Nathan Jenden

LONDON, February 12, 2008
By Tim Blanks
Loyalty might be the one human trait that trumps all others, so the sight of Diane von Furstenberg in the front row of her right-hand man Nathan Jenden's solo show was positively heartwarming. The clothes, on the other hand, had a chilly quality. Black in shade and Edwardian in their bustled, ruffled proportions, they looked like the weeds of a New Romantic widow, an impression that was compounded by the hair and makeup. If such a notion bleats "Eighties!" to you, you wouldn't be far wrong. Jenden showed a pouf skirt with a sailor-collared, ruffled shirt, and a skirt and bodice (with matching mask!) laden with hardware and stones that could have been lifted from a masquerade ball at Steve Strange's Blitz. The designer was carried away by construction: Almost everything was seamed, pleated, tortured, even—to within a millimeter of its glamorous life. Artifice ruled, but Jenden's show notes talked about "Tudor ladies at the court of a 21st-century samurai," so he himself clearly wasn't unaware of the tricksy, costumey connotations.

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