The body has returned. All the skin protected by tight sweats has been reexposed on the spring 2022 runways, with legs flowing out beneath minis at Dior, navels blinking above low-slung waistbands at Miu Miu, and miles of stomach shown by bras, crop tops, and peekaboo cutouts at Loewe to Michael Kors. Transparency is a recurring element, as are fabrics that cling to every curve and crafted ensembles that exude a strong hourglass figure. These collections, created at a time when society seemed to be placing COVID in the rearview mirror, are upbeat: "Go out and play," they say. Put your best foot forward.
LIFE IS TRUE

Paloma Elsesser adds, "I know I bring an aspect of identification to women like me." "And then there's me." But it doesn't mean I don't struggle with self-doubt on a regular basis." Chloé dress, available at chloe.com.
This is, in some ways, a conventional fashion move. The last time catwalks came together to propose what are known as "bodycon" looks—short for "body conscious"— was in the mid-aughts, as Europe and the United States emerged from the post-9/11 and post-Iraq-invasion funk. Back then, the designers spearheading the push were men, most notably Christopher Kane, an exciting new London-based talent. From Donatella Versace to Supriya Lele, Sarah Burton to Anifa Mvuemba, women all around the world are making the most daring statements at this time. But it's not just the talent driving the trend that's changed; it's the ladies who are embracing it as well. New looks can be seen on all kinds of bodies on the runways and in the streets, in a celebration of flesh that feels wildly free—and in a celebration of flesh that feels wildly free—and in a celebration of flesh that feels wildly free—and in a celebration of flesh that feels wildly free—and in a celebration This is a long cry from prior iterations of body consciousness, which implied an uncomfortable awareness of whether or not one's body was "nice" enough to show off. Now that the coin has flipped, fashion is finally catching up to a new generation's understanding that every body is a good body, regardless of its age, gender, ability, or shape.
"I think of it as body confidence," Lele says of the mindset that has drew a diverse variety of customers to her label, resulting in a fourfold increase in direct sales in the last two years. "It's as if I'm saying, Screw it, I'm wearing this." People seek happiness, relief, and enjoyment. I mean, I dress myself, and believe me when I say I'm not rake thin—I have boobs and a bum. And it says, "Yes, this is me."
The exposure is a by-product of Lele's investigations of notions about proportion, silhouette, and femininity, with inspiration drawn from both her Indian heritage—sari-draping is a significant theme—and her coming of age around the year 2000, the period of the bumster jean. In other words, she's a fashion designer; she's a fashionable designer. Any link of "chic with shape," as Balmain's Olivier Rousteing puts it, has fallen by the wayside.
"For far too long, fashion has been trapped in its own image of what is elegant and fashionable. "We made women feel like they had to hide themselves if their bodies weren't a certain way," Rousteing adds. "However, that is incorrect. We can appreciate social media for bringing this to our attention—the global community telling the fashion industry to "get out of your cocoon." "Otherwise."
How does it feel to have a body? The query is akin to inquiring about what it's like to be you, to exist in your own skin. The answer for a woman is continually changing. The body provides sensuous pleasure at times, and we marvel at its power at other times—to run, dance, lift and hoist, bear children, mend itself, and transfer sound waves into music. The body is a marvel, but it is also, all too often, a problem—a reflection in the mirror of all the ways we fall short: chest that is flat Thighs that are flabby. Knee sprains, stretch marks, and crooked teeth Too young and too old. Jeneil Williams, a former track and field athlete, was told she was "too muscular" when she first started modelling.
"It was a shock to go from practising for the Olympic team and appreciating all of my muscles to being told, 'No, this girl, she's too strong,'" Williams, one of the seven extraordinary women shot for this article, says. "I accepted it as a challenge: Let's see how skinny I can get by only jogging and never eating any bread or anything else good." It paid off—I got a lot of work," she continues. "However, I began to despise my own body." Love-hate. "I was at a loss for words."
It's no secret that the fashion industry has praised only one type of body for most of its history: tall, skinny, and young; able-bodied, cisgender; and, in general, white. There's nothing necessarily wrong with being any of those things, but there's also nothing inherently wrong with being born into the phenotype that has long been held up as the standard of feminine beauty. The social and psychological costs of that ideal are enormous, roughly on par with the billions—trillions?—in profits made by companies peddling diets, cosmetic enhancements, and antiaging cures, and they are paid not just in dollars and pounds, but also in the mental toll taken by women trapped in the love-hate relationship with their bodies that Williams describes. Vogue can't change the past, but it can influence the present.Recognize its role in pushing a punishingly restricted beauty ideal and make a commitment to doing better. The goal isn't just to reflect a wider diversity of looks and forms in these pages—to it's assist forward the establishment of a fashion business that celebrates women for who they are and frees them from self-consciousness about their appearance.
"We have to perceive this as a whole new approach to fashion," Ester Manas, who co-founded her eponymous Brussels line with Balthazar Delepierre in 2019, says. "I started this brand for ladies like me—I'm a 44 or 46 in European sizing [about an American size 12], and I've never felt included because of my figure." Manas and Delepierre create directional collections based on the one-size-fits-all idea, patterning the garments such that they "adapt to women's bodies—like, you can wear the same clothes when you get pregnant," as Manas describes. Designer-assisted freedom from the scale and measuring tape is one sort of liberation.
Other freedoms are more personal in nature. Take, for example, Williams, who honed her athletic figure to ultra-thinness only to be disappointed when her fat rolls refused to vanish after her kid was born. "I was in such a bad mood," she recalls. "But one day, as I was nursing, I looked down and noticed my baby toying with my fat and loving on it. "If she loves my body, why can't I enjoy it too?" I reasoned.
A fashion magazine can also serve as a forum for personal expression. Growing up in Central Florida, I was imprisoned by the beauty ideal at my high school, where the popular girls were all small, button-nosed blonds—think Tara Reid from American Pie. In Shalom Harlow's buoyant curls, Guinevere van Seenus's bold brow and keen jawline, and Cindy Crawford's broad-shouldered, voluptuous confidence, Vogue helped me realise my own beauty. Crawford laughs as he tells me, "I was considered 'exotic' when I first began out because I had dark hair." "Remember, the models I grew up with were blonds like Christie Brinkley and Cheryl Tiegs," she says.Models-of-the-moment mirror the zeitgeist, and I was fortunate enough to grow up in an era when unique features were treasured. But there was one thing that all those '90s models had in common: they were all extremely thin—not as thin as the Eastern European girls who took over the fashion industry in the early aughts, but thin enough that my own pillowy, athletic physique seemed enormous in comparison. This was no illusion: I was advised by complete strangers on several occasions that I should attempt modelling if I reduced weight.