Spring 2009 Fashions: The Return of the 60s and 80s

Even given my mature years, I am fond of the quadrennial, biennial, annual, etc., international events that come around at pleasingly reliable intervals to throw the press in a frenzy for a week or so, and absorb the public in a meaningless but amusing cycle of entertainment. The Olympics are the obvious example. I watched part of the Opening Ceremony, and I liked it very much though I'm not usually a fan of mass spectacles. Putting aside the endless sanctimonious and hypocritical criticism of China for one moment, it must be admitted that it was well-thought-out, refined and impressive. But otherwise I barely followed the Games. Now, however, it's New York Fashion Week, so I'm presently absorbed in the Spring 2009 ready-to-wear runway shows. What I do is that I go to Style.com and look at the slideshows, which give an excellent overview.

Today I started out with Tracy Reese's runway show, where I liked the delicate colours and the elegant but relaxed tropical sensibility. I only thought that the thin scarves, which remind me of eel spines, and which are very unlikely to keep anyone warm, look silly. The models (who all looked tired; hopefully not because of starvation but because of a wild weekend) were permitted to be themselves; their hair was simply pulled back and they were not styled out of recognition. It was a stark contrast to the Hervé Léger by Max Azria show. There the models were dressed in sheaths of dress, which always appeared to be missing a few inches above the knee (a Spring 2009 trend, apparently), in abstract patterns that suggested modernist lampshades and chairs and futons – not clothing, or fantasies in glossy, whipped ribbon. The individuality of the wearer was effaced, and the models were all required to be "sexy" in a generic way. Their hair (wig!) was invariably long, sleek, and straight, and they walked with the purposeful stride that is intended to indicate independence and strength, but does no such thing. By the end, in a procession of bikinis composed of wrapped bandages that put me in mind of sadomasochism and did not appeal to me at all, even the models' eyes were blotted out by huge black sunglasses, and they were reduced to just bodies.

The GAP runway did not impress me much either. It was a nonchalantly layered jumble of the outfits that one finds on the street anyway. What I did enjoy was the cheerful colours. This was the one striking element that it had in common with the DKNY line, which was evidently much inspired by the eighties in terms of the fluorescent colours and black. A year ago I liked Donna Karan's collection very much; it was elegant, in lovely hues (dark gold, grey-blue, mahogany, etc.), and classic, though I suspect that it would have been even more refined in the hands of a Parisian designer. This week's show was immensely different. After a smattering of conservative outfits in the beginning, there came a lively procession of informal street clothes, bright and loose and screaming something that was not exactly taste but at least a humorous nonchalance. It was not at all what I'd wear, and I thought that the footwear was abysmal (worse than abysmal, but the words fail me), but it was fun. For instance, I enjoyed the second outfit: baggy black drawstring pants paired with a long swathe of black and yellow fabric that passed as a strapless top. The colours may suggest traffic signs, and it's not a highbrow ensemble, but it was a relief to see what was, I suspect, a vibrant riff on the "Palestinian scarf" that has been in fashion for so long.

Sidenote: I have considerably tired of the "Palestinian scarf" as a fashion fad. As the fad was in its earliest stages, the "Sartorialist" photographed a woman who had carelessly draped a generous, large one around her throat, and it had a pleasantly novel effect. Even a scarf with the same pattern in dark blue – or, let's say, a nice long fringe – would be a welcome change. But for a long time I've only seen teenagers all wearing cheap little copies – which incidentally remind me of babies' bibs – of the black-and-white original in the same tedious way. Besides, I do not at all like the idea of wearing clothing that carries so much meaning for some people as a mindless accessory.

At any rate, my favourite show of the day was Diane von Furstenberg's show. I disliked the ghoulishly strong 60s makeup (loads of black eyeliner, which offers a nightmarish contrast to the eyewhite, and nude lipstick), the strings of feathers in the models' hair, and whatever odd accessory it was that looked like blood dribbling down the side of one model's head. I feel offended whenever I see aesthetically cheap imitations of Native American art, and there were unfortunately specimens of it in this show, too. As for the handbags, they were "loose, baggy monsters"; one was essentially a Rastafarian wool hat rendered in what looked like silver beading lined with flesh-coloured silk.

On the positive side, the show was exuberant and carefree in its surprisingly tasteful florals and strong colours and the unchecked flow of the fabric. I doubt that the woman (or drag queen (c: ) exists who would not feel happy and comfortable in at least one of the dresses, and at the same time the clothing did breathe the spirit of its designer. I don't like vanity collections very much, where a designer moulds a whole line of clothing in the image of his personal style (I'm thinking here of Karl Lagerfeld, and his tendency of trotting out his models exclusively in black and white and grey, with snippets of leather here and there – never mind that his customers might, and rightly so, have different tastes), but in this case it was fine. The fabric prints often had a nice palette that at times reminded me of Gauguin or Matisse, but that was mostly a happy hippie spectrum; and a curvy, black, strapless minidress, near the end of the show, looked like a fiesta in vivid drip-painting. Only one question vexed my soul, and that is what the designer's famous "wrap dress" looks like.

P.S.: Today was, of course, my birthday. There were congratulatory telephone calls, and Gi. and J. went shopping and came back with chocolate and cake for all. Altogether I've come to the sensible realization that, despite impending health insurance payments and the like, having a birthday is nice. (c:
P.P.S.: I think it is a little silly how the fashions constantly reach back to previous decades. It reminds me of the math problem with the squirrel and the ladder.