A destitute Welsh chapel, once an 80’s nightclub for the ecstasy driven underground scene, seems a perfect fit for the Fall Collection debut of Alexander McQueen. The late designer has been canonized in the fashion world, the art world, a renegade who set precedents with a premature departure, albeit a tragic one.
Lithe models, all Brit-pick angular jawline and apathetic stares, walked the runway. Crow feathers, black warrior paint, militant and minimal aesthetic stripped the typically atypical McQueen frivolity and embellishment. Sarah Burton, McQueen’s collaborator and now successor has stayed true to the “I don’t give a fuck,” haute spirit, with a slightly more mature and somber approach.
Kilts, gestapo boots, triple breasted coats- its McQueen deconstructed. But the spirit is there- in Lucien Freud’s visage embroidered onto a jacket, along with a war poem by Oliver Bernard.
This is Burton’s show, but McQueens larger than life presence fortunately still looms large.