After the joke of Cabbage Patch Kidswear on a cast of hobbits, Burning Man costumes held together with glue and staples, market stall recycled trash, Seeing Sharon’s is emotional.
Without a tinge of exaggeration, Sharon is that sole saving grace of the craphole that’s epitomized London Fashion Week— just like Catherine’s Khaite has been for NYFW’s slopfest.
Without a show, without fanfare, without the obnoxious hype, her sparse but precise offering of studied chaotic texture/volume/layers remains as light as her boa feathers. If there’s a glimmer of justice in the industry, she would have been that chosen one to transcend Calvin Klein into another stratosphere. But she likely turn the offer down anyway. Except for her always favouring these non-existent footwear and the only one unworthy look— #7, by far her most aggressive, even dramatic, and still effortlessly airy and lush offering to date.