The invitation for the Yohji Yamamoto show came wrapped around a booklet of sticky notes, as though the designer was encouraging guests to jot down their thoughts. This writer didn’t catch anyone putting the mini notebook to use; but then, only a few of us have a duty to do so. What follows are mine.
As with every season, Yamamoto gave his audience much to contemplate—and ultimately, to wear. The first and largest grouping of looks featured ensembles assembled largely through rows of buttons rather than draping. We often take for granted the gray area between a piece of clothing being on or off, open or closed; but Yamamoto’s ideas are never black or white, even if they present exactly that way on the surface. Asked what he wanted to say with the technique, he replied, “Each customer can play with each silhouette; it’s a natural change.” And to illustrate, he asked permission to unbutton my jacket, re-buttoning it irregularly. Note to self: very cool. “See, you have this strange new mood; it’s very easy, but it’s still very serious.”
The serious part was telling. For some time, the music that accompanies the collection has been just Yamamoto and his guitar. For this show, he sung most of the words in French. “I wanted to create dark, heavy music, so in this case, English sounded too light,” he explained. Whatever emotion people felt, the clothes were certainly not heavy. Yamamoto relied primarily on cotton—washed toile and poplin—instead of the usual gabardine, and introduced a suite of fine-gauge knits, their sheer effect more sensual than usual. Further on, the complex creations gave way to more reduced, more exposed designs. These were the most beautiful dresses of the lot, yet to Yamamoto, they represented the predicament of the present. “It’s this crazy global warming, you know. But I don’t want girls to show too much of their body, just the back,” he said before revealing that the stickers on their skin were rather racy. One read, Love Yohji Sex.
The fact that he noted “people are suffering” without claiming his clothes would solve this felt honest, if nothing more. And there was something about the bustled looks toward the end that suggested he was just as content looking back as forward. Still, the multitude of shoes offered some sort of metaphorical path: wedge sandals, tennis shoes, futuristic sneakers, derbies, desert boots, open-toed oxfords; each shifted the reading of the looks, from feminine to intellectual to survivalist. They reaffirmed that Yamamoto’s approach befits a wide swath of women—far more than we give him credit for.
