Shadowhunters and Downworlders

But if you are queer, the fact that Alec and Magnus are part of a fictional universe as popular as Cassandra Clare’s—where, based on those depressing statistics about how few YA books have been published in the last decade with LGBT characters, you might not have expected to find any queer characters—is a significant one. Their presence alone, in a series that has been translated into multiple languages, may make you especially inspired to create your own responses to them. And communities form around these acts of creation and interpretation. Become part of one, and maybe that person who posts great photos under the effyeahmalec username will become a new friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, or other significant person in your life.

But wanting new friends and/or action isn’t the only reason to involve yourself with characters from a fictional universe. You can also use the details the author provides about the characters as a jumping-off point to learn more about—well, in Clare’s books, any number of things, from anime, to Muay Thai, to Northern Renaissance painting, to the poetry of Ted Hughes and William Butler Yeats. And when an author gives you characters with whom you identify, then removes them from the narrative for long stretches, their very absence can be, paradoxically, a way for you to connect with them even more closely.

I keep saying “you,” but here’s where I come clean, or out, as the case may be: I identify as queer, so I’m one of those marginalized readers I’ve been talking about. And when I read the Mortal Instruments series, it struck me that significant portions of Magnus and Alec’s relationship take place off the page. Which makes sense—after all, Magnus and Alec are part of an ensemble cast, with world-saving responsibilities that often preclude sexytimes. But I kept thinking about how little of their relationship the reader actually sees and how that, surprisingly, didn’t annoy me but instead made me wonder a lot about what was going on while they were offstage. (Not like that.Well, maybe a little like that.)

What I wondered about the most was this, based on their vacation as described in City of Fallen Angels: If you were a warlock who’d had hundreds of years to travel, what would make you choose particular destinations for a trip with a new lover who’s also newly out as gay?

Here’s an example of the kind of interpretative strategy that can enhance the experience of a queer reader who’s interested in connecting to Magnus and Alec as a couple—and, perhaps even more specifically, in connecting to Magnus’ fabulous outfits.





Magnus and Alec’s European Vacation (with a Bonus Stop in South Asia)


We know from the text that Magnus takes Alec to Paris, Florence, Madrid, “somewhere in India,” Berlin, and Vienna. For each location, we also learn what Magnus wore—or at least one outfit that he rocked, anyway.

As we know, Magnus is hundreds of years old. He’s been around for any number of dramatic cultural shifts: in politics, in fashion, in the way same-gender relationships are perceived. And since I find history, queerness, and fashion equally compelling—and, of course, they’re all connected—I decided to consider each of the destination/ outfit pairs as a way into what Magnus might want Alec to know about that place and what Magnus himself might have experienced on earlier, perhaps much earlier, visits.





Paris


In Paris, Magnus wears a striped fisherman’s sweater, leather pants, and an “insane beret.” Stripes have had so many different meanings in dress over the centuries that French scholar Michael Pastoureau has written an entire book about them: The Devil’s Cloth: A History of Stripes and Striped Fabric.Pastoureau begins his book by analyzing an advertising campaign slogan: “Cet été, osez le chic des rayures [This summer, dare to be stylish in stripes].” He comments: “To wear stripes, to present oneself dressed in striped clothing—if we believe the slogan—is neither neutral nor natural. To do so, you must display a certain audacity, overcome different ideas of propriety, not be afraid to show off.” Not a bad description of Magnus. And perhaps Magnus bought his leather pants from a shop in the Marais, a neighborhood that in 2012 is home to many gay bars, galleries, and shops, while in the sixteenth century it was frequented by the Mauvais Gar?ons (“bad boys”)—French and Italian “adventurers” who, according to The History of Paris, “created great mischief ” during the captivity of King Francis I. It’s not difficult to picture Magnus among the adventurers. As for the beret, it’s simultaneously a traditionally French article of clothing and strongly associated with both bohemian and queer communities—within which there has always been a significant overlap.





Florence