In the usual post-show huddle around Yohji Yamamoto, one journalist suggested that the designer seemed particularly poetic this go-round, to which he instantly replied, “Poetic? I was born to be poetic!”
It’s a description that gets tossed around a little too liberally in the context of clothes; yet Yamamoto has spent nearly 40 years constructing and deconstructing with nuanced intensity and beautiful abstraction. True, there were oversize chapeaux reminiscent of museum portraits; wire hemlines on dresses and skirts that curled around as though suspended mid-gust; looks that appeared eccentrically stitched together from old slips and bedsheets; and patterns of cut-outs that deserved to be psychoanalyzed. But to the extent that the feisty septuagenarian usually indulges his dark Baudelairian tendencies, the sum of these impressively executed parts actually felt less profoundly melancholic, more palpably enchanting.
This came through in the seductive bias cut and drape of certain otherwise minimalist dresses, and the maximalist monochromatic embroideries that turned the final looks into couture-like creations. And Yamamoto’s creative impulses were in full effect; see the two tangled-volume looks whereby the models’ bodies were engulfed in a riot of rainbow doodles, or else the gorgeous game of geometry he played against the skin so that loosely strung shapes created Cubist breaks within his typical black tailoring (note also the foamy blocks protruding from shoulders). For all the experiments in artful exposure these past few weeks, this grouping of coats and dresses would make a fantastic statement for any art fair–related event. Hats with brims that zipped away or were shaped like single-size umbrellas and sneakers with staggered striped soles transferred these Surrealist whims to more accessible accessories.
Of course, the oft-repeated irony with Yamamoto is his expression through clothes cannot be adequately expressed with words. But those who have attended show after show regardless of his perceived relevance—and let’s just say he’s been attracting an increasingly cachet crowd once again (as he should)—can attest that he still finds new and inspiring ways to speak his idiosyncratic language. In his memoir, My Dear Bomb, he noted that people have an inherent desire to be understood. Cue the final question of the night: Does this apply to him, too? “Being misunderstood is good,” Yamamoto answered, coyly. “Misunderstanding is understanding.”
