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Rick Owens’s quintessential biker jacket.
September 3, 2009
Imitate That Zipper!
By RUTH LA FERLA
MAYA YOGEV has a thing for leather — her lambskin coats and jackets as malleable as wax. Her designs express a sensibility that is “on the darker side,” she acknowledged, their somber colors, cascading lapels and droopy shapes suggesting nothing so much as a midnight romp with Morticia Addams. They also bear more than a passing resemblance to the designs of Rick Owens, a fellow Californian whose brooding aesthetic is the talk of the runways.
“I’ve been told it’s kind of copycat,” Ms. Yogev said of her work. “That can be kind of frustrating at times.” But comparisons to Mr. Owens “can also be useful,” she added. “Once you mention his name, everyone is automatically drawn.”
Her affinity for washed-out, goth-tinged leathers and stretched-out shapes is understandable: Ms. Yogev, the designer of Grai, based in Los Angeles, apprenticed with Mr. Owens at a formative stage in her career. But she is far from the only fashion maker indebted to that designer’s particular brand of urban decay.
In recent months, a veritable industry has sprung up around Mr. Owens, who may be fashion’s most imitated designer. Rival houses are racing to produce their own distillations of his angular flaps, zigzagging zippers, gossamer T-shirts and biker jackets pliant as second skins.
In the tradition of Giorgio Armani, Vivienne Westwood and Tom Ford, each of whom at one time piloted fashion’s cruiser, Mr. Owens’s ideas are absorbed or copied outright in collections as diverse as those of Alexander Wang and Rag & Bone, or on a more patently commercial level, by Topshop and American Apparel.
“He has certainly captured the moment,” said Kathryn Deane, president of the Tobé Report, a retail newsletter. Once every decade or so, she said, “everybody seems to be on the same wavelength, and for now that wavelength is Rick Owens.”
Mr. Owens seems to speak most persuasively to designers on the cutting edge: Alexa Adams and Flora Gill of Ohne Titel; Haider Ackermann, whose fall collection was dominated by supple draped leathers; Gareth Pugh in London; and Nicole and Michael Colovos of Helmut Lang, whose slant-zipper, funnel-neck jackets and sheepskin and leather coats, cut away to reveal softly draped underlayers and scrunched-up leggings, unmistakably echo those of Mr. Owens.
The Colovoses, who say that their style has been shaped by the angular construction and complex layering of the Japanese vanguard, and by the ghostly palette of painters like Marlene Dumas, maintain that such comparisons are inevitable. “At times everyone just seems to come together,” Nicole Colovos said. “We’re responding to a feeling that just gets channeled somehow.”
That “feeling” — a confluence of rock star and crypt chic — is one Mr. Owens has been peddling for years. Since founding his fashion label in Los Angeles in 1994, the 47-year-old designer has rarely strayed from his signature style.
“His clarity of vision over time is what makes him so compelling now,” said Ed Burstell, the buying director for Liberty of London, and one of the first American merchants to champion Mr. Owens, at Henri Bendel in New York. “Today everyone wants access to his club.”
Mr. Owens’s emergence as fashion’s cynosure is a paradox. He was, after all, long a shadowy figure in the industry, an outsider based in Los Angeles who seemed to cultivate a creepy aura. In an e-mail message, he responded with terse resignation to the suggestion that others were copying his designs. “When something’s in the air,” he wrote, “no one can really own it.”
If Mr. Owens exerts a stronger pull than most, it is partly because he has turned his back on the 1980s, the decade dominant on the runways of late, in favor of a readily identifiable, forward-looking approach. “Rather than attempting to recreate a heritage, he is trying to make something genuinely new,” said Adam Bryce, the publisher and founder of The New Order, a design and arts magazine. “There is a futuristic feel to his asymmetric cuts and monotones,” Mr. Bryce added, one that has parallels in contemporary music and graphic design.
Valerie Steele, the director of the Museum of the Fashion Institute of Technology, noted that Mr. Owens has given that hoary archetype, the biker jacket, a new shape and cut. “It’s not the ’80s,” she said. “It’s fresh blood, and everybody is looking for that.”
Sexy but resolutely sober, that jacket and its countless imitations strike a chord with a public increasingly reluctant to flaunt shiny fabrics and show-off labels. “We’re coming out of a period that was very flamboyant,” said Karlo Steel, a partner in Atelier, a hip men’s-wear outpost in Manhattan. “Fashion’s pendulum is swinging away from that now in a direction that is a bit anti-material.” That newly temperate mood is evident in pieces that show signs, he said, “of everyday wear and tear.”
The influence of that weathered style extends as far as Japan, where trend-driven men’s-wear houses like Julius and Damir Doma are whipping up their own dun-colored, somewhat aggressive looks.
Mr. Steel, whose store carries both Japanese labels, argued that the style, first espoused in the post-recessionary early ’90s by designers like Helmut Lang, Martin Margiela and Mr. Owens himself, is “not so much copied as absorbed into peoples’ lines.” Designers incorporate not just the severity of those earlier cuts and shapes, but also their somber moods and hues — “all shades of non-color,” as Mr. Steel put it, “from black to white.”
That palette has been picked up by California acolytes like Raquel Allegra, whose filmy tanks and swallowtail dresses are made from cast-off prison garb; and Ms. Yogev, who thinks of herself as channeling the designer’s eerie sense of mystery.
That seeming menace, the outsider sensibility, has attracted the popular imagination, in part because it “comes from the same place as our obsessions with vampires,” suggested David Wolfe, the creative director of the Doneger Group, which forecasts retail trends. Mr. Owens and his artfully sinister ilk represent, he said, “the kind of world in which everything is bleak; it’s post-civilization.”
But its appeal is scarcely limited to “True Blood” or “District 9” devotees. Owens jackets, with their shrunken sleeves, ribbed inserts, high shoulders and tight silhouette, have found favor with all generations. “There is something louche and sexy but not crass or obvious about his look,” Ms. Steele said. “If Marianne Faithfull were young, she’d be wearing this kind of stuff.” She might wear it even now.
Mr. Owens began to captivate a wider public when pop figures like the Olsen twins, Rachel Bilson and Kayne West began wearing his designs. His widely-knocked-off biker jacket is still in demand at the Owens New York shop on Hudson Street, never mind the $2,700 price tag.
As with any style in demand, merchants are being briefed to “get that look in any shape or form, and get it at a price,” said Howard Davidowitz, who heads a New York retail consulting firm. “You can’t ignore a popular look if you want to be commercial.”
Small wonder, then, that Owens clones are well represented at influential stores like Opening Ceremony and, more accessibly, at Topshop, which offers several adaptations of the biker jacket, and American Apparel, which began selling layer-able interpretations of Mr. Owen’s trademark long, see-through T-shirts and tanks earlier this summer.
Roland Mouret, a designer who first made his mark with hourglass-shape cocktail dresses, departed from that soignée look this season with a faux Owens biker look. Maria Cornejo paraded a hooded version on her runway; Roberto Cavalli, Charlotte Ronson, Diesel Black Gold and Rag & Bone each interpreted the look, down to its telltale slanting zippers.
Mr. Owens himself acknowledged his influence, if only obliquely: “Suffice to say that it’s motivation for me to do my best to move forward.”
This is definitely something I've been noticing a lot in the last year or so, particularly with regards to the jackets. I think the article is right in that it's not simply a case of consciously taking inspiration from Rick's aesthetic, but rather that his aesthetic also happens to be what's in the air. It's incredible that he managed to put an image to that feeling before anyone else even realized what it was.