When the designer Azzedine Alaïa died unexpectedly last November and his house decided not to name a designer to succeed him, it both made a lot of sense (“There was no one who could do what he did” being the general take) and also seemed like a risk (“But don’t houses need creative direction?” coming in practically the next breath).
Would the brand lose its way without its residing spirit and creative font?
Two seasons in, the contention that Mr. Alaïa left enough designs and archival ideas behind to power the studio for decades seems to be holding true — in part because, while his stubborn refusal to bow to the idea of seasons and the spinning-ever-faster fashion cycle might have been irritating to some while it was happening (he would hold shows when he was ready, often long after fashion week had ended, meaning most people couldn’t actually see them), it also meant that his clothes exist largely free of identifiable time period or era.
And that means the studio continuing his work is free to range widely through the drawers and closets for inspiration. The result is not, as some might have feared, many variations of the classic knit skater dress (though there are those, some with lava-lamp wave patterns in blue and white; some inset with peekaboo strips of macramé lace) but rather increasingly unexpected materials and forms.
One of the more compelling pairings is a simple black T-shirt cut with a trapeze swing, narrow shoulders and a round neck, over a crisply pleated pair of trousers, somewhere between palazzo and slim fit, both made in a black stretch raffia. Then there’s the hostess dress with three-quarter length sleeves, a pyramidal line and tiers of raffia fringe just dusting the upper ankle. Another full skirt with matching cropped jacket, like a sort of haute 1950s biker babe, was traced with curlicues of gold embroidery woven on a 19th century loom. Oh, and there are jeans. And lots of crisp white shirts.
Where did that all come from?
The history books. At least in part. To be specific: 1985, ’86, ’90, ’92. And 2015, as a group of special capsule re-editions of designs, like those poplin shirts and sundresses with crisscross backs updated for today (a cutout triangle at the breastbone closed up; skirts dropped to mid-calf, so they are less little girl, more soignée), make clear. What’s clever is the decision to show the template versions alongside the current looks, to emphasize the visual lineage.
It’s almost impossible to guess which style is from when, though it’s kind of a fun fashion game of Trivial Pursuit to try (if you get stuck, labels inside give the answer away). Or so it seemed, judging by all the buyers and editors buzzing around the showroom last week, showing their cards.