To put it in terms the woman herself might appreciate, I was pretty ticked off at the timing of Vivienne Westwood’s death: Just between Christmas and New Year’s, when most of us were either softly or totally on vacation. Then January leads everyone to leave everything from last year behind, meaning we couldn’t linger over her influence.
As the violinist began to play Phillip Glass and the first model came out, slouching with her arms crossed in a sequined, drab-colored jacket and a pencil skirt that seemed to be a larger jacket whose sleeves were knotted in the back, it was clear what Jacobs was up to. Sincere, emotional, genuine. These are not New York qualities, and yet Jacobs remains our ultimate keeper of the flame of New York fashion.
Jacobs is a master of the basic bitch trinity—polka dots, denim, and sequins. For Westwood, he added strapless femininity and plaid, though Westwood-heads will delight in plundering through the collection for other references and love notes.
The casting of the show was young and sharp—wigs cropped into the spunky do’s made famous by New York salons like Vacancy Projects, and dyed acid rainbow shades—and it made me think of the way, when you’re 25 and broke, you might find some slightly moth-eaten but still fabulous big-shouldered cashmere coat at the thrift store, or a big khaki thing with cargo pockets at the Army & Navy store, and stride home from a club at 4 a.m.
this piece is beautifully written.
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