I was sitting in Cortina d’Ampezzo, a friend whooped it up in Klosters, and not so far away there was Val d’Isère. Except that none of us were really in those jet set–y ski destinations, which always sound like the kind of places where Roger Moore–era 007 (may he rest in peace) would have dispatched a cat-stroking nemesis. Rather more prosaically, we were in seating sections named after those resorts in the ever-so-slightly stifling heat of Jean Paul Gaultier’s Rue Saint-Martin studio, awaiting his Couture show to start.
Never let it be said that Gaultier doesn’t love a theme. Some of his most monumental collections of the past were worked to very specific ones, indeed—be it tribal tattooing and fetish piercing, or the clothing worn for religious observance by Orthodox Jews. This time it was ski culture, focusing on the glamazon on the chairlift, and the bejeweled and bedazzled snow bunny. Even before the show started, it was plainly evident, what with Gaultier’s program displaying his old-school penchant for naming each look with a suitably saucy wink: Gstaad the Way It Is, L’Avalanche, What You Looping At, et cetera.
Jokes, as we all know, can be a potent vehicle for something deeper, and so they were here: Humor in the service of heightening the sincere commitment of Gaultier to his couture—I Look Like I Don’t Take It Seriously But Really I Do! For all of the campy excess on his runway, glance to the balcony above and you can see his atelier gathered together to view their (oftentimes very impressive) handiwork. And for every RuPaul’s Drag Race quip (one look was dubbed “Sasha Velours”) there were some exquisite pieces that riffed on Gaultier’s iconic moments, but look just as good now: the slouchy cardigan jacket embellished with blue and white Fair Isle patterns created out of pearls, say, or the fairly abbreviated Aran sweater dress crafted from mousseline ribbons. Tailoring, as usual, took center stage. There was the off-kilter bias cutting of his le smoking, or a camel coat deconstructed to slip-slide with a swoosh across an ivory knit body, both looks being pretty darn chic. That’s a phrase one usually wants to avoid like a skier hitting glassy ice when discussing a runway show, but in this case, it’s entirely appropriate.
