Yohji Yamamoto's shows are unparalleled in Paris—if for no other reason than for their echt Yohji-ness. The cavalcade of boys and men (Yamamoto insists, against conventional fashion wisdom, on casting both) floating down the runway in their billowing culottes; long, almost tuniclike white shirts; and patchwork-piece jackets struck a poignant note. His play with large volumes called to mind both traditional ethnic garb and street wear, reminding you how much the expressive bagginess favored by the new generation of street-style blog courters owes to the designer (even if, alas, they don't all know they're quoting him). Seen one after the other after the other, those enormous culottes, often rippled with pleats, and alternated with ultrawide cropped pants, resounded like a sartorial gong. (The music, for what it's worth, was peppy Asian pop.) It didn't sound like much else going on in Paris this week, but it rang in your ears a bit—and Pied Piper-ishly, it seemed to call droves of Yohji faithful to huddle and wait on the tiny street outside.
