Canada’s fashion firestarter: For 13 years, Mic. Carter has been serving style with subversion through his queer-run fashion house, L’Uomo Strano. Now, on the cusp of his latest collection, he reflects on a radical past and a fearless tomorrow…
By Elio Iannacci
In an industry that often sidelines the radical, Mic. Carter’s presence in fashion is crucial. As the creative force behind L’Uomo Strano, the Toronto-based designer constructs looks that are gender agnostic and radically inclusive – tailor-made for non-conforming style leaders. Now, since the brand’s launch 13 years ago – a number Carter finds apropos (since, unlike elsewhere, 13 is considered lucky in Italy) – the fashion world is finally recognizing L’Uomo Strano’s leader as the visionary he is. Carter’s mood boards reflect his boundary-pushing momentum. L’Uomo strano’s references flow seamlessly between URL and IRL, drawing from deep library archives and layering in next-gen digital hues. The result is a design language that blends nostalgia with Afrofuturism, pop culture with fop culture, and protest with play.
Social justice is woven into every thread – most notably in Carter’s should-be-studied Strange Fruit collection of 2020, a direct response to the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor and George Floyd. That collection turned grief into galvanizing garments, weaving defiance and tribute into Carter’s careful stitches. Just as comfortable in clubland as in critical discourse, Carter’s output carries the spirit of high and low camp, the chic pulse of the ballroom, and the ever-shifting power of Black femme expression. With L’Uomo Strano, fashion becomes a space to redefine, to reclaim – and to resist with fierce resolve.
While he was putting the finishing touches on DEAD NAME – a new, forward-leaning collection for L’Uomo Strano – Carter talked with IN Magazine, breaking down the past and the forces fuelling the brand’s next act.
Let’s start with the name. Where does the name ‘L’Uomo Strano’ come from, and how has it evolved?
The name came while I was studying at Central Saint Martins [in London, England]. There was an Italian fashion student who’d see me in millinery class and just start laughing and calling me L’uomo strano [the strange man]. I was designing a hat inspired by a Kris Kross–style Afro, and every time she saw me, she’d repeat it. I found it challenging at the time. But when I got back to Toronto, reclaiming strano felt like an act of resistance. Much like how the N-word or the word ‘fag’ has been reclaimed, I wanted to take that word – strange – and reframe it. Now, I think of the name of the brand as being the intersection of two parts of my identity – which is always evolving, just like the clothes are. I see how both the name and the collections I am creating continuously develop into acts of resistance and redefinition.
Why did you name your latest collection DEAD NAME?
I was designing right around the time [US President Donald] Trump was re-elected. I thought about how dandies used clothing as armour – as self-definition and a way to build community. That’s very punk. That energy feels familiar in queer and trans communities, especially among gender-non-conforming and non-binary folks. Clothing is our first tool, our first weapon. I wanted to centre that.
Tell me about the early days of this collection. What was the jump start?
This collection is really split into two. It is inspired by the book Slaves to Fashion: Black Dandyism and the Styling of Black Diasporic Identity – which also inspired the Met exhibit this year [‘Superfine: Tailoring Black Style’ is on display at the Met in New York City through October 26]. I was specifically drawn to 18th-century fops dressing extravagantly…just to be seen. I re-imagined the looks happening in Vauxhall Gardens, where a mix of people dressed up and down. We have the gworls – AFAB [Assigned Female At Birth] included – in fabulous clothes topped with Sebastian’s hats [Sebastian Blagdon of Imago Millinery]. But time isn’t linear for me. It’s Afro-circuitous: a spiral where past, present and future collide.
You’re working with two opposing colour palettes in this collection. What’s behind that choice?
Yes, the tones that grabbed me first come from a late-night read of slave rebellions and how enslaved bodies were consumed in history. The clothes explore that brutal history literally and metaphorically. I pulled hues of deep reds, bruised plums, purples – colours of flesh – to showcase wounds. Then there’s the opposite: bursts of hyperpigmented colour explosions. Bright, theatrical fantasy, futuristic shades.
Who are some of the top muses and inspirations on your mood board?
Think Power Rangers meets [DC Comics supervillain] Mother Mayhem from Titans. The latter has supernatural powers and is known for eating people. Then there are the Jabba the Hutt girls – alien slaves from Star Wars who were chained to him. The Jabba Hoes gave me a new perspective and, because they are slaves, I also traced a line from Ira Aldridge, the Black Shakespearean actor forced into minstrel shows, through to characters in Slave Play. I also looked at stripper aesthetics and mixed it with elements of my favourite rapper at the moment, JT. This is all because I didn’t want to reference Thierry Mugler – it’s been so done.
You vacillate between futuristic and historical references. Who from the past stood out most?
I got obsessed with Julius Soubise, a formerly enslaved man from St. Kitts who became Britain’s first Black sex symbol in the 18th century. He was a dandy – like a performance artist. Catherine Douglas, Duchess of Queensberry, enslaved him, or so the book says. She took him everywhere. He became witty and charming, and was given access to elite parties. He clocked the culture and said, ‘I got this.’ That audacity inspired me more than any image.
Would you say your models act as collaborators?
Absolutely. About 10 I trust deeply. They give feedback during fittings – how clothes make them feel, how they want to wear them. That co-creation builds authenticity.
Your brand has always felt rooted in community. Was that the goal from the beginning?
110 per cent. It is embodied by The Strano Squad. Especially Sebastian Blagdon, a milliner from the East Coast, who is now in Toronto. I met them in 2014 – they modelled for me, then started making hats. I wear their work constantly. That collaboration took things to another level – physically, emotionally, ethically. My twin brother, Matthew – a.k.a. Golden Ohms – does the sound. For my first collection, he rapped while playing chess against himself on the runway. So gaggy. He’s performed that same piece again for FAT (Fashion Art Toronto)’s 20th anniversary this year and put together a new performance for my show. Garçon, a stylist from northern Ontario – now in Parkdale – is also key. They’ve been part of Strano for a while. Younger than me, super organized, they bring a fresh relevance that fuses beautifully with my sensibility. Cat from [avant-garde, Toronto-based garment manufacturer] Pigeons & Thread is helping to build the bigger looks. They just sent me a piece in faux ostrich leather and I gagged. It’s the future. I can’t wait to try it on.
Let’s move to this year’s Met Gala, ‘Superfine: Tailoring Black Style.’ What was your initial reaction watching the blue carpet, and how did you feel after seeing the media coverage?
I was prepping my own collection that night – literally sewing and watching the Met on my iPad. I thought, ‘This is a moment for the sartorial Black diaspora.’ So I watched while making a yellow pair of bloomers. What I loved? Seeing Black dandies really claim space – specifically Janelle Monáe and Teyana Taylor. Teyana wasn’t someone I previously saw as a dandy – more androgynous – but she stepped into the role beautifully. What disappointed me? Some starlets clearly hadn’t read the brief. Their answers to basic questions were wild. I felt a bit of second-hand embarrassment – disappointment, really – especially from those who profit off Black aestheticism. That was their moment to give back.
Who do you think will be remembered for showing up and showing out at the Met?
Christopher John Rogers dressing Cole Escola was one. That joy, the explosion of colour, the knitwear, the heels – it felt bold. He’s always encouraged me. And then Jordan Roth wore LaQuan Smith. They had this incredible hat and presence. I’ve always admired LaQuan’s business sense, but I hadn’t seen them engage with non-binary design like that before. It was a moment.
Did your impression shift after the coverage came out?
Not really. The queer foundation of dandyism and how that has informed disruptions within society was never discussed. Queering what opulence can look like and where opulence can come from makes dandyism a movement, not a trend. But queerness was stripped from the conversation. Lewis Hamilton hinted at it. He wore Grace Wales Bonner, and the cowrie shells on the outfit were intentional. And the silhouette? Stunning. He ate that up…and he’s a straight man, a race car driver! Last year he bought a whole table for Black designers. He gets it.
For each person I’m going to mention, I’d love your take: would you classify them as a Fop or a Dandy? Let’s start with singer/songwriter Sylvester.
I’d say Fop. There’s often a tragic arc with Black Fops. Take someone like Julius Soubise: his story ended in a dark place. Sylvester’s life, especially during the early HIV/AIDS era, carries that kind of tragic glamour. Dandies are dapper. Fops are glamorous. There’s a difference.
Langston Hughes?
He’s a Dandy. That kind of refined, literary elegance. Respectability through fashion – suits, tuxedoes. There’s this film, Looking for Langston, that really captures his vibe. The tux becomes his symbol of refined masculinity.
Andre Leon Talley?
Deeply Fop. Completely bored with Dandies. If he was at the Met Gala, he’d be like ‘Another suit? Girl, take it off.’
How about Sam Smith?
Fop. They started as more Dandy, then really leaned into queerness – Harris Reed heels, corsets, no pants. There was a transition.
When you’re creating, do you pull from what doesn’t exist, or mainly remix what does exist through a queer lens?
Both. I’m a Libra: it’s never just one or the other. It’s always both. I see it in the air in some instances but I am actively looking for it. That’s what queers do. We are constantly looking back, looking forward or making it up. I do love an epic remix though.
Speaking of remixes, do you think attending circuit parties like Prism in Toronto gives you an upper hand when designing?
Oh, yes. I spent a lot of time dancing at Prism through the years and I just went to Northbound Leather to start building my Pride wardrobe. Listen, it’s not perfect but it’s a complex, dynamic space, and one that’s run by a Black queen – Gairy Brown. What I love about Prism is it exists as a Black utopia because the history of dance music was built by and for Black people. As a party, Prism also survived COVID and the shuttering of venues like The Government, so it has adapted and evolved. That resilience inspires me. On the dance floor at Pride, it gives me a chance to think about what ‘sexy’ looks and feels like. How does it move? How does it claim space? And how does that differ at Prism versus, say, Fashion Art Toronto? Because I live in both those worlds – and care about both – I want my clothes to speak across them. I want to offer a range of looks that give people choices, so they can express different versions of themselves. I’ve seen how the energy mutates at Prism: Gairy Brown walking around with his designer sunglasses, the community interacting with their bodies. The pulse is always shifting but it is a complicated space.
In the documentary Supreme Models, which chronicles top Black fashion figures, author Marcellas Reynolds talks about the importance of non-Black allyship. For someone writing about your work who isn’t from your background, what should they consider before putting pen to paper?
That’s an important question. You have to do the research – you have to show up and pay attention. Beyond that, you have to immerse yourself in Black creativity and realities. The reality is, Black lives are not lived in a silo. We are of the world, so all of us need that exchange.
What have been the consequences when your work was misunderstood or met with opposition?
A smaller moment was after I did a radio interview – someone emailed me saying I should change the name L’Uomo Strano, claiming it was demonizing. I didn’t respond – it was gaggy, honestly. The bigger issue was with Toronto Men’s Fashion Week in 2014. They’d seen my non-binary collection, but at the fitting, they said they were going to style it with baseball hats and combat boots. I told them right away that this didn’t align with my vision, and shortly after, they removed me from the lineup. They even tried to discredit me, saying I showed up with loose threads – which was a lie. That kind of institutional violence – attacking my livelihood and character – was real. It was shocking and embarrassing. But then people rallied and I was then invited back. That moment really crystallized why I do what I do. The same people I create for made sure the story was shared.
On the flip side, Vanja Vasic at Fashion Art Toronto championed L’Uomo Strano from the beginning. When I was kicked out of Toronto Men’s Fashion Week, she was the first to reach out and say, ‘We stand beside Mic. We stand beside the vision.’ That support meant everything, especially since the experience also brought on a lot of harm.
Where would you say is a place that fosters that kind of exchange?
What I admire about the fashion program at TMU [Toronto Metropolitan University], and the work that Ben Barry [dean of fashion at the New School] started and what Joseph Medaglia [associate professor in the School of Fashion at TMU] has continued to push, is how deeply it is committed to decolonization, sustainability and inclusion. These aren’t empty words; the faculty live it, and it shows in how they teach. Students are expected to graduate with that in their DNA. If they don’t, it gets challenged in class. It’s real, not lip service.
ELIO IANNACCI is an award-winning writer, poet and a long-time arts reporter for The Globe and Mail. He has contributed to 80 publications worldwide, including Vogue Italia, The Hollywood Reporter, Maclean’s, The Toronto Star and Sotheby’s Insight magazine. His master’s thesis, Queer-Diva Collaboration in 20th Century Popular Music, was nominated for a Governor General’s Gold Medal.
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