Years ago, when Yohji Yamamoto showed an Irving Penn-inspired collection in his atelier, it marked the beginning of a run of lavish, haute-inspired collections which individually and as a collective marked a genuine fashion moment. The show Yamamoto showed Friday evening was the antithesis of such opulence. Rather, returning home felt like a deliberate statement of frugality, one not limited to saving the rental fee for an outside venue.
Yamamoto also explored austerity of design in a strong lineup that worked a snappy-gentle dichotomy, even if glum hair and makeup tried hard to camouflage the prettiness of the clothes. He opened soberly with a lean, long suit but then started baring shoulders and chopping skirts into minis, often ditching jackets in favor of crisp white shirts, some with puffed shoulders, that introduced a Victorian air. It was all delightfully fresh, and, by Yohji standards, as spare as it gets.
Or so one thought, until Yamamoto turned to the subject of decomposition. In a season of too much faux tattering, T-shirts appliquéd with random, ratty circles looked genuinely edgy, but when paired with holey-moley pants, the impoverishment turned too perfect. Not so, however, for the series of delicate wallpaper-print floral dresses and jackets. Seemingly discovered in an attic after being forgotten for generations, they bore their wistful decay with elegiac grace.
