At every Ermanno Scervino show we watch the finale while listening to the Stylophonic lyric: “If everybody in the world loved everybody in the world, what a glorious world this could be.” That sentiment is, you know, just so darned beautiful when you apply it to people. But imagine if we applied it to things, art, food, music, or—God forbid—clothes: that would be horrendous.
Liking some stuff and disliking other stuff is both a by-product and definition of individual identity. And knowing and loving stuff by the people you live among is cultural identity. If we loved everything, then we’d lose our identity both individual and cultural. Not that hating stuff you’re not into is reasonable, oh no—respecting difference is the way to go. But cool antipathy is totally fair enough.
Which brings us to today’s Scervino show. It was billed as an “ode to Italian-ness,” and it was. From this outsider’s perspective, it reflected the full spectrum of a cultural taste that runs from the awe-inspiringly sublime (Renaissance art, cinema, cannoli) to the pretty ridiculous (soulful saxophone house, Temptation Island, Matteo Salvini). It seemed incredible that the same runway could host the eye-straining naffness of a look of hot pink floral silk short shorts tied by scarlet leather cord with a fluoro green sequined sweater, alongside a completely composed white crepe suit cut with Palladian precision. There was an albeit glittery, grungy conviction to a full-skirted, oversize paisley-printed organza dress worn above raised sole-glittered oxfords that seemed incompatible with the beautifully made but showgirl-cheesy dresses in nude lace feathers. We’ve already seen palms this season, of course, but here they were finely expressed, flipped 90 degrees and monochromed on a long silk skirt: It was nice. By contrast, a quilted embroidered parka came in colors best worn to attract intervention.
Some of these pieces may have been as incomprehensible as the lyrics of the soulful sax-heavy Mina songs that played during the show, but isn’t that just part of the joy of our diversely mixed, glorious human granola?
