How great it was to experience the buzz of seeing Christopher Kane back—showing a collection that was, forgive the pun, a body of work. It was a work about the body—there was even an explicit anatomy lesson being read on the soundtrack. “I’m dissecting a woman. Dissecting her in the best possible ways. It’s forensic. In a good way!”
And it was definitely about his own body of work. Here were Christopher Kane’s clinical obsessions, his taste for dodgy materials mixed with sweet-and-innocent ones, his chainmail and cup-cake shapes and his frank praise of sexuality, all metabolized in new ways.
As usual, he pushed viewers’ heart rates up with the sight of the unexplainable: dresses with clear vinyl body-brace straps with inset lace bra cups, for a start. Really pretty pastel organza and white lingerie-lace edged skirts, doubled up into loops. Then bouncy little mini-crini dresses of a Kane kind, suspended from geometric panels he described as “sliced with a scalpel.” Scottish cashmere cardigan-capes. Patent kitten-heel pumps with bunny-ears.
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