Sometimes going to fashion shows can be a real hassle. The Thom Browne show tends to be a fight at the door—whoever runs security for Browne ought to be headhunted by the TSA, or on second thought, maybe not—and then Browne’s preferred venue, a bunker-like space in West Chelsea that he lays claim to a month in advance to build his elaborate sets, is notorious for having no phone service and no Wi-Fi. So you’re left at your seat, feeling slightly aggrieved, until the crowd settles in enough that you can take in the environs and start wondering, what, exactly, Browne has up his sleeve for this season’s presentation. The sets lend themselves to daydreaming—this time out, the space had been covered in multicolored tile, and you felt as though you were sitting at the bottom of a vast, empty swimming pool. That association turned out to be the right one.
Browne more than made up for the hassle of getting into his show by putting on a proper one. The models entered all at once, in claques of silently gossiping girls dressed in nearly identical voluminous coats appliquéd with graphic flowers, and matching swim cap–like hats. This was, indeed, a pool party—one attended by surreally glamorous Stepford Wives. Then, on cue, the models fell into formation, dropping their carryalls and removing first their caps, then their coats, to reveal dresses in black and white or various combinations of country club pastels, each of which had been assembled to mimic the look of tailoring. Not a jacket in sight, except in the trompe l’oeil effects Browne created via elaborate intarsia, color-blocking, and seam detailing. It was a clever conceit, but unlike other instances of Browne waxing sly, the cleverness didn’t get in the way of the garments’ gut-level appeal. Rather, the sheath silhouettes that Browne used as a canvas for his craftiness forced him to put tight focus on the artisanal elements in the clothes—the weave of ribbons used to create a checkerboard pattern, the topstitch used to suggest the natty combination of jacket, vest, tie, and button-down shirt. Each dress was its own remarkable example of fashion art.
And then, in another coup de théâtre, the dresses were unzipped from behind, like wetsuits, and dispensed with, so that the models could recline poolside in matching red, white, and blue swimsuits. Men dressed as birds came to collect the wardrobe detritus, and a goddess dressed in sequin silver took her place at the center of the tableau, her dog-shaped chapeau lighting up like a disco ball. Imagine if Noah’s Ark had been a luxury cruise, or if the upper-class housewives photographed by Slim Aarons had been attended by avian cabana boys. Thom Browne showed his attendees something they'd never seen before—and something they’d never thought they wanted to see. That’s how you redeem the Fashion Week rigamarole.
