With the exception of committing factual error to publication, the hollowest feeling a fashion critic can experience is the sensation of tacking against the wind of consensus. For, at its essence, fashion is a tautly wrought tumbleweed of aesthetic agreement.
So if everyone says A when you feel B about C, does that make you a Z? And, like, OMG? This Aquilano.Rimondi collection prompted a mild shiver of that unlovely sensation. “Good luck with that,” said one powerful tastemaker as we bundled toward the door after this show. “Last-chance saloon,” summated another as we bundled preshow toward it. Yet the most damning thing these eyes observed about this collection was the odd flash of meh.
The idea of wearing paillette miniskirts as oomphed-up belts over long-yolked menswear shirts wasn’t deeply flattering—the tip of the yolk dangled unfortunately. The shirts themselves, though, were excellent, especially an endearing short-sleeved one with proper dress shirt cuffs. There were some interesting takes on the nightie/sleep slip as outwear. AR’s versions were scalpel sliced, and when there came ruffle, it was applied with a more censoriously resistant eye to abandon than most designers have succumbed to this season: minimal romantic. The transliteration of Warhol florals to paillette reliefs was efficiently OK. And the X-ray white organza jacket that revealed the skeleton of its tailoring was strong, yet even better when fully opaque and black. AR seems to be languishing under a reputational cloud, but this collection—while no life changer—signaled shafts of sunlight.
