The invitation for Yohji Yamamoto’s latest undertaking was an employee timecard in an envelope printed with Working 24 hours everyday. If it wasn’t clear within the first few looks that the designer was sending out beautifully assembled permutations of working-class uniforms, the laborer message was loud and clear when exclamatory words started appearing across loosely structured jackets. Save the manufacturing workers! and The times are changing too fast are two examples. Backstage, Yamamoto confirmed in his charismatically cryptic way that all these clues added up to a lineup of guys who “use their own bodies” to get by. “They work, they fight.” More important than who they were, was why Yamamoto had determined to build a collection around them. “I admire those people who work seriously using their own body. We’re now at a time in the world where the most important business is money-makes-money. And I hate it.”
Yamamoto’s concerns dovetail intriguingly with his talent as a designer: construction versus deconstruction, making with the body vs. making for it. He could have represented his subjects as downtrodden, resigned to a dead-end future; instead, he outfitted them nobly. Relaxed silk jacquards; neat gray topped with velvet dusters in a palette of Renaissance paintings—all boasting reversible, hand-painted linings; sturdy white lab coats over back jumpsuits; and a neo-bohemiam grouping of layered prints featuring biomorphic camo blobs and skulls that he drew himself. The final model who swaggered down the runway in an exquisitely draped black cape, coveralls, inline skate–inspired boots, and leather work gloves projected more elegance than the most polished businessman. Yamamoto may have made more directional statements in the past, but this was among his most impassioned—and certainly one that was relevant internationally, from Japan to France and the U.S.
Yamamoto’s casting continues to set the diversity bar high; the models all seemed stoic, unfazed that their faces were caked with stylized dirt. As for the jacket that read YOU have no marbles!! well, whether this referred to a real accusation lobbed at the designer or something made up was irrelevant. “I’ve still got mine,” he assured.
