Initial reaction:
Women "of the night" who've had a few dangerous liaisons emerging from their lovers' beds in disheveled layered slip dresses, cropped tailoring with low-slung hipster trousers and twisted boob tubes with mannish coats – the kind that Yohji Yamamoto does so well. The models slow-walked to a simmering tango offering up knowing glances here and there. Yamamoto once said in his autobiography, My Dear Bomb, “There is not much to be said for exposing the flesh as if in some blatant offering.” Here there was flesh but it wasn't up for grabs. What Yohji's women concealed still made the mind wonder.
How it was worn:
The hair was wetted, slightly marvelled and matted down so that it fell into the bruised, purplish eyes, framed by etch-a-sketch eyebrows. Some of the models held their hands high at the chest as though there were pockets there. Suspenders and stockings in cotton jersey or red glitter were cut off at the ankles. This wasn't a straightforward sexpot. The finale bride, who despite having her bosom stuffed with purples orchids and dahlias, wore a boned and framed skirt the width of the catwalk and on her head was a padded fabric covered helmet. The body may be on show but the mind was very much untouchable.
Stand out pieces:
Tangled up metallic lace that bled from gold to silver revealing everything underneath, and a burnt gold tinsel knit dress. Towards the end of the show, panels of textiles from Chinese minority tribes also crept into the black masculine tailoring.
