Rush, rush, rush. We dashed to Sportmax in a post-Marras Milan traffic blood clot, all concerned we’d miss it (and we almost did). Once inside, the floor was strafed with lines in neon light meant to echo the symmetry of ski tracks in the snow—within moments, these faded as the spotlights came up. The last gasp of guests was still running into the room.
If the audience was in a hurry, then the models were operating at hyper-speed. They strode around the Sportmax space like women who’d just heard a phone alert from within their fanny packs that told them they were running late for a make-or-break job interview. You felt the breeze as they passed.
The clothes were carefully disjunctive and artfully layered. There were many tight down vests or high-backed jackets worn like life preservers over double-faced outerwear lined in fluoro and fastened with bonded zippers, or off-kilter sliced waistcoat dresses in angled sheets of incongruously analog Fair Isle. A long-armed sweater fronted with frothed yellow mohair was backed in plain blue rib above a menswear checked skirt that furled at the waist as if not quite entirely put on. Dresses featured tying details, and attractive incorporations of sportswear gleaned technical decoration onto simple, freely moving silhouettes. Perhaps a little reminiscent of Lucas Ossendrijver’s excellent recent work for Lanvin menswear, this Sportmax collection was an apparently confusing onrush that hid its own logic in plain sight. In a modern world where traditional categories—evening, sport, day, cocktail, whatever—no longer really apply, everything is interchangeable. Wear it how you want, when you want, where you want. Just get there on time.
