FINLAY VINCENT
REVIEW WRITTEN BY SHIN HUI LEE
GLOSSARY
JACKET
Some designers begin their collection with detailed sketches, others with elaborate moodboards. Finlay Vincent begins his with a single pocket. “I think I’m quite lazy with designing. I don’t like to think about what it could become,” he says. With no clear final product in mind, the Central Saint Martins student focuses instead on crafting individual components that can continuously build upon each other to create a whole. It’s through this process that his MA collection “Jacket” is born.
“Coming into the MA, it was about making a jacket that I’d be proud of, that I’d want to wear,” he recalls. “The idea of a jacket really fascinates me. We all have one, it’s like a personal uniform.” It’s easy to understand what he means just by looking at him, perpetually armed with a loose-fitting black t-shirt, baggy trousers cuffed once at the hem, a doodled-over cap and a pair of silver headphones. He moves with an enviable ease around the studio, his slender frame weaving noiselessly between spools of fabric and sewing machines. As I watch Finlay hold up a jacket in the mirror, its dimensions framing him exactly, I realise that the collection is not just a product of his thinking but an extension of his very being- precise, methodical and above all, in control. If there’s a distinction between him as a designer and as a person, it’s certainly porous.
“Jacket” appears dark and inconspicuous in a studio brimming with colour and texture. But its true value is revealed in its usage. Growing up in Kenya, Finlay’s early experiences with clothing took place at second-hand markets, as he observed how people consistently chose practical, long-lasting items. It’s this deep-rooted instinct for using “clothes as tools” that continues to ground his design process today. Frustrated by how functionality seems to be increasingly subordinated by self-expression and aesthetical considerations, he envisions modularity as a means of reprioritising the way people interact with clothes. Indeed, by empowering users of his jacket to decide on its core function, he positions them less as passive consumers and more as active facilitators of their individual needs and wants.
Modularity in fashion is hardly a new concept, but the lens through which Finlay filters it feels remarkably singular. “There’s a word that doesn’t exist, hyperconsequentiality,” he says. “When you design something, you think about what you’re going to need in 20 years’ time. Lego pieces are designed so that they can always work with pieces in the future. That’s something a collection needs to be.” There’s a depth and complexity to this line of thought that reveals his natural curiosity for the world around him- hours spent observing, questioning and challenging. “He’s a cultural student, with incredible brand reference points and an understanding of what came before him,” says global creative director of Doc Martens Darren Mckoy. For Finlay, the work doesn’t take place in the studio as much as it does in life itself.
Has Finlay succeeded in making a jacket that he’s proud of? “I think so,” he nods. But the slight crease between his eyebrows tells me that he will never truly be finished. A forever work-in-progress, “Jacket” continues to evolve in the self-conscious recognition that it exists for, through and past the user, always susceptible to different meanings and desires.
ANATOMY OF A LOOK
Fabric: Ventile 240 G/SM
Components: 1, 9, 11, 12, 14
Constructed entirely from Ventile fabric and made up of a system of modular components, Finlay Vincent’s jackets often seem more akin to machinery than to clothing. Citing instruction manuals as a key source of inspiration, he points to a diagram of a single bookshelf that transforms into a table and then transforms again into a bed. The words of industrial designer Dieter Rams come to mind: “Good design is as little as possible. Less, but better.” Finlay’s MA collection “Jacket” embodies a similar exercise in reduction, striving to remove all that isn’t essential and to imagine a garment in its purest form.
Here, components 1, 9, 11, 12 and 14 are combined to form a staple jacket, ideal for storing items on-the-go and shielding from sudden downpours. Each component comes furnished with robust “DOT” fasteners, which operate through a stackable military technology that allows the user to adjust the jacket according to their changing needs- an added liner for warmth, or perhaps a sleeveless vest for layering.
“When people think of modularity, they tend to think that the most important thing is that they come off easily and quickly,” Finlay says. “For me, it’s about making something that doesn’t ever change until maybe six months down the line when you want to take off a sleeve. The stronger, the better.” He encourages me to snap a collar on and off without guidance- a test of the jacket’s readiness- and it’s only when I feel the resistance of the snaps between my fingers that I can appreciate this sentiment. Radical in simplicity yet boundless in possibility, these are jackets that are meant to be worn, not simply admired.
The use of Ventile fabric also proves integral to this ethos. Originally hailing from the West Midlands, Finlay laments how an industrial society once steeped in the tradition of working with their hands has now been eradicated by the proliferation of commercial shopping centres. In his words, “the sense of touch is so often lost.” Formulated by scientists at the Shirley Institute of Manchester in the late 1930s, Ventile consists of extra-long-staple cotton fibres (found in only 2% of the world’s cotton crop), which are picked, sorted and spun into a densely compressed weave that enables the fabric to withstand harsh external conditions. Initially created for Air Force pilots in World War II England, the young designer now harnesses the fabric as armour for a new generation traversing their own chaotic times.
As for the monotonous colour palette? “I’m severely colourblind,” Finlay reveals. Colour doesn’t factor in heavily to his design process, but navy in this case seeks to encapsulate neutrality and universality- a blank canvas upon which the user can forge their own system of dressing.
CONTROL
A self-proclaimed “control freak”, Finlay possesses a clarity about himself that is equal parts inspiring and intimidating.
This is most evident in his collaboration with Doc Martens, for which he designed a 1460 boot that adapts into a 1460 shoe through a detachable tab on the back. “In collaboration, it’s always about finding that middle ground between you and them,” he says. In this case, doing away with Doc Martens’ signature yellow stitching was his “way of claiming it”, ensuring that his fledgling brand identity didn’t become subsumed by theirs. It’s a simple decision that pays off. As I look at the hybrid creation up-close, I forget that it’s not even part of Finlay’s original collection- the modular ethos and sleek, minimal exterior of both aligning so perfectly with each other.
Despite having recently been announced as one of four winners of the collaboration, the hard-headed designer doesn’t easily forget the path he took to get here. He recalls how previous winners told him that Doc Martens would never go for his design (“too intellectual”). Rather than heeding their advice, he doubled down and ultimately prevailed. “You have to just stick with it,” he insists. This slow, meticulous thinking speaks not just to his inherent self-assuredness as a designer, but also to his deep-rooted desire for longevity in the industry. For Finlay, what matters is that his designs stand up to questioning, that he finds a way to assert himself even amidst the things he can’t control, and most importantly that he can back himself against all odds.
“I think he’s extremely passionate about his vision. He would even be willing to give up certain things to fulfil said vision of his,” Jude tells me. “In the short run, it might read as a weakness but in the long run I think I’m going to see his name in a textbook somewhere.” I harbour the same hopes for Finlay but temper it with the knowledge that many practical concerns remain. Quickly running out of money with no sponsorships immediately presenting themselves, he’s sober to the fact that putting his collection into production and launching a fully operational business will be no straightforward task. Yet, as he acknowledges himself, part of being a designer (and indeed a human being) is to “leave space for the unknown”.
EGO
Getting to know Finlay Vincent is like firing a shot in the dark. I don’t know what, if anything, I’ll hit. “I really don’t want to have to speak,” he tells me the first time I meet him, a tell-tale glint visible in the corner of his eye. I brace myself for a month of awkward silences, but look back now with a nostalgic naivete as I find myself sifting through pages and pages of interview notes. Unwaveringly taciturn about his personal life, yet endlessly generous with his work (I know the contents of his Stanley toolbox before I know his age), it’s still difficult to know if we’re collaborators, friends or something in between.
I sit with Finlay as he experiments with his line-up for the final fitting. His ideas range from conceptual to even more conceptual, and I jokingly ask if he’s ever considered a career in fine art instead of fashion. “I do find that the work becomes very much like art, then I take a few months off, and it becomes very product again,” he fiddles restlessly with the belt of a jacket that he can’t decide whether works better with or without. The trigger for this shift? “I feel like my ego is taking over. When it's art, I know that I’m intellectualising myself, whereas when it becomes product, I don’t feel selfish at all.”
In an industry that thrives on personality, Finlay’s deliberate subjugation of self strikes me as highly unusual. His first-year helper Jude Braganza echoes my thoughts: “Every single designer wants fame. I don’t see that in him. There’s almost a Benedictine austerity to his approach to design.” As admirable as this may be, I’m also cynical of how this desire for anonymity may translate into an elitist “if you know, you know” mentality, cementing his cultness within the very industry that he’s trying to dismantle.
Maybe I’m giving Finlay too little credit here. He does recognise that to make it work, “you need to give way a little bit, for people to see you.” Being unknown, after all, only works if people know who they’re not supposed to know. Hence his participation in the shadowing project, which he views as a “subtle compromise”. It’s not all doom and gloom either. There’s a subtle tongue-in-cheek humour to be found in his self-effacement, as he slips on a head-to-toe morph suit to film his part in the MA video lookbook. Watching his jackets levitate mysteriously mid-air, I realise that this is perhaps as fitting a representation of Finlay as there ever will be. Everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
TROJAN HORSE
It’s a late Tuesday afternoon in January, we’re at Finlay’s final fitting and the collection isn’t coming across the way he wants it to. Just two weeks out from London Fashion Week, the judging panel don’t seem very forgiving about this. “I don’t get it, it’s all over the place,” one of the tutors says. I glance over at Finlay, his collected demeanour giving away little as to what’s going through his mind. “I think that the context is actually really important,” he breaks the taut silence settling over the room. “That’s almost why I came here, to challenge what CSM stands for in terms of design.”
For Finlay, part of this challenge involves his male models walking the show nude (“It’s “Jacket”, it’s not “Jacket” and underwear. The moment you see underwear, you think that it’s designed. I think that it takes away from the project.”) There’s no consensus between the panel on this point. “Now it’s in its total honesty, where it’s uncompromised, which if that’s what it is, then I think you should stick to it no matter what,” course leader Fabio Piras says. “But there’s a moment where you also have to keep integrity with different solutions.”
Finlay intends the use of nudity as an expression of naturalism, but I’m conscious of the reality of how it’s likely to be perceived on the runway- a space wrought with connotations to the objectification, exploitation and sexualisation of the human form. The implication of male nudity specifically is not lost on him, as he points out the relative non-issue of female nudity in other MA collections dotted around the studio- an exposed breast here, a buttock peering out of a mini skirt there. But in his dogged pursuit of vision, I wonder if he will surpass it altogether and arrive at something else instead- esotericism. Is there not, as Fabio once warned him, something “masturbatory” about this? Who is this vision for, if not himself?
“I can’t tell how that went,” Finlay admits after the fitting. “With the other designers, they’ll be like oh this is nice. But with me, they’re always like this, questioning everything.” He busies himself with rearranging the jackets back on the rail, his eyes flitting to his friend and coursemate Jonathan Ferris whose masked models are marching down the studio to their own fate. I don’t recognise the expression on Finlay’s face, a contorted mixture between frustration and discomfort. “Even though I stand by my own work, I also stand by what Jonny’s showing,” he says. “But there needs to be some kind of allowance for the two to merge somehow. At the moment, it’s definitely more one-sided.”
There’s a prescience to his words, as he delivers news of show selection- “I’m not in”. I’m not surprised by this, and I don’t think he is either. “The work is really designed not for the show. And then I’m showing it to them and asking them to put it in the show. So, the question, is why?” he says. We’ve spoken at length before about alternative ways he wants to present his collection, but rationalising doesn’t shield him at this point from the immediate disappointment of not being included amongst his peers. “I’m not sure if it’s ever actually possible to challenge the system from the inside,” he says, his gaze already distant.
The thing about Finlay is that I never know what’s going to come next. “I have an idea,” he tells me over the phone, the line crackling with background noise. Famous last words, I think to myself. “I want to walk out in the middle of the show, just holding my jacket.” For some reason, we start laughing- him excitedly, me nervously. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that he’s only 24, the poignancy of his work reaching far beyond his years. At other times, it’s his optimism that betrays his age, the appetite for rebellion not yet knocked out of him by an industry built on tradition and convention.
True to his word, he emerges from the crowd on the evening of the MA Fashion Show. He holds up two fingers in the vague direction of the school, and then to fashion critic Sarah Mower, and then finally to the livestream camera, before hurtling up three flights of stairs with security trailing behind. Backstage, tutors are aghast, proclaiming that he will never work in fashion again.
Not a day later, Finlay receives an outpouring of support both from fellow students, and brands like Doc Martens and Supreme (the global creative director of the former even suggesting that he should have hi-fived him along the way). Although, not everyone’s a fan. He reads me Sarah Mower’s last message to him on Instagram: “Was it punk to deliberately aim to mess up two women’s collections in your view?” She blocks him soon after.
I can see how bad the optics are, an entitled white man throwing a tantrum over not making the cut. It doesn’t necessarily work as protest either, too quick for people to realise that he’s even a designer. But at the same time, a critique that rests solely behind the guise of feminism feels somewhat superficial without any concomitant attempt to understand why his act did in fact resonate with so many other young designers, many of whom women themselves.
I have a related question I’m hesitant to ask. Does he think that CSM has a vested interest in pushing for diversity? “I dare not say,” he holds both hands up. Usually quick to answer, he treads carefully here, relaying only what he has heard from coursemates who have felt the need to “tokenise” themselves, to play up their “diverse” identities to be granted certain opportunities. “At one point, I had the idea to just cast all old, white men as a comment on the fashion industry, the UK and its racist culture,” he adds. “Even with our final fittings, the majority of them are old, white men. I think it’s a bit weird that they get to choose the 20 best people out of 40. There must be some bias.” This acute self-awareness is refreshing, particularly given that Finlay himself belongs to the demographic that such bias presumably leans towards.
There’s a word I keep turning over in my mind to describe Finlay- trojan horse. Unafraid to go against the grain and prepared to see his ideas through at all costs, I’m not sure that he’s a designer that fashion wants, as much as he’s a designer that fashion needs.