NEW YORK — It is two weeks after the American presidential inauguration, fourteen days so fraught and full of horror that it is almost impossible to believe what has taken place in the blink of an eye. So perhaps the clothes on Marc Jacobs’ catwalk Monday night — the gargantuan if well-tailored trousers, the tough football-player-shoulders undermining the sweetness of the sweaters — could be seen as armour, as deadly serious preparation for what may lie ahead.
The show takes place in the New York Public Library, and you can’t help but ponder the spectre of book banning as you walk through these storied portals and take your seat for an event that, as usual, lasts for under ten minutes, but is no less impactful despite its brevity.
Ozempic be damned — only the spindly arms and limbs emerging from these powerful poufs will indicate that the wearer is sticking to her prescription. Abbreviated dresses transform you into a plush lavender stuffie; other ensembles evoke the outlines of a bullet proof vest. The silhouettes are undeniably reminiscent of Comme des Garçons’ notorious “tumour” collection, a revolutionary event that caused a scandal when it debuted for Spring/Summer 1997. Those phenomenally lumpy garments distorted even the loveliest physique in a manner that was frankly disturbing and deliberate challenging. “I realised that the clothes could be the body, and the body could be the clothes,” Kawakubo once said of this transgressive undertaking. Jacobs current collection is a clear homage to that bulbous cavalcade. (He has never made a secret of his admiration for Kawakubo’s work, even attending the 2012 Met Gala in a Comme des Garçons black lace dress.)
There is some confusion among audience members as to what season is being offered here — some people allege that this is meant to be Spring/Summer 2025, but the massive fair isle pullover and humongous puffer jacket argue otherwise. Then again, what season is it on Mars? Because if that is where your office is located, and you have been ordered to return to your desk five days a week, there are suits with a traditional tweedy sensibility lurking beneath those pillowy contours. And really, if you see something you want, who cares what month it is? Assuming you can locate it at one of the extremely limited venues where these high-end Marc things are sold, you will probably just break down and spend the money.
And there are things you do want — there always are at a Jacobs’ show, no matter how arcane his references, how nutty his delivery. The music by Philip Glass may be fairly dolorous, and the models, despite the red pouts that make them look like they are sucking on scarlet pacifiers, are hardly bursting with infantile joie de vivre — but then again, there is a single pale tulle dress that is almost defiantly pretty. It is worn with deep red satin shoes with wildly elongated toes, something a platypus might don if that galumphing mammal was starring in a remake of Disney’s Fantasia.
In his show notes, Jacobs’ writes: “Guided by heart, humility, and gratitude, I have come to understand that fear is not my enemy — it is a necessary companion to creativity, authenticity, integrity, and life.” And sometimes fear can, and must, spur us to action. The final person walking the show is the trans model Alex Consani, the undisputed runway star of the moment. Who could have imagined that, even a year ago, their very presence, their very life, would serve as a call to rise up and fight back?
