Another fashion week has started a couple of weeks ago in New York and I had an eye on every single show. There’s about…way too many shows in NYC for very very little that is worth mentioning. So, I made a very restricted selection of the best that happened in this Big Apple which seems a bit rotten.
The first big name to show in NYC was Tom Ford. The wizard of sexy that resurrected Gucci in the late ’90s keeps applying the same formula to his namesake brand, because, if it’s not broken, why would you fix it?
As always it’s an explosion of “in-your-face” luxury: From the wood-like leather tops and coats that will make you look like the interior of a Rolls Royce, to the waterfalls of colourful sequin dresses that would outshine Vegas itself, it’s Hollywood spilt on a catwalk. The dose of sexiness is there too, in a more subtle fashion, with some bondage shoes looking like the heels broke under the pressure of the leather buckles that strangle it…CHOKE ME TOM.
Next is: Rodarte. In about 10 years, the brand has become one of New York’s safe bets. Whether you like it or not, the quirky perverted fairies created by the Mulleavy sisters is one of the strongest and most consistent images of New York fashion scene.
My attention is caught from the very beginning with a couple of huge fur jackets to go on a date with Big Foot. From the Yeti’s girlfriend, she turns into a Texan fallen angel, all dressed in studded leather. Rodarte’s Holy Trinity is made complete by a delegation from Atlantis covered with embroidery and brocade glimmering like water…holy water probably. Hallelujah!
The list keeps unrolling with a rather good surprise: it took only a few seasons for leather goods company Coach to become one of those that count in the American ready-to-wear industry. For this season, the general vibe is an outta bed Calamity Jane, sleeping in printed chiffon dresses and throwing on a biker jacket to go get her morning booze.
Also sashaying around the runway: a beautiful mixed fur jacket thrown into a blender and voila! Calamity is no longer cold. Every bag is a heavily decorated little anvil, perfect to knock out the cowboy that tries to steal your horse. In other words: Rodarte’s evil sister is in town, and she means business.
Moving on to Proenza Schouler. The keyword that describes best the work of Lazaro Hernandez and Jack McCollough is “precision”. Indeed, everything is laser-precise, the ruffled dresses move beautifully and give a glimpse of what a year 3000 prom girl looks like.
After a few years seeing fashion through dog’s eyes, bright colours are back on the duo’s designs. Generously splashed over stripes, prints, sequins and other embroidery. Colour blind people found their cure. And last but not least…the cherry on top of every Proenza Schouler show: the accessories. Sandals with enormous soles to kick your landlord, bags perfectly fitting under your arm to take the money and run, and of course amazing earrings, halfway between life-size chandeliers and a set of razor blades in case of trouble. Proenza Schouler sponsors rich women in exile.
Comes next a woman that was as involved in our education as our mothers: Victoria Beckham. Posh does fashion simple and efficient, like a Spice Girls’ hit. Thousands of metres of satin so bright, that you’ll spare of fortune on your electricity bill. Vicky naturally offers a short trip to outer space with some stratroopers boots and neo hippy velvet dresses to dance barefoot on the creeks of Neptune. As to complete the picture, bags to die for, or at least, sell a kidney regarding the price. Long live the Spice.
This New York Fashion Week is the tip of the iceberg that has the entire industry frozen in either endless repetition or misguided nonsense. Very few designers still do fashion when most do garments. It turns out more or less efficient, more or less desirable but most definitely underwhelming. There were a few brands I first planned to destroy. Yet, as I don’t want to ruin my Karma and that there’s no such thing as bad publicity, I simply chose not to mention them. Some, definitely spell “bullshit” with a turd and I will no longer acknowledge them.
Words by Boris Tea.