I have a problem with Alexander McQueen. I keep looking at the pictures. Not in the normal scroll, like, save, move on way. I mean properly looking. Going back. Zooming in. Staring at that horn. Looking at the satin. Looking at the ridiculous volume of that skirt and thinking, okay, but why does this actually make sense?
I have a confession: for the first few looks, I thought Roksanda was trying to behave. And I mean that affectionately. There was something almost suspiciously controlled about it. Black tailoring. Soft ivory. Muted beige. Clean trousers. Sharp shoulders. A little scarf here, a glove there. Everything beautifully contained, beautifully disciplined. The sort of clothes that make you stand up slightly straighter without quite knowing why. And then suddenly — colour. Then fringe. Then those enormous sculptural hips. And I thought: OH. There you are.
I knew Simone Rocha was going to give us romance. Lace, flowers, bows, something slightly haunted, something slightly beautiful. That part was never really in doubt. But then the first looks came out and I found myself thinking: Oh. We’re going somewhere else. Because this collection feels less like “pretty” and more like what happens when prettiness starts to unravel. And honestly? I love that.
