that elevates a select few and markets their creations to the masses. Yet, I cherish beautiful things, a love instilled in me by my mother and grandmother. Working-class Black women like them offer a more authentic path forward. We have the chance to redefine the narrative, to move beyond requiring these women to seek validation from external sources. The industry should recognize them as muses. They are ingenious architects of style, and the market should offer products inspired by their resilience, adaptability, and strength.
Throughout my career as a designer, I have consistently drawn inspiration from women like my mother and grandmother. Their essence has fueled every sketch and concept, influencing designs that have adorned bodies globally, from my work with Michael Kors and Billy Reid to Cult Gaia and Banana Republic. Their stories have been my guiding aesthetic principle.
I owe them so much: the understanding of a slip dress and slide pairing, the power of a monochrome look, and my passion for bold earrings with a striking blouse and sneakers. These women were, and are, gifts to me, and undeniably, gifts to the world of fashion.
