Outerwear for dungeon dwelling. Dark, sexy and suppressed, a series of Patrick Bateman of American Psycho-esque models appeared from the shadows, in outsized silhouettes and draped in blood red.
Glossy puddles spilled across the charcoal black concrete runway, as if the apocalyptic storms from the world outside had dripped and interrupted the show. A John Cooper Clarke poem read over thumping bass opened the show: "Apparel, Jim, watch this space/when winter shrinks your pretty face."
A slick metallic PVC cape engulfing slouchy trousers and dulling a sky blue print beneath; the tightest of tight red plaid shirts shrink wrapped in clear plastic; and lacquered duffle coats as if they had been dipped in molten acrylic.
How they wore it:
Hair was slicked to foreheads from a recent downpour; not even the soundtrack “House on Fire” by Outfit could fill the space with warmth.
When it started to rain for real during the finale, and the models endured a further soaking. Golden showers have never been so sexy.