This year was one of the first that I truly began “working” in the horror field. Between the panels, starting this blog, my podcast, or hosting my own horror movie live show, 2018 was a big year for me and my career trajectory. One of the other major things was my discovery of just how many other black women are out in the world trying to carve out a niche in the big, bad world of horror. Everyone knows that most of the industry is white dudes (I’m not even going to pretend to be PC about this), who make very little room for anyone who isn’t another white dude. But there are women out here who are really working to expand the definition of what we know as a “horror fan”.
I came across Mary Wyatt on instagram which is how I find most of the clothing companies now a days. I’ll see some hot influencer posting pics in their outfit and immediately see whose tagged. With a name like Mary Wyatt, a name that sounds more like a homeware brand than one that makes sheer bodysuits and bondage belts. But the brand has a casual coolness to it. A style that looks understated with small details like spiderweb elbow patches, and barbed wire decals on the neck rather than big, ostentatious goth looks. I’m a big fan of the “nu-goth” aesthetic, and Mary Wyatt has a look that pairs those elements with a sleek, easy to wear style. According to their site, “The brand focuses on clothing and accessories with a dark undertone, featuring screen printed and embroidered designs. We are inspired by our love of Scandinavian silhouettes and contemporary tattoo culture.”
See more designs after the cut
Photographed by Amber Gray / Styled by Lexyrose Boiardo
Makeup by Kim Bower @ Tracey Mattingly / Hair by Matthew Monzon @ Tomlinson Management Group
Nails by Aki @ L’Appartement / Stylist’s Assistants: Melanie McCord and Manvi Mittl
Top photo credits: Eres Bathing Suit; Cheung Shorts; Bounkit Earrings and Bracelets; Gucci Shoes; Cape and Brooch: Stylist’s Own.
This article originally appeared in the October/November 2018 print edition of BUST Magazine. Subscribe today!
At the beginning of The Haunting of Hill House—the 1959 Shirley Jackson novel upon which Netflix’s 10-part series is based—Eleanor Vance takes a car (her sister’s; stolen) and sets out on a journey with the scantest possible information. She has been invited to a house, possibly haunted, by a man she doesn’t know, because she had a childhood encounter with a poltergeist.
Unlike Netflix’s family-centric adaptation, Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House involves the meeting of four strangers—Dr. Montague, who has contrived the trip; Luke Sanderson, heir to Hill House; Eleanor; and a young woman named Theodora—who find themselves in a house beset by escalating psychic disturbances. This is a ghost story in which ghosts are seldom seen; a horror story without gore. If horror relies on acts of transgression to deliver its chills, then The Haunting of Hill House is uniquely attuned to the transgressive implications of wearing another person’s clothes.
Eleanor sets off to Hill House armed with gloves, a pocketbook, a light coat. These are sensible items, appropriate to her dull New York City life. She’s someone who would choose neutral, non-assertive hues. Camel, maybe. Dark brown. Navy blue. But on the back seat, concealed in her suitcase, are clothes Eleanor has bought herself specifically for the occasion. They are clothes that embody the kind of person she wishes to be: a bright red sweater, red shoes, and even—“excited at her own daring”—two pairs of slacks. This impulse is a familiar one. Who hasn’t, on the precipice of a holiday, recklessly bought a wardrobe’s worth of aspirational clothing? You imagine you will be different. More relaxed. You will be lighter, prettier, more at ease. You will be the kind of person who drinks brandy. You will make new friends. It’s easy to be seduced by this kind of thinking. New clothes offer the possibility of reinvention.