Here’s the good news: The blazers, blouses, and skinny-pant (pencil skirt) silhouettes in here are really classic and sharp and sexy, if you discount the fact that the pants are latex. The jackets in particular look luxe and well-made. But then a shirt will sneak in that is discordantly bad, and in that sense, the odd lighting worked out well for the models — I wouldn’t want to be seen in that, either. Fundamentally, though, I don’t understand staging a fashion show so that the ensuing photos show your collection to its least flattering light. Maybe it was transcendent in person. Take, for example, this complimentary word salad from the Vogue review:
All of this fetish-gl(e)am contrasting with the strictly buttoned-up was akin to discovering that your Parisienne dowager aunt, should you have one (I don’t), liked to cut loose of an evening by flicking through the writings of the Marquis de Sade. Just to amuse herself. And that she might choose to rest her heels—those in Vaccarello’s show were great; a vertiginous slingback adorned with the kind of buckle beloved of Séverine Serizy—on one of Allen Jones’s ’60s-era kinky coffee tables. It was as if BCBG had gotten all tangled up with BDSM, and how often do you hear that?
Never, with… good reason, I think.