There had been quilted metal branchlines and elbow-length leather opera gloves; Wrap-around stoles in duchess satin and faux fur, and large block platforms. There had been men and women on the podium, whatever. Everything was heavily covered (long sleeves and hems, excessive necks) – until it wasn’t. And in the end, the outer layers, which had eclipsed the little silhouettes on the inside, had been ditched to reveal turtleneck tops that were truly peekaboo bodysuits left without backs or hip-height at the sides, or clothing cut on the bias with round stripes, simply orbiting the body.
Although Mr. Jacobs has held the pole position of closing New York exhibitions in recent years, it was more like the start of one thing: a preview of what’s to come back in September, when fashion week comes back with the exclamation level of a Met Gala drop, with all the glitz, glamor, and alternatives to reinvent who we need to be after that. Especially because Jacobs’ calling card as a designer had always been an odd skill of wearing your finger as much as the wind to feel which way it blows, the highest to showcase that kind of momentum.
All of this makes the title of this particular particular present hopefully about. what was that?