To imagine a group of finely clothed women and pristinely suited men sitting on a public ferry headed toward Brooklyn is funny. To see that thought take place, though, is endearingly hilarious, and such was the sight last night for Raf Simons’ resort collection for Dior.
So, do again imagine that group of fine clothes. Standing in a long line that extends from the East River to the most eastern, walkable point of New York’s 35th street. On that line, try to picture color-blocked chiffon gowns and sparkly stilettos. See the double breasted blazers tinkering against and in spite of the murky water.
If you see a yellow ferry in the distance, we’re on the same page. It’s about to come and collect the group. It’s pulling up and seems excited to reveal its branded boat sides, both of which read Dior. Now watch the line of cocktail dresses manage through the planks that partition Manhattan’s concrete from its sea. Hear the wearers start to bemoan the circumstance for ripping the suede off their heels. Now listen to the silence. They’ve been interrupted by the ferry’s interior, which boasts white Dior branded seat covers and a premium bar. A bar!
It’s spectacular in that way that French things in America are, which was the theme of last night’s nod to the United States as dictated by Brooklyn. Silk scarves reigned, first appearing tucked into streamlined jumpsuits and blouses and then as bodices, skirt bottoms and finally, full-blown dresses.
There’s something distinctly formulaic about the way a show by Raf Simons occurs. The trajectory always seems to follow a course that begins with the most subverted and subjectively wearable and transgresses to encapsulate the especially spectacular. And with its untrammeled beauty and likeability, it always makes you think: why didn’t I think of that? Of course, because of the consistent sense of perversion, that thought is cut by the realization that you couldn’t have thought of that. Not even if you tried.
The uncharacteristic-of-the-resort-seasons-of-yore blanket coats and fur capes were draped over the models bodies, who appeared in groups of sometimes three, sometimes more, or as singles to convey Simons’ point of view.
This opinion seemed to elaborate on an idea about the future of the season as less of a collection about the establishment of resort (though make no mistake, the triplet of lace squares that constructed mini dresses and the skimpy, spaghetti strapped sheaths called to mind visions of the French — sorry — American riviera and beyond) and much more an ocular transition toward a new truth. Seasons are depleting and as that happens, the clothes must change.
But not just yet. Not at least, while we watched the sun set over Manhattan and the heads of the models traipsing across the venue from out the floor-to-ceiling windows at The Brooklyn Navy Yard and resolved to get back on that ferry.
Images via the Cut