LONDON - 'I feel like Father Christmas,' said Alasdhair Willis, sitting on a folding chair backstage after his show for Hunter Original at the Seymour Leisure Center in Marylebone, which had been turned from an actual recreational facility into a simulacrum of one. A large rectangular cube in the center of the room had displayed electronic images of roller coasters, Popsicles and other carefree things. The runway was mirrored, so some in the considerable crowd, as they jostled toward the exit, were startled by perspectives of their own underwear.
It was, perhaps, the only moment of the experience not committed immediately, as is now experience's wont, to Instagram.
Mr. Willis is married to the rather better-established designer Stella McCartney, who had brought her father Sir Paul. It was a show of familial support to be sure, but also a lot of wattage to cast on a company long known for rubber Wellington boots. (Anna Wintour was present as well). With this, his second ready-to-wear collection for Hunter, Mr. Willis was trying to take the brand out of the realm of the purely practical and impart to it the kind of collective nostalgia that warms hearts and opens wallets.
'Kids. Weddings that got rained out. Splashing in the mud at the Glastonbury Festival,' he said of his inspirations.
One could glimpse the 1980s of his youth in the emphasis on purple and teal, the Ocean Pacific graphic prints, striped athletic socks and an oversized cardigan, and with Chrissie Hynde also in the audience, there was something rather poignant about this. After all, 'Don't get me wrong,' went her old song for The Pretenders, 'if I come and go like fashion.'
Julien Macdonald has managed to stick around, a full decade after he left the French house Givenchy, where he'd had the difficult task of following both John Galliano and Alexander McQueen. He is no longer enthused about by the avant-garde, if he ever was, but the many loyal fans of his special-occasion dresses were hanging over the balcony of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. (What, one wondered, would Edward Elgar make of this warp-speed pageantry?)
Underneath came a parade of cocktail frocks: simple sheaths, but with elaborate embroidery and illusion over deeply plunging necklines. A lovely blue-and-white print, like willow-ware china, was repeated on a floaty gown, cut short in front, that one could imagine a Hollywood ingénue ordering straight from the runway.
But are grown women going to wear camisole leotards, even elaborately ruffled ones, without bottoms? I wouldn't think so, but then again this is an era when Rihanna shows up at an awards ceremony wearing a transparent dress - the classic schoolgirl nightmare rendered ultimate photo op - and so perhaps baring buttocks for the evening is not far off.
Indeed they had been bared before noon on abbreviated playsuits during the calmly expensive-feeling Emilia Wickstead show at Banking Hall. Here, though, such a gesture felt less exploitative of the female form than a statement of personal self-assurance, with a healthy dose of stationary cycling.
Ms. Wickstead's trademark is sophisticated modesty, the kind of dresses that appeal to other women rather than pandering to boyfriends; maybe that's why Leandra Medine, the blogger known as the Man Repeller, was in the front row, along with the relentlessly gamine Alexa Chung, wearing striped sweater and denim miniskirt and rushing for a ciggie immediately afterwards.
'How late were you out?' Lauren Santo Domingo, a founder of the online trunk-show site Moda Operandi, asked of a friend.
'4 a.m.' came the wretched reply.
Ms. Wickstead offered many options that could go from the office - at least the home office - straight through to 4 a.m.: pocketed caftans in gleaming techno fabrics and overgrown shirtdresses. Many of her materials have a tactile, spongy look that begs to be rubbed between finger and thumb (some reminded me, not unpleasantly, of packing materials). Her proportions are thoughtful and flattering: long sleeves balanced by high slits or deep V-necks; dusters over shorts.
I just object to the stunt of making models walk, in high block heels, down a long staircase. It's hard to appreciate such impressive clothes when you're concerned that a wearer is going to wipe out and fracture her nose.
At J.W. Anderson 's show, held in close and uncomfortably sunlit quarters at Central Saint Martins, there were no worries whatsoever about the models, whose expressions - joyful, sullen or tense - are so often a reflection of a designer's vision (or the temperament of his stylist).
These young women were fierce and fast, stalking by with their faces concealed by floppy leather hats. Leather here was untethered: wrapping midriffs, scrunched into high-necked crop tops and short skits. Function became funhouse with oversized buttons and lapels, backward-facing sailor pants and odd cuffs protruding from skirts. Many Average Janes would find these touches incomprehensible; Anderson's many rapt fans would call them 'directional,' and they are eagerly pointing themselves toward his forthcoming collection for Loewe in Paris.
Georgina Chapman and Keren Craig, meanwhile, have been comfortable with Marchesa remaining in basically the same place, thematically speaking, for a decade now: a fantasy realm of flowers and tulle with which most women became acquainted at age 4, in the 'princess' stage of development.
They marked the anniversary at the baronial setting of the Banqueting House at Whitehall, sending out an ethereal pink gauze gown, gold Chantilly lace knickers, oversize rosettes and plenty of crazy-Daisy Buchanan fringe to the applause of spectators wearing pantyhose and clutching pocketbooks. There might've been a translucent gold gown among the offerings, but Marchesa is not yet ready to air her ladyship's derriere.
Tidak ada komentar:
Posting Komentar