Here were the requisite face masks, at first in black polka dots, then superhero pineapple scales and embroidered nods to Nacho Libre alongside mismatched tinted glass chandelier earrings and strange white over the knee stockings slid into mules. The clothes were just as unusual a mash up. Fabrics recalled tapestries or interiors, perhaps even wallpaper of the de Gournay sort and were sliced in uncomfortably angular fashions or stitched together as patchwork. A white pouf shoulder shirt with gold buttons was the disarmingly simple start to a show that included giant Van Gogh irises, mutant crustaceans, and personalised banners from street vendors worn as shawls. There were even more polka dots, gold! a hint of the black deconstruction of a bustier and silk baseball jackets. I’d like to read the story of how exactly a Margiela girl gets dressed in the morning. It’s hard to see when you’re wearing a mask.
I’d like to read the story of how exactly a Margiela girl gets dressed in the morning. It’s hard to see when you’re wearing a mask.