A walk past the grand, frost-clad greenhouses—more green cathedrals—of Paris’s beautiful botanical gardens proved the perfect preamble for an Issey Miyake show focused on the sylvan. The print that lurked first at the neck of a crushed-wool collarless deconstructed suit with two functionless buttons and a zipper, then bloomed slowly forth on a shirt, then pants, then flocked trench was a hand-dyed birch design that was Jackson Pollock meets Peter Doig.
The colors shifted toward mellow fruitfulness, rust and olive, and some garments were pitted with spidery, delicate crinkles that looked like a tonal outline of brittle fallen leaves. The shapes were strong—a gentle hybrid of formal and informal with enough originality to owe little apparent debt to either. Perhaps the most radical thing here was a loose-on-the-thigh, fitted-at-the-trouser slim knickerbocker. Two sets of checks added yet more pattern into a collection whose true marvel was the hosiery-snug yet unaggressive fit of its garments to the wearer’s body. Plus, the tree-color tricolor sneakers were cool too. At the end, a wide, loose nylon mac left unbuttoned floated past like a gust of bitter winter mist through the woodenly sitting watchers.
