January 20, 2009
John Varvatos showed his Fall collection in an ancient Milanese church. The arcane strains of the Velvet Underground's "Heroin" drifted through the air. No heresy there, because rock music—the edgier, the better—is Varvatos' own church. Hence, a collection that wouldn't have been out of place on any of his past poster boys: Iggy, Dave Navarro, Franz Ferdinand.
The palette was inevitably dark, the accessories were chunky and silver (rockers love that sort of stuff), but Varvatos wants his rebels to dress better, so he offered them classic codes—flannel, herringbone, pinstripe, pied-de-poule—in flatteringly narrow cuts, with the kind of night-for-day detailing that spells decadent chic for the would-be wild at heart. Elongated knits had a casually languid sexiness. Leathers were washed to an almost scary softness. In fact, there was little that went untreated, so that fabrics had a crinkled or flocked or shiny substance. One standout—a silvery parka that looked like it had weathered a nuclear blast. These clothes had a story to tell, and retailers insist the formula works wonders at the tills. No wonder Varvatos flashed a victorious "V" at show's end.
— Tim Blanks
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