I‘m Shao Yang, and I’ve just unleashed my teenage angst all over the runway. “Class of ’98” isn’t just a collection; it’s a time warp, a middle finger to the sanitized, Instagram-filtered version of the 90s we’ve been force-fed.
Picture this: It’s 1998 and you are 18. You’re zoning out in a high school classroom, slouched in your chair. Your freshly dyed hair is the latest in a series of at-home experiments. Your outfit screams 90s: a t-shirt over a long-sleeve, paired with corduroys. Worn-out Pumas reveal a sock through a hole, and a latchkey dangles from your neck.
Under your desk, a Discman plays alt-rock through cheap headphones with crumbling foam earpads. The air is thick, underarms smell like teen spirit (RIP Kurt), and adulthood looms on the horizon. This snapshot of 90s teenage life sets the stage for our 35-look spectacle.
This collection is built on the holy trinity of 90s textures: leather, denim, and cashmere. Leather screams rebellion like a second skin of attitude. Denim is our armor against a world gone mad. Cashmere? That’s the softness mocking the harsh realities we faced. Each piece is a battleground where prep school ambition collides with street-smart cynicism.
SHAO New York
Photos: Randy Brooke
I’ve gone all-in on trompe l’oeil because, let’s face it, the 90s were all about illusion. Shirts that aren’t shirts, skirts that aren’t skirts. It’s one big deception, like those infomercials selling Y2K survival kits or time-share properties. These garments are single entities playing dress-up as layers, mirroring how we layered our personas to survive the social battlefield of high school.
The collection is a collision of contrasts. Pinstripes scream “I’m going places” while bombers whisper “I might just blow this joint.” Streetwear collides with Wall Street in a dark alley, and neither walks away unscathed. It’s Bret Easton Ellis’s “American Psycho” locked in a mosh pit with Kurt Cobain’s journal, while Irvine Welsh supplies the chemical soundtrack.
This isn’t a nostalgia trip and I’m not doing this to romanticize the past. The 90s were a shitshow, but at least it was an authentic one. “Class of ’98” is my contributing injection of some of that raw, unfiltered reality into today’s sterilized fashion landscape. As these clothes strut by, I want you to feel uncomfortable. Question your nostalgia. Interrogate your identity.
“Class of ’98” isn’t just clothes; it’s a state of mind. It’s the confidence of Cher from “Clueless” crashing into the existential crisis of Angela from “My So-Called Life.” It’s standing at the crossroads of analog and digital, unsure which way to turn but too apathetic to care.
This is my love letter to a generation that stood on the brink of a new era, armored in freaky combat boots, striped-shirts, and a Discman (that started skipping the day after Christmas) full of angst. It’s for everyone who ever felt trapped between the expectation to grow up and the desire to never change.
Welcome to my Class of ’98. Leave your expectations at the door. It’s going to be one hell of a ride. Just remember: in this class, there are no rules, because no one cares. But, there is a dress code, it is the name on the door. So, let’s cue the AOL Dial Up sound and start the show.
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With love,
FWO
