Extremely wow: a model draped in burlap and a fringe skirt assemblage of arrowhead-shaped jumbo paillettes. An evil boot version of the Archlight sneaker in black leather with big jangling chains around the ankle. An enormous cowl neck dress with a peplum dropwaist in a crazy metallic fabric from prehistory or 500 years from now, and an even bigger medieval-ass dress with a huge cape back for a Joan of Arc ready to defend us from an army of computer hackers.
A smattering of Los Angeles-based artists were among the Vuitton-clad crowd. One told me he had always wanted to visit the Salk Institute, but it’s tough to get in. “You have to have practically cured something, right?” I joked. “What do you think Nicolas cured?”The arrivals before the show are a fashion show unto itself—a Roman forum for Ghesquière’s philosophy of desire.
Even the sunset and the beginning of the show aligned with celestial logic. Then came the clothes. Ghesquière was. He’s peeled back on the enormous sets that animated his shows for most of his tenure at Vuitton, and instead seems to be pursuing his affection for architecture, which of course suits his sculptural ideas just fine, and allows you to focus on how truly out there his clothes really are.
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