Autumn/Winter Fashion Weeks 2014: The Officially Unofficial Verdict

Jackie Argyle sets the record straight on the runway.


Let’s set this straight: if you’re late-February early-March read the Union – Lower College Lawn – Some Cold Shed Near Anstruther you’ve been doing it wrong. So, so painfully wrong.

The schedule of any self-respecting aficionada/o/ü of fashion in late-February early-March of this year and, in fact, every year since civilization began, ran New York – London – Milan – Paris. Sorry to lay the smackdown on you provincial bitches but you should have learnt that shit in BNOC1001.

Whatever, it’s over and if you missed it you missed it and you should kill yourself (or just read this article and then kill yourself). We’ve been shocked, we’ve been bored, we’ve discretely blanked that intern who took too much coke at the D&G aftershow party in Milan ‘08 and shat herself and after a month without sleep, food or sunlight it’s time to work out what actually happened.

A quick rundown: New York was as fast-paced, and cold, as ever though not without serious innovation on the catwalk. Alexander Wang set the tone by staging his show in Brooklyn (I fucking know) with the pre-show soundbite ‘extreme conditions and survival’. This set the tone for thicker and heavier coats this season -btfw fur is in in in- as well as the survival-of-the-slimmest conditions at champagne-heavy afterparties. The good news: designers seem to have been inspired by the freezing weather on North America’s East Coast this festive season into designing outfits that are actually suitable for a 21st century winter. Oh, and all the little Beckhams and the Big Beckham looked good enough to eat at Victoria’s super-classy show.

London, ah sweet, sticky, silky, smoky, always-single London. Let me count the ways in which I adore you? Tom Ford, Peter Pilotto, Preen (that orange coast!), Christopher Kane, JW Anderson, Anya Hindmarch, Eudon Choi, Erdem and on and on all the way to death by starvation and then heaven.

Milano: all the big names were on delicious form and aren’t they deliciously big names: Versace, Gucci, Armani, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana. It’s enough to get even a Women’s Institute bake sale wet. You see, Milan loves sex and sex loves Milan. Heels were high and dagger sharp. Skirts were short with racy splits. Fishnets tights, lace gloves, thigh-high leather boots were all ubiquitous. Fur was everywhere: Beaver, Alpaca, Chinchilla, Romany, Dachshund.

chanel supermarket

 Paris, as ever, was the earth shattering climax of a month-long bout of tantric fashion sex that would have left even Sting circa 1986 begging for some time off to play his lute. Is anyone else shocked Karl Lagerfeld isn’t dead? Far from it, the man who shows us what Michael Jackson would have looked liked in thirty years time continues to reinvent the catwalk experience. Determined to steal the headlines from designer Nicolas Ghesquière’s debut at Louis Vuitton on the Wednesday, he followed on from his transformations of the runway into an aeroplane and an iceberg in previous years by building a gigantic replica supermarket in the Grand Palais, full to the brim with everyday items which were, obviously, all Chanel-branded: think CoCo Chanel Coco Pops. Models trotted around the ‘supermarket’ with Chanel trolleys and baskets on the pretense of going about their weekly shop. Cara Delevingne was there, Rihanna was there, Karl Lagerfeld, obviously, was there and I personally counted at least three fashion editors die of happiness. Once this bit of fun was over Lagerfeld let the real games begin when he announced at the end of the show that his “valued customers” were free to take as much as they wished. In the ensuing catfight many materialistic fashion editors (ie all) sustained injuries ranging from chipped nails to broken necks and it is rumoured that Tyra Banks is still fighting for sight in her left eye.

 

So the real question for you little people: what is in this fall season and what is oh-oh-oh-so-out? Well fur is in, the crueller the better. Slutty is in, once again, the crueller the better. Big, mannish coats are super-in but only worn hanging loose or with a belt. Think of buttoning up and your first boyfriend will go back in time, break up with you and tell the whole school how bad at giving handjobs you are. In the least surprising move on record since it turned out that Heidi Montag’s tits, ass, nose, heart and legs were fake leopard print is back back back and it’s going to be everywhere. Coats, dresses, blouses, belts, bags – burn the rest of your wardrobe and get that shit on everything. Anything sleeveless, particularly vintage sleeveless is also mega-in. Nothing says commitment like having cold shoulders because you’ve hacked off the sleeves of the original 1950s Balmain coat which you’re grandma left you. And what’s out? Tartan, camo, fluted skirts, dogs, crack, anything even vaguely 60s, pastels, lesbianism: you get the picture, now don’t fuck this up. That’s all for for the moment, my ugly little ducklings.