Initially, as I clicked through the looks, I completely forgot that Galliano was behind this collection. Temporarily unburdened by the ugly context of the designer’s bigotry, I was wholeheartedly taken in by the story these garments tell—they’re not wearable, which usually annoys me, but there’s a clear, focused ascent from the dirt to the clouds, from cocoon to moth and back again. The last look, a plastic-trimmed wedding gown that’s very Rihanna at the Met Ball (everyone is copying Rihanna, as freaking always) crossed with Bjork on a glacier, is a feat, managing to be earthy and futuristic and weightless and burdensome all at once.
Shit, I realized.
Another compelling choice was made in Galliano’s casting: three men walked in this show, a subtle pull for the naturalness of androgyny in a collection centered on the organic. They’re almost completely undetectable, save some unshaven legs and much-larger shoes:
But with one inspired decision comes another gigantic letdown—while The Guardian hopefully noted the “suggestion of a reference to Galliano’s repentance, in a model wearing a sackcloth coat,” it seems that the designer only cast one single, lone, bitterly token non-white model. That is not repentance—that is perfunctory PR.
So. Welcome back, asshole. You’ll fit right in.
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Images via Getty.
