Milan Vukmirovic was thinking lovely thoughts this season for a Ports 1961 collection lit up by starbursts of amore. Love, said the clothes in Japanese, Russian, French, and Arabic. Ten shirts pulsed with differently beaded and embroidered anatomical illustrations of the heavily romanticized muscular pump that keeps us all alive, and is yet vexatiously our rational undoing.
Vukmirovic said he’d been thinking about Trainspotting; ah, those glory days (I lived in Edinburgh then). The densely weaved tracksuits with knitted detachable hoods or micro-aprons were indeed conceptually born slippy. His black and bengal-striped body-armor gilets were nice to see, if not necessarily pragmatically so to wear. Likewise, the slash-sleeved disassembled outerwear complicated by D-rings and straps that Vukmirovic is committed to—as are many other designers—drooped somewhat. Conversely, his signature Lurex striped peacoats were all that, recognizably reliable yet something else, too. Meanwhile, though, disjunctive shirting was satisfyingly done, odd panels interjected as rebuke to untucked waistline. There was a clinical masculinity here occasionally undercut by lavish expression, viz the paillette piece at the end. Vukmirovic could let himself go a bit more. The heart shirts had a great beat.
