It looked better, too, on the incandescent runway, which was staged, at first, a bit like a Spiritualized concert, all light show and dissonance. The clothes were fantastic—a little ‘80s glitz and gloss, a little ‘20s bathtub gin, a little ‘70s Valley of the Dolls, and fully in love with the fabrics, whether feather-festooned silk chiffon, totally sequined from neck to ankle or in complex and stoic brocade. Michele also seemed to pluck at least one model from the New York creative class where he found Trouble Andrew: the young feminist photographer and artist Petra Collins walked in one of those very brocade suits and giant platforms that recalled Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver.
To the Times, Michele called his collection “rock ’n’ roll Renaissance, 1980s Renaissance, street-style Renaissance, bourgeois Renaissance, chinoiserie Renaissance,” and critic Vanessa Friedman notes that Michele’s show program referenced Deleuze. But Friedman didn’t seem to like it much, writing that “the one thing missing thus far has been a certain rigor—with his own thinking, and with his talent. One that distills instead of decorates.” Which is fine, but I fucking love the excess, which inches toward being philosophically chintz but relaxed in its own luxury, a perfect analogy for this information-onslaught in which we live. Michele wants to give us more, more, more, and we’re prepared for it. Give me that pink fur jacket.
Contact the author at [email protected].