September 29, 2012 Paris
There's never anything slick about a Westwood collection, but here the clothes seemed positively homespun, as if a refugee dressmaker was doing her best with a sewing machine. Hems were ragged, seams trailed, sleeves were slashed. One leather skirt hung in pieces. Bodices were encrusted with what could have been brooches, as if that refugee were wearing all of her jewelry at once. The large tattered cutouts on dresses, filled with puffs of fabric, were apparently intended to echo beetles' wings, but they looked just as much like chaotic attempts at mending.
There were tea dresses and sundresses, and the sort of pieces that have represented the ideal lady in the Westwood ethos, but they looked worn-out, almost ruined. That same sense carried through into the lamé eveningwear, although one dress cut from a lace of tarnished silver oak leaves had a faded glamour. It felt like a metaphor for the Albion idyll fallen on hard times. Even the mighty oak must suffer.