“This is endless,” observed my seatmate. And that was before the 40-look finale—featuring some excellent disassembled American sportswear and much, much more of the multi-layered Marras-mixed orgy of montage and mélange we had just witnessed—walked around a galvanizing group of couples jiving and twisting.
So let’s start at the beginning. The collection was inspired by Malick Sidibé’s photos of nightlife in Bamako, Mali, in the '50s and '60s. They are captivating snapshots of a generation whose looks were shaped both by local tradition and the rock 'n' roll fever then sweeping the globe. The set was a stylized shanty of corrugated iron within which were seated some young black women reading vintage magazines under hooded beauty parlor hair dryers.
“Is this very politically incorrect?” justifiably wondered my seatmate. Marras had a pre-prepared answer of sorts via a Yinka Shonibare quote in his notes: “Today, no one is just one thing. No one can deny the unflagging continuity of long traditions, national languages, and cultural geographies. There are no reasons for insisting on their separation and diversity other than fear and prejudice.” The casting, largely made up of white models, did, however, include many black and Asian faces—far more than Milan usually offers. My unqualified verdict—because it was not my culture Marras was appropriating—is this show did not transgress the border between creative inspiration and cynical exploitation. And achieving diversity on the runway can only be aided when designers of whatever color, even white, are free to respectfully examine the full diversity of human cultural code when assembling their work.
Privilege apart, there's so much to check here. On menswear and womenswear—this had both—gingham was blown up or sized down and mixed with, well, lots and lots and lots: silk prints of flowers and torn netting; a blue and pink floral print on cotton; rose embroideries; raffia flowers; batik prints; opaque Prince of Wales paillette; jigsaws of floral; recycled metal pellets; matte and slick bouclé (which was tufted pale lilac strips of ribbon); bolts of silver knife-pleat fabric with fans of silver pin; thick fishnet mesh; and wispy whiskers of black marabou. To try and take it all in was a recipe for an aneurysm.
With so much detail for the eye to feast on, it was a challenge to digest all the structures within which it was used. Marras patched denim with floral licks of dévoré lace in full-skirted, nipped-waist dresses layered with soft indigo knitwear above cute ankle-strapped slingbacks with slick twists of lurex on the toe. A strapped full dress of red lace came with floral embroidered garland at its empire line. Twists of cutesy rose print, soft pink duchesse silk were provided on the bust and right half of a skirt in a dress otherwise assembled of metal-treated lace. Surplus Italian army parkas were cut apart and inserted with silk panels and sewn with more embroidery. Duster jackets and fantastic hybrids of tailored jacket and varsity bombers were points of contact with the menswear collection that passed alongside the women's. This featured painted knitwear, more patchwork embroidered denim, printed bowling shirts, and shorts: more, more, more.
The last 40 looks—not shot for the dropdown here—were all, Marras said, unique pieces fashioned from surplus offcuts and prototypes created while preparing this collection. They rushed passed as those women enjoying blow dries put down their magazines and started twisting and jiving with partners who had emerged from backstage.
You could argue that Marras could do with some hard-nosed editing. Yet that would suppress the exuberance that makes him such a particularly joyful and spiritually abundant designer. If not quite endless—just 115 looks or so—what of it? I’ve got a lot time for Antonio Marras.
