Dazed – 6 mars 2016<\/p>\n
Comme des Gar\u00e7ons imagines punk in the 18th century <\/p>\n
We\u2019ve had impassioned anger. We\u2019ve had mournful tears. And now comes unbridled joy. Giddiness, even. It\u2019s the Comme des Gar\u00e7ons emotional rollercoaster you want to ride repeatedly, with Rei Kawakubo setting the speed. This time around, we hurtled through history as punks somehow ended up in the 18th century.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe eighteenth century was a time of change and revolution,\u201d said Kawakubo in a quote sent out to journalists after the show. \u201cThis is how I imagine punks would look like if they had lived in this century.\u201d And so the finest of rococo floral silk jacquards, brocades and damasks, the sort you might find in a Jean-Fran\u00e7ois Bony painting were slashed, stitched and cut up into rebellious submission. Anna Cleveland opened and closed proceedings with a haughty stance, appropriate for these haute fabrics. Suits of armour were pitted against the most florid of fabrics. Corsetry and pannier skirt shapes were abstracted and collaged into uplifting pieces. Hair stylist Julien d\u2019Ys fused mohawks with powder wig shapes in a burned-out jet black. Accompanied by a soundtrack of the Nutcracker suite re-rendered on a xylophone, you couldn\u2019t help but be enamoured by Kawakubo\u2019s show of outlandish punks, living through the age of revolutions and Enlightenment.<\/p>\n
If the silhouettes and hair nodded at punk, so did the kinky pink vinyl that made up a cut-up teddy suit and the finale mantua-esque ruffled dress held together with bondage straps as worn by Anna Cleveland. It\u2019s the exact shade of Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren\u2019s SEX boutique of 430 Kings Road back in 1974. It\u2019s also the same shade of pink worn by the coquettish woman in Jean Honor\u00e9 Fragonard\u2019s painting The Swing. She\u2019s being watched by a cheeky peeping tom in the bushes and so there was something salacious going on in Kawakubo\u2019s powder pink punks too. The mini shift dresses underneath barely covered bums.<\/p>\n
Beneath Kawakubo\u2019s riot of florals and pompish punk, there was a bigger message to be mined. Turns out all these supremely beautiful fabrics were sourced from Lyon, once Europe\u2019s centre of fine silk production and home to the most skilled weavers and craftsmen at historic fabric houses like Bucol and Prelle. Someone backstage even jokingly said, \u201cThis is going to be fucking expensive!\u201d In a fashion age, where contemporary pricing and accessibility is lauded, trust contrarian Kawakubo to push back and say \u2018No, thank you.\u2019 This was Kawakubo\u2019s clarion call perhaps to the industry to see the rebellious side of savoir-faire. Craftsmanship is often doled out to us with slow hands and quiet restraint. Here, Kawakubo utilised the cr\u00e8me de la cr\u00e8me of haute couture fabrics and pummelled them into assemblages that were boisterous and in yer\u2019 face. How can we re-contextualise high-end quality and bring it to people\u2019s attention? This was perhaps Kawakubo\u2019s stroke of provocation.<\/p>\n
As the show came to an end, a fairground-esque music played the audience\u2019s exit out. Some scrambled up on the raised wooden catwalk to venture backstage, eager to find out what Kawakubo had to say. Others skipped outside with giant grins on their faces, as if enveloped in ebullience.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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