Here’s a little confession: During the recent New York shows, colleagues and I took to saying, after some show where someone had been too complicated, or overly referential, or pretentious, “Just make clothes.” Sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Just. Make. Clothes. Of course, it’s not easy, at all, especially given the mercurial relationship that so many of us now have with what we want to wear and what we want to buy. Correct me if I am wrong here—and I’m truly happy to be proved otherwise—but has fashion ever been more tricky to navigate? It’s everything about it. The looks that seem to last a nanosecond, hooking us on to the new new thing. The proliferation of (there is no other word) product. And, the increasing (and rightful) rising awareness of the environmental impact of our mad need for more, more, and yet more.
No one could ever accuse Margaret Howell of not making clothes, but there’s no “just” about them. They come layered—literally and metaphorically—with so many associations and triggers: Englishness, craft, respect, utility, consideration, tradition, purpose, and a tangible sense of a future. The latter might surprise some who see Howell as a wonderful purveyor of nostalgia, a designer of misty-eyed remembrances of the past. Not so. Her coed show for Fall 2019, held yet again in the Rambert dance space on London’s South Bank, demonstrated how you can take everything you do and stand for, yet still be clear-sighted about what’s needed now—and next.
Once again, this was a terrific showing of clothes; clothes that looked like they’d stick around, clothes that weren’t hung up on gender distinctions, clothes that felt like they could be personalized to a point that they’d really feel like yours. An interesting side note to this: Howell has always been a lover of the carefully considered styling flourish, but this season it often felt like the models had actually just put on what they were wearing themselves and figured out how they’d actually want to wear them: the casual rolling of the ankles of ecru cotton drill pants; the cinching of trouser waistbands with sturdy belts; silken scarves trailing from back pockets, a deliciously fey touch in contrast with the slouchier, oversize, and casual feel of the pieces they were worn with.
Those proportions are key, particularly to the great outerwear that was on show: functional/utilitarian coats with breast pockets in black or army green; blazers in brown corduroy or earthy check tweeds, cut with a slope to the shoulders, irrespective of gender; and, the standout, black waxed-cotton anoraks and bomber jackets. These were variously worn with white or salmon pink cotton shirting, ivory sweaters and olive cardigans, and pleated skirts in a graphic 2-D leaf print. Clothes, in other words. And truly effortless, real, and desirable clothes, at that.
