It seems Phoebe Philo has reached the point where she just wants her clothes to speak for themselves—because she didn’t want to say anything about them before or after her show. To alleviate any suspicion that she might be becoming a recluse, however, the designer was out front, casually milling around, saying hi as her guests took their seats. You cannot blame her for not wanting to take part in the increasingly stressful journalistic scrum, which has developed backstage, as exhausted reporters stick their iPhones in the faces of sleep-deprived designers, a rigmarole no one finds pleasant. Besides, this is no new feeling for Philo. Ever since she was a student at Central Saint Martins, she has always been the girl who stood out from the Conceptuals, and balked at having to give intellectual justifications for her work.
As it transpired, today’s setup and the clothes did speak for themselves—and for a relatable point of view on women’s lives. There was the soundtrack, to begin with: the far-off noise of city traffic, and children’s voices—a subliminal aural image of the school drop-off? Then the models started to circulate, individuals in a busy crowd, each calmly and purposefully on her own route. It wasn’t hard to see the message: This was a broad spectrum of clothes designed to make everyday life a little easier and more beautiful for lots of women.
Need a trouser suit? Then it will have a boxy tailored jacket or coat, with wide, cropped kick flares. The jacket, Philo suggests, might be worn over a long printed skirt. For a summer day dress, there were long-sleeved midis with full skirts. With them, the perfect bag for women who are embarrassed to carry an It bag—a classy, gimmick-free top-handled frame handbag, which looked as if it might have come from the Céline archive. So far, sorted out, simple guidelines for lives, which are already burdened with complications.
But what also draws women to Céline is Philo’s subtly nonconformist taste level. This time it was her brilliant color sense, which demonstrated that distinction—mint green and magenta combined in a low-waisted cotton shirtdress attached to a flowy skirt, with red boots and a bag, for example; or the offbeat shades of lemon and pink in a couple of draped, caped evening dresses. All in all, there was a sense that a Céline woman could go anywhere she needs in these clothes—to the school gate in the trainers, to a meeting in the tailoring, to a gallery opening or a cocktail party—without feeling either underdressed or overdone. It was fashion on an intuitive, clever, understanding wavelength. We know it when we see it—no explanation needed.
