The Bottom Line Calls for Magic

By Robin Givhan
Washington Post Staff Writer
Wednesday, October 1, 2008

PARIS, Sept. 30

The fashion industry, not to be confused with the garment trade, is in the unfortunate position of manufacturing merchandise that many would argue is wholly unnecessary and, when a $10,000 blazer is strutted down a runway by a teenager, is morally offensive.

There is a strong argument against such a position, namely that beauty and artistry are never superfluous and that it is impossible to put a price tag on happiness. But to justify that more liberal position at a time when the U.S. economy is in a landslide and the global repercussions are unnerving, designers here have the challenge of creating clothes that speak of luxury and beauty in a time of cost-cutting and bankruptcies without being uncomfortably ostentatious or stultifyingly reserved.

Designers began work on their spring 2009 collections long before the economic crisis in the United States came to a head and Mr. McCain went to Washington and Mr. Obama called for calm. But warning signs abounded.

A wise designer would long ago have begun asking: What does luxury look like at a time when few people will likely want to be viewed as overtly extravagant? It's a question that puts pressure on any designer who has built a career creating simple little tank dresses and dainty bias-cut gowns, albeit in silk so fine and fragile that one might think the only way to clean them would be to have angels brush them gently with a cluster of golden wheat stalks.

The impressive output of mass marketers has made simplicity a dangerous course for designers of high-end merchandise. Few people are willing to pay hundreds of dollars for a T-shirt or thousands for a slip dress anymore. And there is a level of cynicism surrounding the fashion industry that has reached unprecedented levels.

Everyone with an interest in fashion now seems to feel he has the bona fides -- whatever they may be -- to offer a fashion critique. These self-appointed critics publish their opinions on their blogs, and they back up their analysis with the lessons they have learned by being loyal viewers of "Project Runway." So one can imagine that their judgment of John Galliano's collection for Christian Dior might be harsh. Not because it was bad, but because it lacked magic.

On Monday afternoon, he showed one frilly little mini-dress after another. His inspiration was "tribal chic," and he'd had the models' hair teased, piled high and molded like African baskets. He used puka shells and references to weaving as adornment to give the string of dresses a sense of cohesiveness. And he accessorized them with high sandals with animal print platforms and heels carved like totem poles. But ultimately, when you stripped all that Epcot styling away, you were left with cute flouncy dresses for which it's difficult to make an argument in these economic times.

There just wasn't enough there beyond a Christian Dior label -- as famous as that might be. "Magic" is the elusive, but indispensable, ingredient in fashion. People will buy magic; they'll pay ridiculous sums for it; they'll go into debt (if they can still get credit). They'll eat ramen noodles for a week in order to afford magic. A collection can be pretty and the models can evoke all sorts of swaggering sex appeal. But without the sense that you're witnessing something new or daring or naughty or unbelievable, all you've got is clothes. Which means that all you've got is a lot of stuff that no one needs and no one wants.

The closest thing to magic so far on the Paris runways arrived Tuesday morning at Balenciaga and Junya Watanabe. Neither accomplished it in that full-throated, yes-yes-Yes way, but both were supremely satisfying.

The collection from Watanabe was inspired by African textiles and nature. The show began with the sound of birds. No self-consciously discordant notes. No techno beat. The birds twittered until they were joined by drums and what sounded to Western ears like traditional African songs.

The first model on the runway wore a faded denim skirt with a multi-patterned blouse tied high around her waist to reveal her midriff. A bouquet of dried flowers poured from her head wrap. Mother Africa. Mother Nature. Mama Cool. The message was earthy, warm, comforting and bountiful.

One model after another emerged balancing bushels of flowers on her head and wrapped in a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns printed onto blouses with Fortuny pleats, smock dresses with braiding along one shoulder, and denim skirts that had been embellished with a hem of colorful ruffles. The riot of prints was followed by a soothing cloud of white eyelet fabric, stitched into close-fitting jackets and skirts worn over jeans, or as part of a patchwork dress, sharing space with khaki and white cotton.

Ease was what made this collection so enticing. Is there such a thing as fashion diplomacy? Can fashion be welcoming? Perhaps so. Because this collection, at heart, functioned like an enormous embrace. These disparate elements -- African prints, American denim, French panache -- were all in the capable hands of a Japanese designer. Despite the rustic undercurrent of the collection, Watanabe offered a distinctly forward-looking, global vision.

The Balenciaga presentation could not have been more different. Designer Nicolas Ghesquière envisions a futuristic world where women exist in a kind of hyper-reality. They wear clothes in which joints are articulated via seams and modular patchwork. There is always the sense that the women of his imagination are the sum-total next generation of "Gattaca," "Blade Runner" and "The Avengers' " Emma Peel. Ghesquière's collection for spring is distinguished by glittering bodysuits barely visible under jackets, and collage dresses that have the subtle iridescences of an insect's wing.

Many dresses were constructed with a torso molded to the body and a neckline twisted elegantly to create a splendid contrast. Collarless jackets looked as if they had been sculpted from a million reflective twigs. Plush jackets looked alternately as though they had been molded from a swarm of silver, ridged caterpillars or from millions of tiny springs pinched from the interiors of ballpoint pens. All the strange materials and jigsaw puzzle construction left one mesmerized.

One spent a great part of the show leaning forward in one's seat, eyebrows arched and eyes intently trying to dissect the mysterious clothes as they passed -- the ever-changing streaking lights overhead offering little help in deciphering colors and fabrics. The moments of disappointment were few but intensely felt.

It was sad to see straitjacket dresses that had the models' arms pinned to the sides of their bodies. It seemed to be an out-of-character, self-indulgent blow against women from a designer who otherwise makes them look like superheroes.

The men on the runway, with their lapelless jackets and stirrup trousers and dirty hanks of hair plastered to their faces, looked for all intents and purposes like knife-wielding, shower-stalking psychos who had been on a hunger strike for the last six months. (Can someone feed these boys and then throw them in a shower?) The women moved like they were out to take over the world. The men shuffled along like they needed to be locked up.

Olivier Theyskens at Nina Ricci fell back on his design strength, which is evening wear. Perhaps women will splurge for a grand evening out? Or will those fancy galas be transformed into cocktail parties? The gowns at Nina Ricci on Sunday evening were awash in watercolor prints and delicate ruffled streamers. But they all had essentially the same silhouette: cut short in front with a dramatic train. It is a jarring look under the best of circumstances -- and many of Theyskens's gowns were glorious -- but even if one hammers home the point with gown after gown, occasionally pairing them with a dramatic jacket that has vaguely Victorian, Edwardian or alien references, one is no more convinced of the viability of the silhouette.

Not to be crass, but there's a frugal devil deep in the soul that whines: For these prices, give me the full ball gown. Don't hack out the front. I paid for that fabric! At Balmain on Sunday afternoon, designer Christophe Decarnin reminded audiences of the good old 1980s, a time when overwrought embellishment and ripped jeans counted as fashion. It was a period when the only thing Madonna cared about was getting "into the groove." And in an ode to Madonna, Michael Jackson military jackets and pop-punk style, he created a collection of studded blazers with exaggerated shoulders. They were giddy and frankly silly, but perhaps Decarnin is onto something.

Perhaps the thing to do is not worry one's silly little head about an economic crisis out of one's control. Divest from the stock market while you've still got a few bucks and enjoy the extravagant indecency of shredded jeans embellished with a Celtic cross of rhinestones.

Only Rick Owens, the Goth king, embraced the dark side and seemed to address that chronic churning in one's gut over the possibility that retirement must be pushed back to 95 to make up for lost gains. His collection Sunday evening was dominated by black and gray. He cut black rompers -- such a fanciful word for the rather brooding intellectualism on his runway -- and paired them with headwear that looked like a nun's habit.

His collection was austere, even stern. It lacked the poetic quality that so often lightens the mood of his work. The clothes weren't bulky, and there were cutouts offering a sensual glimpse of skin. But it was impossible not to feel a certain amount of doom in his presentation. For his finale, the models converged on the runway from a chilly burst of white fog. As it dissipated around them, the models resembled a flock of birds. Not colorful peacocks, bluebirds or robins, but in their black and gray attire and head coverings, they looked like far more ominous and foreboding fowl -- circling and biding their time.