Clothing that fails to clothe is compelling. I hate to cite Marilyn Monroe’s white halter possessed by the winds of the subway grate, but sometimes you must. The appeal of Marilyn’s billowing dress is partly the exciting possibility of a flash of nudity but there’s something else going on, something more ontological.

Near the end of Sex and the City season five, episode five ("Plus One is The Loneliest Number"), there is a micro wardrobe malfunction. It happens at Carrie's book launch — she is wearing an Anna Molinari feather and lace black and blush-pink flapper dress with a high cut side slit, straight neckline, and spaghetti straps. She has just snagged the last cupcake when she spots Jack “Berger” Berger in the crowd “looking cuter than [she] remembered and minus one girlfriend”. The two have a strenuous exchange on the stairs replete with ‘well's, 'uh's, and ‘ya’s. Just as Berger says: “Ya. All right. Uh, good luck with the book...and everything,” the right strap of Carrie’s dress falls off her shoulder. 

The thing is — Carrie doesn’t touch the strap. She lets it hang for the rest of the scene. 

Before the fall of the strap, Carrie’s dress has a refined elegance; a silky sheen couched in plumed appliqués. But when the strap falls, the dress becomes a statement of defiance; one about form and function and the dynamic between structure and self.