FW 25 Review

Reviews & some fashion thoughts featuring Jil Sander, Ferragamo, Chloé, Vaquera.

Hello!

I have wanted to do some fashion writing for some time, so this post collates all of my fashion-week thoughts— these are essentially developed from my micro-reviews I have been posting in my Notes section. They are instinctive in style, as I am trying to be better at simply writing-and-posting. I am currently working on a proper essay about Alexander McQueen, so if you like this, you may enjoy that as well. I am also writing about McQueen for part of my master’s dissertation, so I am also trying to be judicious about which parts I include because I don’t want to plagiarise myself, lol.
I hope you enjoy. I love to hear your thoughts, so please do leave a comment if you have opinions!

Jil Sander (Milan)

A cool and rational world at Jil Sander— my favourite aspect of this collection was the manufacturing of and play with light. The tenebrism here: a shaft of light falling across the shoulders, as though from a high window, revealing a delicate floral print, is so striking and beautiful.

This awareness of light was present throughout the collection—here, glossy, black feathers catch the light as though they are actually silver: black becomes bright, and light is created from seemingly nowhere. Indeed, in the show notes, the collection is described as a ‘bright metaphor for love’. The tonal totality of black shimmering with light is, as far as I am concerned, a perfect execution of that vision.

This meteoric piece, a supernova on the shoulders. Apparently space smells like gunpowder and raspberries.

There’s something of a Black Sea wind-chill here, I thought. I love an austere and cool beauty— the beautiful does not always have to be flushed, supple, and warm. Sometimes it can be cold and remote, disciplined, brutal. But there again, in the sheen of that black leather, is the shine at the centre of this collection— like moonlight on the sea at night. There is such a beautiful interplay of textures in this collection.

The entire collection is judicious and rationalised — where a more elaborate detail is present, like a fur cuff on the shoulder, it is counterbalanced with the structural minimalism Jil Sander is known for.

It was the final collection under the creative direction of Lucie and Luke Meier, and so it makes perfect sense to bid farewell in sentimental style, at such a cool temperature.

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Ferragamo (Milan)

Ferragamo sent fierce flocks of birds flying down the runway— to both paradise and hell, this collection was beautiful and sinister. The theatricality of this collection is just fabulous. They look like a cunty production of Faustus, angels and devils indiscernible from each other, clad in bloody feathers. I recently read a fascinating paper entitled ‘How Do You Dress a Body Without Organs?’ by Stephen D. Seely, which examines how ‘affective fashion’ creates non-human assemblages which are ‘not quite human or bird but a becoming-otherwise’.¹ Seely uses the work of Rei Kawakubo, Gareth Pugh, and (my beloved and favourite designer of all time) Alexander McQueen as a lens through which to investigate fashion’s capabilities in creating this becoming process. This effect is evident in this Ferragamo collection, and draws to mind the act of dressing as adding a phenomena to the human form which alters perceptions of it. But, we also know that dressing in a certain way alters our perception of ourselves. What fascinates me most about clothes is the way it empowers you to control how you are perceived. For example, you can easily build a reputation as someone who always looks incredible, and there is something unassailable, isn’t there, about these people who are always put together, always beautifully-dressed, always interesting. You are a fun and exciting addition at a party if you rock up looking fantastic. You can literally improve the room; observe the eyebrows shooting up, in gladness at your appearance, or otherwise. You may notice the way that eyes slide towards you, either excited to see you or in silent envy. Either way, you have successfully produced an effect, and have become an important aspect of the room. If you can withstand being looked at, which after a while becomes more entertaining than intimidating, you have achieved something which most people cannot, i.e., successfully holding a gaze. All of this elevates you. It signifies who you are to yourself and others. I have made friends with people because we have recognised something in each other: a propensity to serve serious cunt. A care and an awareness for the intricacies, the fun, the discipline of dressing. I am being deadly serious when I remind us of Rihanna’s all-timer: ‘She can beat me, but she cannot beat my outfit.’². It may have been slightly tongue-in-cheek, but she was ultimately revealing a fundamental truth about access to power through personal presentation. And the speech from The Devil Wears Prada. There simply is no being above fashion and dressing. Humans are visual beings and we live in a highly visual culture. You are participating whether you willed it or not. May as well have some fun with it. Fashion is a form of artistry. Many sniff at this notion, and it is no coincident that they are often very badly dressed.
I want to disclaim that I am well aware how access to capital enables people to dress better. However, I feel uniquely positioned to say this. The epistemic critical distance is the same inch for inch as the distance between me and a Schiaparelli bag, which I really fucking want. I am a life-long thrifter. I remember the days when private school girls would turn their noses up at the concept of charity shopping. Well, I always knew it was cool, and my incredible collection of jackets is testament to that. I love going charity shopping— to refer to it as a hobby is actually a disservice. I am a hunter gatherer. I was on Depop before rich people ruined it. Each item of clothing I wear has more often than not been purchased for less than ten pounds, and essentially always second hand. I definitely have an essay in me about the fast-fashion slop and how it has made many of you buy foul, unattractive clothing which not only looks objectively fucking tasteless and terrible but has been produced, with your knowledge, in sweat shops, literally with blood and tears. In the last five years, I have bought a maximum of five garments brand-new. The rest has all been second hand. And I have been doing this since I was about fourteen. I have never, in my life, bought a single item from Pr*tty L*ttle Th*ng or variations thereupon. And I have not found that hard. Point being: there isn’t an excuse in my book.

Anyway, the costume-esque nature of Ferragamo’s Fall-Winter collection had me really thinking about the affective powers of fashion, and regardless of how intentional, or camp, or high-register, everything we wear is a costume.

This is insane. I love it. Terror and magnificence!

Chloé (Paris)

To switch now into an entirely different register, one of my favourite collections.

It’s giving bitchy heiress. And I’m in love with her, personally. She could ruin my life, and I would thank her. There will be poetry, I'll say. She’ll say: Bof.
There is, in this collection, a gorgeous and sublime laziness. Structurally, many of these pieces closely resemble sleepwear: silk slips, a pink quilted coat with a glossy fur trim which is so almost a dressing gown, negligees beneath fur coats. It’s not overdressing— many of the looks are just one piece. And I just love the storytelling here: if this is an autumn/winter in the life of the Chloé woman, she has slipped straight out of bed on a chilly October afternoon in luxurious and sultry nightwear, thrown a fucking fabulous coat over herself, and stepped out into the world, completely at home in it, trailing behind her an intoxicating sillage which leads all the way home to her perfumed silk pillows.

Another example of these princess-esque nightgowns; blush-pink, sheer, balletic. Even in the still photos you can sense the movement in this dress— flirtatious, yes, but also unassailable. Paired with this undone hair, which could be either a first-waking perfection or post-coital, well that’s French nonchalance for you, baby! Nothing about this look is too fussy— somehow, a sheer, layered skirt in dusk-pink, empire line mind you, appears ethereal and effortless. Is there not a flavour of Elizabeth Siddal here? The Pre-Raphaelite beauty— herself a model and artist— with flows and flows of hair pouring down her back, more often than not in a beautiful gown? In some moments of the runway film, I was struck by this image of her walking out of her paintings into the twenty-first century.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Marriage Portrait of Siddal

The proximity to being a gown which this coat possesses is emblematic of this sublime laziness— it eliminates the necessity for many fussy layers, and therefore for effort. Note the hair tucked into the scarf. And the shoes— princess-coded little court shoes for the girl who has shit to do, and needs therefore leather slippers instead of glass.
With her preference for a world of constant pyjamas, and being beautifullazyrich, a version of the narrator from Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation could easily have worn some of these looks on her trips to the Bodega. I mean, isn’t this whole collection kind of perfect for her? In fact, is there any world where these cunty little bags don’t contain prescription drugs? (And actually, if certain sources are to be believed, Siddal was also into opiates).

I need this for my Amitriptyline. Then, I need to be put on Adderall. And I could put those in there as well, and get some things done for once.

A fucking fabulous coat— and what underneath? Practically nothing. One of my favourite modes of glamour of all time. Such little effort, and yet— therefore— maximum return.
This flavour of femininity is just so gorgeous, so timeless, to me. The awareness of one’s own beauty required to step out, bare-faced, in so little and so much simultaneously, I love it.

Vaquera (Paris)

Lastly: Vaquera. The outrageous proportions of this collection are fabulous. A particular highlight for me is the repurposing of classic articles of clothing into something new, particularly the exaggerated bras pictured below. There’s something inherently feminine about them, but being connected to female sexuality, and a garment which is most often kept hidden, creating such a hyperbolic version of it creates camp from the taboo. They are theatrical, ironic, and fun, while managing to be beautiful at the same time. Just like my own perfect tits, in fact.

The enormous, hyperbolic pearls, and the mixture of textures here is just delicious to me! I am a something of a monochromatic dresser myself and often wear head-to-toe black, sometimes with white, and so this collection spoke to me personally in that sense, but I also really feel that this chess-set colour scheme is offset perfectly by the meta-theatrical humour of its cartoonish proportions.

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If you enjoyed this post, I can happily follow it up with a sequel, as I haven’t even done Schiaparelli.

Thank you so much for reading A Pearl Dissolved in Wine. I write about performance, glamour, and literature, among other things, with both sincerity and bitchiness depending upon the subject matter. Please consider subscribing— I am writing with more regularity now that I am no longer catatonically depressed. How cool is that?

Have a wonderful week. Sois sage.

Until next time,

— M

1. Stephen D. Seely, Women’s Studies Quarterly, Spring 2012

2. Robyn Rihanna Fenty, CFDA Awards, June 2014