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Related Articles: It was a fitting fanfare for what unfolded: Rianne Van Rompaey in a medical-pink rigorous, ankle-length dress sheathed over her body, its sleeves slit to the shoulder, its waist stitched at the front and pulled apart with strict ruching. Beckham underpinned it with opera gloves in VB-monogrammed lace the color of the model’s skin, matching tights, and high satin heels with almond-shaped toes. It was pretty twisted; a kind of delectably perverse glamour only outdone by the deviation of a bag made of blond-hair-colored tassels that poured out over Van Rompaey’s arm. “It’s a big deal for me to do a show in Paris. It’s been a dream, and therefore the collection has to reflect that,” Beckham said. In the process, she took no prisoners. The months before had seen her restructure her London ateliers to facilitate the artisanal level called for by a Paris show, allowing for the perhaps easy-looking but highly complex construction of dresses such as the aforementioned. It paved the way for beautifully and psychotically draped dresses—some seedily worn over latex tights and gloves—deconstructed cami dresses that looked as if they were about to slip off the body, and perversely bias-cut fishtail gowns in more medical pastels. A black dress was adorned in slashes as if it had been clawed into. Seen in stern succession, these silhouettes were a little bit evil, and incredibly flattering
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- A steady stream of Prince hits pumped through the speakers as the crowd assembled at Versace tonight, and in the middle of the runway, scores of black candles glowed behind walls of glass. Reading the signs, it looked like Donatella Versace was going goth for spring. The first four models, who emerged together, seemed to confirm it. They slithered out in clingy black jersey with slash cutouts and multi-strap platform Mary Janes. Up next were another 10 black looks, from Adut in a fringed leather motorcycle jacket and micromini, to Binx in a matching bustier and hip-slung jeans. “I have always loved a rebel, a woman who is confident, smart, and a little bit of a diva,” the designer said via press release. She might as well have been talking about herself. Then came monochrome color: electric fuchsia and Princely purple, cut into a liquid jersey number or a sheer dress over satin flares, and teeny party dresses in many variations—strapless with more fringe at the hips or slinky with a cowl hood.
- And just like that, boom! Everything changed. Last March, Pierpaolo Piccioli sent out a Valentino collection that included a 48-look homage to the power of fuchsia, and the audience at his show today had clearly got the memo and dressed accordingly. Just about everywhere you looked, that color reigned supreme on clients and celebs alike, though none looked as major in it (and I will brook no argument on this) as Erykah Badu, who worked it from the tip of her towering stovepipe hat to the trailing hem of her feathered coat. (Even more major: The way Ms. Badu adorably bobbed up and down in her seat, phone in hand, primed to film Piccioli’s appearance on the runway at the end of his show the minute he popped out from backstage.) So there was every eye in the room training itself on Piccioli’s opening salvo for next spring, and what did we get? No more Think Pink, that’s for sure. Instead, a caped dress in the palest of beiges that was graphically emblazoned with the house’s V logo. The marque was over absolutely everything, including the gloved bodysuit worn under the dress (silky knit body-suiting, designed to counteract the diaphanous nature of his fabrics and make women feel more comfortable about wearing such gauzy materials, was a constant refrain here). It was even painted across the model’s face, an incredible effect courtesy of the deft hand (and ceaseless imagination) of Pat McGrath. That was just the start. Piccoli focused his look on mostly beautifully cut flowing, undulating dresses, short or long, some scissored away at the waist (inspired by the slashed canvases of artist Lucio Fontana) and soft suiting that was androgynous with or without the feathery trims, in myriad shades of ivory, beige and brown, his celebration of the beauty of every skin tone.
- A while back, whilst in Paris, Thom Browne caught a version of the Cinderella story at the magnificent gilded folly that is the Opéra Garnier. I suspect it was Cendrillon by Jules Massenet. This afternoon Browne returned to Napoleon III’s most magnificently OTT architectural memento to present a production of his own: what he called “An American prom mixed with Cinderella mixed with the Paris Opera.” Just in case we didn’t know what to expect, Gwendoline Christie provided disambiguation. She emerged in a full-length single-breasted white-piped braided blazer—double vented—and some marvelous golden sandals with little effigies of Hector (who got lots of walkies this season) at the front of each foot. After a slow mosey around the golden halls she returned to ours and began spritzing herself in cologne and brushing her locks. And then she told us of what was to come: “Thom loves his little stories—and this is going to be a very long story.” We settled into our golden chairs. And the story went a little bit like this. Four rouge-lipped hot boys came and removed Christie’s dressing table, wearing quintessential Browne gray tailoring and kilt: salarymen at a Scottish reel. Then came 21 opera coats—the first in a tri-clolor arrangement—with collegiate numbers on each back: I noted every number. The came five frock coats, and three swing skirts with petticoats, plus one white witch extra. And then all 21 coat-wearers returned with their unders revealed: all polka dot tailoring and pastels and peek-a-boo underwear. As a Brit, it was impossible not to see the tradition of pantomime—but was this a projection? The best section by far ran 52 to 56, when the punks invaded the assembly. Westwood was an unavoidable comparison, but it was convincingly great (as was Joan Jett on the PA) unto itself.
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They were visions of languid elegance, dressed to the nines with myriad jeweled accessories, the maquillage as immaculate as the hauteur they were so gifted at projecting. Vaccarello riffed on all the draping and hoods for a slew of beautifully rendered dresses cut from jersey in two different weights: one heavier and opaque, giving a more constructed look; the other lighter and gauzier, gently—and barely—veiling the body underneath. Some of these dresses were slipped under sweeping great coats and trenches—which fell in narrow columnar proportions from big shoulders in leather, tweed, or wool—or paired with more leather in the form of capacious blouson jackets that nipped inwards as their cut moved toward the waist. (Vaccarello deftly mimicked the silhouette and made it more day with a draped sweater with a hood over tapering track pants—and in contrast, loosened everything up with a series of terrific pajama suits, the standout in ivory polka dots on black.) Vaccarello’s color palette was gloriously muted but definitive, taken from the clothes shot on Polaroid from YSL fittings back in the day: soft browns, purples, camels, olives, and taupes, their tones heightened by the substantial jeweled or Claude Lalanne–esque gold cuffs. There were barely-there sandals and satiny pumps with high-cut vamps and gleaming metallic shades. Everything came together to create a look that was finished, polished, considered, and—time to bring back this word, clearly—done: a riposte to the idea that everything is heading us toward some inexorable slide into bland, dull, uniform, social-media-hyped coolness. Yet ’30s or ’80s, it didn’t really matter. What drives Vaccarello is where we are right now. Despite the historical referencing, his push is to always exist in the present. You can trace that from this collection back through his last few women’s runway shows. It’s a thread that takes you from the bold-shoulder blazers and latex of winter 2020 to the Belgian-y swaggering coats and floor-trailing skirts he did for fall to tonight’s offering. Let’s call what Vaccarello is doing empower dressing. It doesn’t rest on the outward gestures—the width of the shoulders, the height of the heels, or the length of the skirts. Instead, it reflects what’s within, unspoken, but undeniably powerful and potent.
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