No phone pictures, and no provision of a notebook and pen this time, either. The Row has us at its mercy as far as its presentations are concerned, teaching us a lesson in the disciplines of looking and remembering.
Apart from recalling the surge of anxiety and self-irritation this caused on that sunny Paris morning some 25 shows ago, what impressions of the moment survive? Slimmer silhouettes. Quite a lot of Martin Margiela-esque raw-edges, chiffon-veiling, and pressed-in wrinkles. Shredded velvet ribbons. Things washed to perfect imperfection.
Oh, yes—and the brilliant trousers. And a sighting of a long narrow evening skirt the like of which I’ve wanted for years. That shift dress apparently made of a white bedsheet is coming back to me. How I really liked the way they showed how wearing a single long strand of pearls can be cool. And I can’t stop thinking of the slouchy-chic knee length black double breasted evening coat they put out at the beginning.
The silence of the Olsen sisters, same as the silence of Phoebe Philo, does nothing to damage their business. Because their clothes speak for themselves, and are worn by grown-up models of an age or thereabouts of the women who buy them, there is no need for the usual razzmatazz of a show. No backstage interview scrum, no constantly shifting show spaces, no show pieces just for the sake of it. It speaks of women’s confidence, through and through.
Despite the lack of pen and paper, these are the mental notes that aren’t going away. It was nice to get a tiny box of cherries on the way out, too.
