The invitation signaled that this Yohji Yamamoto show would be especially meaningful. Beside a cropped female nude appeared “Hommage” followed by “1. M. Cubisme” and “2. Mon cher Azzedine” (the French spelling was used).
The friendship between Yamamoto and Azzedine Alaïa dates back to 1987, and a quick online search yields a photo of them together from 1990—both still in their 40s yet already well established. Whatever ostensible difference in vision, these two fashion legends were and remain overwhelmingly alike: the obsessional rigor of construction, no matter the outcome; the dogmatic devotion to black (in design and in dress); elusiveness to all but their inner circle; a fantastic rejection of trends amid a steady embrace of business; a mischievous twinkle in the eye that anyone who’s had the great privilege to meet them could confirm. Backstage, when Yamamoto mentioned “shock” and “loss” upon learning of Alaïa’s death in November, it was clear that words wouldn’t come anywhere near expressing his feelings with the same sincerity that a collection could.
If you weren’t apprised of the homage, you might have noticed recurring ideas such as staggered volumes from twice-layered coats and sculpted kimono sleeves picking up on the link. Most likely, these were Yamamoto’s highly interpretative evocations of Picasso—“Cubism, Surrealism, and abstraction were triple difficulty,” he said. Yet the leather jackets, scalloped-edge boots, and a double-breasted coat that doubled up on buttons were so strongly wearable, it would be an injustice to frame them as “art.”
Meanwhile, knit looks encircled with hourglass waist shapers—a cross between an obi belt and a corset—and leather skirt paneling that hugged the hips so that fabric spilled out qualified as the strongest tributes. But even then, the intention felt more about paying respect than meeting halfway. At one point, the lyrics that he sang—Yamamoto continues to compose his own show music—consisted of “I think of you,” “Winter is very cold,” and “Where are you?” Unsurprisingly, the question accompanied a lineup of creations that resist any straightforward explanation.
At the risk of sounding insensitive, people might not ordinarily rush to buy clothes that materialized as a means of grieving. But the blackness that could have registered as funereal didn’t; and whether Yamamoto found closure or not, the emotion coaxed out some indisputably beautiful work. Alaïa’s partner, Christoph von Weyhe, and his studio director, Caroline Fabre Bazin, shared a touching exchange with Yamamoto postshow, the latter visibly moved. Then he offered up, “I had to challenge myself to something that was never done in fashion,” noting that the process of honoring his friend while adhering to his original Picasso plan was terribly exhausting. “When I have too much strong emotion, I can’t work; [the clothes] have to remain in reality.”
The reality beyond the clothes, of course, is that designers are not immortal even if designs by the likes of Alaïa and Yamamoto transcend time. To this extent, it is a shame that Yamamoto doesn’t draw quite the PFW audience he deserves. In an age of schizophrenic creative-director turnover, the new notion of a “last collection” is trivial compared to the ultimate last collection from a respected master. “I was thinking, After finishing this show, I will go, pass away,” he said, thankfully with a laugh. Does he continue to feel Alaïa’s presence? Yamamoto didn’t skip a beat: “All the time.”
