If we at Lujon Magazine were to review this collection, we would just probably explode in a standing ovation.
But because of the all-round good reviews this collection already garnered, we feel it would be completely superfluous of us to throw in our cheery opinion too: The man is a genius and this collection is a hit, full stop.
The only point we feel inclined to discuss is the balance between how much of Galliano and how much of Margiela really collided in this show: Whereas the house-codes seemed to be fully respected, it is impossible not to notice how ‘Galliano’ the whole presentation looked like. In a house that is deeply rooted in anonymity, this time the name of the creative director appeared to be spelt on each and every look, generating some suitable doubt amongst the all-time fans of the maison.
But a point that really has to be cleared, is how Martin Margiela himself possessed an instantly recognisable visual vocabulary, that if in a way was not simultaneously connected to the designer’s personal fame, it was fundamentally embedded in his own ouvre.
Martin Margiela is (and righteously so) a fashion superstar that chose to remain faceless, and we should not feel any dis-respect towards the brand if another fashion superstar with a history rewrites its glossary in his own words.
As an institution of anti-fashion, Maison Margiela salutes its founder by moving forward, evolving under our very eyes yet preciously holding to its codes and values, little importance should really be given if it looks any ‘different’ from what it used to be: A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
In the same ethos, we will let another historical writer to compile a review for us. Because why not.
Virginia Woolf: This reminds me of the waves, crashing boisterously just below the cliff at Clarence’s manor. It makes me want to talk to my husband about the absurd blooming of magnolias and unfamiliarity.
Virginia Woolf: I am torn between staring at John’s sweeping fur galoshes in all of the flower’s colours and thinking about answering Elizabeth’s letter: Perhaps, in her fervent languor, her most amiable feature is to remind me of England.
Virginia Woolf: As the cuffs of this coat clings suffocatingly at this young woman’s wrists, I think of the cold winter sun, plunging impartially on the fruit vendoors on the Embankment. I walk alone, thinking of what Florence told me.
Virginia Woolf: John has been speaking of innocence again. As his mannequins parade along, I fear I might be slipping into a chasm of daunting memories, that mostly take me back to the Aldsworth’s party, when Susan was uninterestingly listening to a younger man’s garbles about omnibuses and London.
Virginia Woolf: John did not show up after the show had finished. In the enthusiastic clapping of the room, I contemplate leaving the building to go and sit again under the willows in the Darrinton’s country estate. Maybe I will feel as happy as when I last been there with Julia. Relenting anguish.
by Virginia Woolf