J.Lo stuns in Versace S/S20 runway show
Recycling of scenarios and silhouettes at Versace, Armani and Missoni; renovation at Marni
The moment that ate Milan Fashion Week occurred at the end of the Versace show. People had been promised a special something, but no one knew what it was. The lights went down, a soundtrack crescendo began to build, and then — Jennifer Lopez! Age 50! In a new version of the jungle print dress she wore to the Grammys in 2000. You know, the one that was cut down to her navel and up to her crotch, and set off so many digital searches back in the day that, in the myth of the internet and fashion, it is said Google created image search because of it (a more plausible version of the story is that it was part of the reason; a big part, sure, but still — a part).
The dress had been given a bit of an update, to be sure — less fabric on the sides, the sleeves were gone, there were jewels all over the matching bikini bottoms, and iridescent palm fronds bristled like epaulets on the shoulders. But those were details; the effect was the same. Bags were clutched. The whole audience rose as one. Phones came out and were wielded like knives, each one slicing off a section of her walk for the posting.
Mea culpa. But if ever there was a finale that crystallised just how much fashion had moved on — or not — since the turn of the millennium, that was it. Back in the day, of course, there was no Instagram or livestream; people mostly viewed shows with their actual eyes as opposed to through the lens of their tiny cameras; designers only did two collections a year (or two we knew of); editors and glossy magazines still served as the conduits of choice for fashion information; diversity was pretty much nonexistent and even if fashion people had read ‘Silent Spring’ in school, they probably thought it had nothing to do with them, or their jobs.
It is tempting to say: How things have changed! Except for Lopez, of course; she looked exactly the same. If anything, more toned and worked out. But then, so did most of Donatella Versace’s clothes: the sharp-shouldered little black coat dresses with big gold hardware; the jersey draped to show slices of side abs; the tie-dyed Medusa tees; the cobalt-and-jade or fire opal-spinel jungle print on pretty much everything from jeans jackets to sequined evening frocks fringed at the hem and dotted with spiky, threedimensional alien blooms.
Which suggest the real takeaway is plus ça change, and all that. The fashion landscapes in New York and London may finally be in the throes of their own upheavals; the altered shapes of social and political life, a new balance of power, reflected in an evolution on the catwalk. But in Milan, the status quo — the one from 20 years ago — still rules. That’s as stultifying and frustrating as it sounds, even if it’s justified as “heritage” or “DNA.”
OF SUN AND EARTH AND STAYING IN PLACE
Think about it this way: The day of the global climate strike, which also happened to be the day of the Versace show when hundreds of thousands took to the roads of New York and Berlin and Sydney, in Milan it was just traffic as usual in Milan.
“Is there going to be a protest here?” visitors asked. Locals raised their eyebrows and shrugged. Later, there was some anticipation around the fact Giorgio Armani called his show “Earth” — but it turned out to be because it was inspired by the muddy colors of the land (dank browns, midnight blues), gradually lightening to morning mists.
Trousers were pleated at the hip and narrow at the calf or palazzo loose. Jackets were long or short, curving or boxy. Skirts were long and billowing, often sheer. There were some sporty references, a banana palm print and a fair amount of pastel sparkle. In the end, two models came out in glistening evening columns, torsos encased in stiff ruffled organza shells; each woman had one arm supporting her opposite elbow, which was cocked up and out to the side as if holding a cigarette en pose. Except, this being 2019, the hand was empty. That’s a metaphor, if anyone cared to contemplate it.
Meanwhile, at the Missoni show, dedicated to summer and held around a giant public swimming pool, Angela Missoni gave every guest a mini Olafur Eliasson solar lamp with the message: “Join us in holding hands with the sun, we are at a crucial point for our planet and need to take action.” Then Missoni, like Versace and Armani, engaged in some aesthetic recycling, bringing 1970s dandy men and the free spirits who loved them to life in layers of ultrathin knits glinting with metallics, stripes over florals over plaids, a cardigan (or two) tied the waist.
They weren’t necessarily reducing (there were 72 looks in the Missoni show), but they were definitely reusing: ideas, silhouettes, prints, often with joyful abandon. Remember this?! And so it went.
WHERE DID IT GET US?
At Etro, Veronica Etro also went down memory lane with Keith Richards, Anita Pallenberg and Jane Birkin; paisley and butterfly embroidery; glam rock tailoring, and hobo, fringed knits (plus some striped men’s shirting first created by her father, Gimmo). At Salvatore Ferragamo, Paul Andrew updated the brand’s most famous shoe, the Vara (you know, the flat with the bow on the toe), renaming it the Viva, elongating it, and molding the bow in leather — which is pretty much his approach to the collection for both men and women: Update the classics. Cut away the backs of leather trench coats for movement; bubble-under the hems of skirts; use a print of Neptune inspired by a marble fountain figure on everything from loose sweatpants to evening gowns.It’s incremental progress. But comforting as familiarity can be, it leads to some uncomfortable conclusions. We’ve been there, worn that — and look where it got us. Not to a good place.
Which is why Marni provided such a jolt. Francesco Risso, now almost three years into his job, has taken full control of the brand, transforming its kooky art-world charm into something altogether more ambitious and risky. And though he does it in his own head-scratching way, it has a magnetism that stands out.
This time around his theme was — well, who knew what it was? But it involved a made up tropical disease with its own medicine, “Tachitropirina,” which cures, “metamorphic and transformative states” and “feverish affections such as fauvism,” and which should not be used by people with “total incapacity for activism,” and which was presumably reflected in the show set, which featured cartoon palm trees made from recycled plastic and reconstituted cardboard. And it was expressed in clothes splashed with a riot of bright paint strokes. Imagine Gauguin’s Tahiti transplanted to the Tiber, and you’ll get the idea.
Gorgeous balloon tops slouched off a shoulder over skirts gathered and knotted on a hip; long, fluted leathers spouted petticoats of frills; simple scoop-necked bias gowns were caught under a crocheted floral net; puffed-out coats cocooned the body; and apron frocks were just hanging on, clinging beautifully to possibility. Which is pretty much where we all are. Or want to be.
The clothes didn’t go viral — it’s possible no garment on its own can do that any more, as Versace seems to understand better than anyone — but they finally made a point that was impossible to ignore.