People often talk about the theatrics of haute couture—the smoke, mirrors, flowers, props, sets, and rivers of Champagne—that go into the dizzying creation of a mise-en-scène. That’s all lovely, but it takes a genius of the stature of Karl Lagerfeld to strip back to the simplest device of all: a single-file march-out of extraordinary clothes. Thus it unfolded at Chanel, as girls in black coats, cloaks, or capes—Edwardian and high neck, severe and clerical, Empire and ingénue, gothic and rock 'n' roll, each brilliant in its own right—wound their way around a circular podium, then stood there, stock still.
There was just enough time to absorb the contrasts between precisely sculpted shoulders, long billowy volumes, and short boxy patents, to register plumed collars and edgings of lace. And then, with a single gesture, the coats were opened. Underneath, sensory overload. Signature Chanel wool suits and shifts, fragile A-line chiffons, and eighteenth century Directoire fantasies appeared in a dizzying spectrum of sugar pinks, fuchsias, and subtle metallics, and the lining of every outerpiece was embroidered and decorated to match.
“Hidden luxury” is how Karl Lagerfeld succinctly summed up his knowing spin on Coco Chanel's coordinated dress-and-coat sets of the late fifties. But it’s a major compliment to him that he spun that simple notion into such a wide-ranging creative collection. Chic, cool, romance, simplicity: It had the lot.
