June 28, 2007

Like a movie, every fashion show is a collaboration, but John Galliano's productions push that notion to the max. (The body paint alone in this show must have taken teams of people to perfect.) The stated theme in theory was a relatively comprehensible—for Galliano—"Road Warriors on Venice Beach." The reality was a pell-mell plunge into just about every variety of modern militarism one could think of. Yes, there were road warriors in a cyberpunk sequence that highlighted neon Mohawks, the aforementioned body paint, and perhaps some underwear. And yes, the Venice Beach ambience was reflected in a general tattoo-and-piercing indulgence on the part of the mannequins. For the rest, it was all about war, from Galliano's name spray-painted M*A*S*H–style on the floor of the venue (a church!—a Galliano-perverse venue in which to mark the evil that men do), to the helicopter thrum promising Apocalypse Now as the show opened to mud-caked grunts working the catwalk in silky combats and not much else. Any clothing of substance was worn by arms-dealer look-alikes sporting unlikely satin bondage pants and taffeta coats along with their Arab headdresses and huge stogies, or the Black Panthers who rather extraordinarily patrolled the catwalk in multipocketed nylon military jackets.

Galliano's profligate willingness to spin a show out of the most unlikely elements knows no bounds—the model in the stick-on beard might have been Castro or Bin Laden—so anyone with an eye to singling out something as banal as a commercial possibility must edit like a demon: There were Arabic-influenced prints, pieces with wire-stiffened definition, and tricksy camo items that looked promising. Johnny Rotten chanting "World Destruction" on the soundtrack was possibly closer to the real mood of the collection than any specific piece of clothing.

— Tim Blanks

PARIS, February 26, 2008 – Rei Kawakubo is an Amy Winehouse fan—who knew? The multiple Grammy award winner's Back to Black played solidly throughout the Comme des Garçons Fall show, and such was the funny sideways take on trashy fifties net petticoats, dance dresses, and underwear that fell out on the runway that—who knows?—maybe La Beehive will eventually return the compliment.

Seriously, though, this was Kawakubo in one of her more skittish moods. As she put it, "There's value in bad taste, too. This is Comme des Garçons bad taste." That included puffballs of tulle in red and cotton-candy pink, hairnet veils, leopard-spot hats, and lattices of elasticized satin-frilled garter straps connecting the gaps between chopped-up garments. Cheesy lip and heart motifs came into play as well, the mouths opening as suggestive frilled portholes on coats, and the love-hearts as embroideries. Still, despite Kawakubo's best efforts to confound the tyranny of "good" taste, she couldn't help but end up with a few items that might just look unironically pretty on the right girl. The black satin bra-topped velvet and chiffon negligee dress, the red circle-skirted polka-dot dance dress, and the white tulle ballet dress caged in black tape all cry out for an Amy, a Lily Allen, or even a dear Kelly Osbourne to do them justice.

– Sarah Mower

PARIS, October 2, 2007 – Rei Kawakubo is one of the very few living designers who can command the rapt attention—even the adoration—of the inner fashion crowd by doing something deliberately demented on a runway. To describe: A projection of naïve anime cartoons was playing on the floor; a jerky soundtrack of circus whizbangs, rock 'n' roll, the theme from the James Bond films, and traditional Japanese tunes filled the air. Then a girl walked out, made up like a clown, in a pink patchwork pantsuit apparently created from square, synthetic ruffle-edged drink coasters. There followed a bewildering mash-up of layers: coats printed with African hairstyle ads, vertically sliced half-jackets, dippy skirts with knotted rags tied to the hems, drawstringed sweat pieces, frothy nylon tutus patched to the front of pencil skirts, petaled T-shirts, menswear tailoring, fragments of magicians' sparkly capes, and frilly bloomers dangling from ruffled ribbons.

How to make sense of this? Don't try: The madness was the message. "Clusters." "Randomness." "Cacophony." These were the words Kawakubo used to explain her inspiration, and then, of course, it all fell into place as a figurative observation of the state of modern urban consciousness. It was suddenly easy to imagine Kawakubo walking to work in the center of Tokyo, taking off her mental filters and letting in all the noise, clashing color, and fragmentary simultaneous imagery of the city crowd. Doubtless, within all this there are near-sane simple pieces Kawakubo will fill her stores with, and sell, too. But that was not the point the happy-looking crowd left the building discussing—rather it was the fact that, though many may emulate her, there is no one to touch the free-thinking experimentalism Kawakubo can bestow on fashion.

– Sarah Mower