Fall Fashion
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By Alexander Patino
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The hundreds of collections that abound during Fashion Week in New York, London, Paris and Milan are packed with designers' stories.
But how easily pinpointed can these supposed underlying stories be? How many designers are just designers and how many can truly
juggle the art of design and the art of story-telling in one given collection? Many fancy themselves to be both - but this Fall 2011 season,
two brands - Rodarte and Charlie Le Mindu - really stood out from the pack and proved themselves to be masters of the true sartorial tale.
But how easily pinpointed can these supposed underlying stories be? How many designers are just designers and how many can truly
juggle the art of design and the art of story-telling in one given collection? Many fancy themselves to be both - but this Fall 2011 season,
two brands - Rodarte and Charlie Le Mindu - really stood out from the pack and proved themselves to be masters of the true sartorial tale.
The Fashion Week circuit can prove to be a daunting experience. Between a true fashionista's
holy quartet of New York, London, Milan and Paris - fashion editors, bloggers, buyers and
journalists alike are made to keep a compendium of literally thousands of new looks, style
and trends at their immediate reach not once, but twice a year. That's not even accounting for
the myriad designers presenting in cities like Berlin, Copenhagen and even Miami. To trickle
down the amassed lump of information gathered during these cycles into clearly delineated,
consumer-friendly bits of data is somewhat like finding a point of origin in a work of spin-art.
Eventually, entire collections start to meld into themselves, supposed designer inspirations
get bunched up and tangle on themselves. The extrication process becomes an act in futility.
At the end of the day (well, at the end of a month, really) it all boils down to those few precious
endeavors that, in a molecular level, refuse to be forgotten.
If we are to believe everything designers say - it all starts with a spark. It's seldom that a
designer admits to zero inspiration behind their work, but it does happen. Junya Watanabe's
most recent menswear collection, a parade aflutter with lovelorn schoolboy-types, was
supposedly borne out of - well, nothing. It just was. Kati Stern denied any source of
inspiration for her latest roundup at Venexiana. Her first loves, as she claimed, are fur,
leather and tweed - and that was that. The regular fixtures and attendees at Fashion Weeks
the world over have been trained to excavate for those initial sparks. They yearn to see a
clearly defined story behind a collection - it provides a necessary anchor in the flotsam and
jetsam of dresses, tops, trousers, coats - everything a runway has to offer. But a designer's
story can also prove to be a double-edged sword. The tale sometimes exists simply to mollify
the Fashion Week regulars, just to reassure that there is a story to begin with. Last
September, a designer's run-of-show stated that the idea for his/her collection originated with
a play on The Garden of Eden. The tale was as hard to swallow as it was to follow.
Where-oh-where was the archetypal paradise on Earth? Oh! There was a pair of high-waisted
pants colorfully described as "Apple Red". Well...if they say so.
In a fall season where almost every designer had a story to tell, as instantaneously
pin-pointed or as obscure as the threads turned out to be, New York and London each had
one show that needed no preamble. That's not to say that there was no story to tell, but that
what came down the runway told the story all on its own - no words necessary.
holy quartet of New York, London, Milan and Paris - fashion editors, bloggers, buyers and
journalists alike are made to keep a compendium of literally thousands of new looks, style
and trends at their immediate reach not once, but twice a year. That's not even accounting for
the myriad designers presenting in cities like Berlin, Copenhagen and even Miami. To trickle
down the amassed lump of information gathered during these cycles into clearly delineated,
consumer-friendly bits of data is somewhat like finding a point of origin in a work of spin-art.
Eventually, entire collections start to meld into themselves, supposed designer inspirations
get bunched up and tangle on themselves. The extrication process becomes an act in futility.
At the end of the day (well, at the end of a month, really) it all boils down to those few precious
endeavors that, in a molecular level, refuse to be forgotten.
If we are to believe everything designers say - it all starts with a spark. It's seldom that a
designer admits to zero inspiration behind their work, but it does happen. Junya Watanabe's
most recent menswear collection, a parade aflutter with lovelorn schoolboy-types, was
supposedly borne out of - well, nothing. It just was. Kati Stern denied any source of
inspiration for her latest roundup at Venexiana. Her first loves, as she claimed, are fur,
leather and tweed - and that was that. The regular fixtures and attendees at Fashion Weeks
the world over have been trained to excavate for those initial sparks. They yearn to see a
clearly defined story behind a collection - it provides a necessary anchor in the flotsam and
jetsam of dresses, tops, trousers, coats - everything a runway has to offer. But a designer's
story can also prove to be a double-edged sword. The tale sometimes exists simply to mollify
the Fashion Week regulars, just to reassure that there is a story to begin with. Last
September, a designer's run-of-show stated that the idea for his/her collection originated with
a play on The Garden of Eden. The tale was as hard to swallow as it was to follow.
Where-oh-where was the archetypal paradise on Earth? Oh! There was a pair of high-waisted
pants colorfully described as "Apple Red". Well...if they say so.
In a fall season where almost every designer had a story to tell, as instantaneously
pin-pointed or as obscure as the threads turned out to be, New York and London each had
one show that needed no preamble. That's not to say that there was no story to tell, but that
what came down the runway told the story all on its own - no words necessary.
Pasadena, California's Kate and Laura Mulleavy,
the prodigious sister-act behind Rodarte, in just
six years, have quickly mastered the art of
keeping the fashion masses frothing at the bit for
a good story. That tight grip on their own
self-defined zeitgeist didn't necessarily happen
overnight. The initial gambols relied heavily on
their celebrity clientele, and it wasn't until their
'Goth scavenger in Death Valley' collection just
two years ago, that the tiny particles amassed to
define a clear Rodarte universe. 'Home is where
the heart is' has proven to be their most useful
maxim, with collections infused with the aridity of
Death Valley, the fecundity of California's
Redwood forests and even the peripheral
dystopic nightscapes of Juarez, Mexico. And yet,
Fall 2011 saw the sisters forging a new frontier -
The Midwest.
Terrence Malick's 'Days of Heaven,' a treasure of
the American film canon and usually regarded as
one of celluloid's most beautifully photographed
motion pictures, was the catapult for Rodarte's
Fall 2011 wheat-chewing, firmament-basking,
prairie girl collection. But one need not be
acquainted with the genesis of this beautiful
collection to figure that out for oneself. From the
gradients of the sun-kissed makeup, to that
gorgeous wheat-field print (used in four different
colored dresses, each symbolizing the transition
the prodigious sister-act behind Rodarte, in just
six years, have quickly mastered the art of
keeping the fashion masses frothing at the bit for
a good story. That tight grip on their own
self-defined zeitgeist didn't necessarily happen
overnight. The initial gambols relied heavily on
their celebrity clientele, and it wasn't until their
'Goth scavenger in Death Valley' collection just
two years ago, that the tiny particles amassed to
define a clear Rodarte universe. 'Home is where
the heart is' has proven to be their most useful
maxim, with collections infused with the aridity of
Death Valley, the fecundity of California's
Redwood forests and even the peripheral
dystopic nightscapes of Juarez, Mexico. And yet,
Fall 2011 saw the sisters forging a new frontier -
The Midwest.
Terrence Malick's 'Days of Heaven,' a treasure of
the American film canon and usually regarded as
one of celluloid's most beautifully photographed
motion pictures, was the catapult for Rodarte's
Fall 2011 wheat-chewing, firmament-basking,
prairie girl collection. But one need not be
acquainted with the genesis of this beautiful
collection to figure that out for oneself. From the
gradients of the sun-kissed makeup, to that
gorgeous wheat-field print (used in four different
colored dresses, each symbolizing the transition
of a sun-setting sky) - it was plain to see (no pun intended) that it was the American heartland - apron dresses and all - that was being reinvigorated with a controlled and commercial sense
of chic. It all felt wholly defined, but gained an incredible multi-dimensional loftiness when Lindsay Wixson and Karlie Kloss walked out in those ruby red Dorothy in Oz dresses. Just when
we thought we had it completely figured out, the Mulleavy's served a one-two sucker punch we just never saw coming.
of chic. It all felt wholly defined, but gained an incredible multi-dimensional loftiness when Lindsay Wixson and Karlie Kloss walked out in those ruby red Dorothy in Oz dresses. Just when
we thought we had it completely figured out, the Mulleavy's served a one-two sucker punch we just never saw coming.
And on that same note, regarding the unexpected, is the iconoclastic French
wig-maker Charlie Le Mindu. Roger Ebert, America's most beloved and treasured
film critic, often writes about the benefits of walking into a film screening with a blind
knowledge, sans run-down, sans movie trailer - just a clean entrance into a new
artistic experience. Well, that was precisely the case just a little over a week ago at
Le Mindu's Fall 2011 runway show. One had to wonder, upon getting to Mercer
Studios in London's Covent Garden, why this specific show had hundreds of
people waiting in line, covering not one, but two city blocks, waiting, but mainly
hoping, to get into the venue. The show opened with a completely naked model
(nudity being, what we have now come to learn is, a Le Mindu go-to leitmotif)
covered in blood, wearing a head-piece that stated, not simply, but ferociously
"Violence" in big block letters. Of course it was a rousing act of sensationalism, but
it also tapped into a primeval darkness that a 21st century Apple-gadget geared
audience has never been privy to.
What followed was something akin to a German cabaret troop on a really bad dose
of shrooms. Well, it's difficult to say whether it was in fact the models or the
audience that were in the midst of a dark hallucinogenic spell. The best possible
answer would be to allocate it to both parties. The perspex plastic and pony-hair
garments, not to mention the gas-masks, the endless amounts of blood and the
strategically placed graffiti found on crotches, severe mohawks and even on the
back of people's heads, drearily declaring, to put it lightly "C U Next Tuesday" - were
all sent down to recall the sexual underground of a war-torn Germany.
Bare-breasted brides in blood-clotted wedding trains, muzzled deviants of the
Gestapo - they were all represented here, amidst a soundtrack of squealing hogs
being shuttled to a slaughterhouse. Two things were unquestionable - first, it raised
everyone's eyebrows, including Daphne Guinness's, who sat front-row (you could
tell, even behind those shades). Secondly, the message was loud and clear. Even if
you found it distasteful, you can't discount the fact that the point of view was as
daring, unapologetic and direct as an artist could tackle on a fashion runway. You
can't take that away from Charlie Le Mindu.
wig-maker Charlie Le Mindu. Roger Ebert, America's most beloved and treasured
film critic, often writes about the benefits of walking into a film screening with a blind
knowledge, sans run-down, sans movie trailer - just a clean entrance into a new
artistic experience. Well, that was precisely the case just a little over a week ago at
Le Mindu's Fall 2011 runway show. One had to wonder, upon getting to Mercer
Studios in London's Covent Garden, why this specific show had hundreds of
people waiting in line, covering not one, but two city blocks, waiting, but mainly
hoping, to get into the venue. The show opened with a completely naked model
(nudity being, what we have now come to learn is, a Le Mindu go-to leitmotif)
covered in blood, wearing a head-piece that stated, not simply, but ferociously
"Violence" in big block letters. Of course it was a rousing act of sensationalism, but
it also tapped into a primeval darkness that a 21st century Apple-gadget geared
audience has never been privy to.
What followed was something akin to a German cabaret troop on a really bad dose
of shrooms. Well, it's difficult to say whether it was in fact the models or the
audience that were in the midst of a dark hallucinogenic spell. The best possible
answer would be to allocate it to both parties. The perspex plastic and pony-hair
garments, not to mention the gas-masks, the endless amounts of blood and the
strategically placed graffiti found on crotches, severe mohawks and even on the
back of people's heads, drearily declaring, to put it lightly "C U Next Tuesday" - were
all sent down to recall the sexual underground of a war-torn Germany.
Bare-breasted brides in blood-clotted wedding trains, muzzled deviants of the
Gestapo - they were all represented here, amidst a soundtrack of squealing hogs
being shuttled to a slaughterhouse. Two things were unquestionable - first, it raised
everyone's eyebrows, including Daphne Guinness's, who sat front-row (you could
tell, even behind those shades). Secondly, the message was loud and clear. Even if
you found it distasteful, you can't discount the fact that the point of view was as
daring, unapologetic and direct as an artist could tackle on a fashion runway. You
can't take that away from Charlie Le Mindu.
Crossing oceans and continents for fashion is a part of the Fashion Week-circuit deal. The clothes comes first, the stories are secondary. The latter is an added bonus if it proves relevant,
but designers have been unfairly strayed to serve up false concoctions that they think fashion-goers need to hear. Don't force a hidden Lauren Hutton-in-Studio 54-trope down our collective
throats if it just isn't there. Just let the clothes be. But if you're of the same vein as the Mulleavy sisters and Charlie Le Mindu - real artists with real stories to tell - then we welcome you to open
our eyes to your sartorial tale. Otherwise, let your clothes do the talking, and keep all that other mumbo-jumbo to yourself.
but designers have been unfairly strayed to serve up false concoctions that they think fashion-goers need to hear. Don't force a hidden Lauren Hutton-in-Studio 54-trope down our collective
throats if it just isn't there. Just let the clothes be. But if you're of the same vein as the Mulleavy sisters and Charlie Le Mindu - real artists with real stories to tell - then we welcome you to open
our eyes to your sartorial tale. Otherwise, let your clothes do the talking, and keep all that other mumbo-jumbo to yourself.
