| LONDON’S CALLING |
[19 Feb 2008|09:27pm] |
HOUSE OF HOLLAND
There were rumours of a 30-odd piece collection at Gareth Pugh (21, but close enough). There were rumours of Kate Moss at Westwood (no Moss, but a bare-breasted placard-toting transexual did close the show). There were rumours Marios Schwab threw out his entire collection a month before the show (that one, Schwab told me, was true – and he’s all the greater for it). London Fashion Week was bigger and – dare we say it? – better than it has been for ten years.
Despite the bright mood throughout the city, London’s fashion offering was decidedly dark – then again, this is what we do best. You know something is afoot when you can look at Basso and Brooke’s usually retina-detaching wares without groping for sunglasses, and even Luella proferred something lightly macabre, inspired by Britt Ekland in the Wicker Man and a Cornwall Pagan Witch museum.
GARETH PUGH
The man most probably responsible is Gareth Pugh, the black sheep of British fashion who delivered pretty much exactly what we expected of him. This season, however, he did churn out 21 looks – an admirable feat – and a collection that made coherent sense in the way his previous offerings have fallen short. This was a whirlwind ride – well, the Wizard of Oz was the loose theme – taking in Swarovski-crystal leggings, lashings of monkey fur and geodesic abstractions galore. However, there was the real feeling that Pugh worked to push his look forward somewhat, from spectacular covetable Nicholas Kirkwood platforms to the exaggerated (but entirely on-trend) Montana-esque tailoring that opened the show - the fact they were made entirely of zips made them all the more impressive, not just schlocky horror pieces. As with Oz, it was all about the man behind the curtain - and even I have to admit perhaps there’s more behind’s Pugh’s playful polyhedra than mere flash and dazzle.
Pugh’s offering was indicative of London’s direction as a whole: a consolidation of talent, and proving that we can deliver what we promise. Alexander McQueen’s legacy still means that London is considered the sartorial Dark Prince of Goth next to the polish of Milan, the gloss of New York and the dripping bougeoise soignée of Paris. Todd Lynn has always excelled at the dark side of life, and his strong show was sharp and tailored, blurring the masculine-feminine divide in bruised shades of purple, blue and every permutation of black. Louise Goldin’s technicolor spring show darkened for winter, in a collection that was part Logan’s Run part Nanook of the North. Her Swarovski-frosted knits, futuristic fur-trimmed angular anoraks and Constructivist body-con knits in a palette of bruise, amethyst and teal were stunning. Even Emma Cook, the booky, kooky London queen of cute, reinterpreted her signature babydoll shapes in a collection of exquisitely patchworked lace and tie-dyed latex which managed to make Goth Cowgirl a viable option for next season – even with the slightly Jon Benet Ramsey Swarovski-fringed showgirl frocks.
LOUISE GOLDIN
Lightening the mood somewhat was Henry Holland, who has rapidly set himself up as the Jester of London’s fashion court. His plaid-packed House of Holland highland fling was inconsequential nonsense, but hit a high note because that was exactly what he intended it to be. It was icing on the cake that the fun clothes – lurid tartans, cashmere-mohairs and a clever way with knife-pleating – were well-made and interesting, even if not particularly innovative. The finale of Agyness as a Brigadoon Bride in tiered kilt wedding-gown, tartan antlers and eyepatch, was pretty hard to top.
In a frankly stellar season, two shows stood out for their consummate skill, grace and for finally shifting fashion (at least London Fashion) up a gear. Giles Deacon finally moved on his more-oft-than-not clumsy couture techniques into a new realm. His theme was The Masque of the Red Death by Poe, and his collection was the best from his hand since his first show under his own label. There was something Schiaparelli-esque about the duchesse satin suits, their jackets puffed with down to Superman proportions: but as opposed to Schiap’s wackiness, like her subtley surreal suiting Giles’ offering combined concept and chic perfectly. For evening, Giles thankfully didn’t turn to any of his usually shonky shenanigans in floor-length amateur dramatics – merely flawlessly-cut torso-hugging sheaths and billowing capes, the shadowed, rotted palette of damson, petrol-blue and olive rendered the silken fabrics even more luxurious. Most exquisite were the models with their faces wrapped in featherlight silk-chiffon - although their anonymous beauty perhaps begged the same accusations of the chauvenism of seeing woman as automata, sexualised and yet emotionless.
If Giles’ collection brought up questions of sexism, Marios Schwab’s brought outright accusations of misogyny. Models smothered in pattern from high neck to ankle in restrictive tubular dresses hobbled slowly along the runway in six-inch heels - the procession was undeniably uncomfortable, and yet fascinating to watch. If the collection was bad, this would have been a death-knell for a young designer still refining his vision - however, the collection was a definitive, authoritive statement in which everything, everything looked horrfyingly new. The length and cut was severe in the extreme, dresses sliced open to form windows onto the body, while others were laser-cut to peel away from the form like layers of mildewing textile disintegrating with every step. The collection’s namesake, the feminist novella ‘The Yellow Wallpaper,’ formed a narrative justification for every aspect of the show, and despite a general move away from ‘conceptual’ fashion, it was this concept which made the collection so powerful. The strict attenuated silhouette, faultless styling, exquisite accessories and claustrophic Nick Ryan soundtrack made Schwab’s chilling vision the highlight of london fashion week. This collection pushed his aesthetic – and indeed London Fashion as a whole - to a new level.
 
GILES MARIOS SCHWAB
love,
Alex.
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