On a Sunday afternoon in Paris - you know, where people pretend to eat only macarons and have the genetic right to be le mieux habillé - Michael Rider, former designer for Polo Ralph Lauren (or, let's face it, the man who for years designed clothes for people who dream of looking like they're from the cover of Yachting Monthly), presented his first collection for CELINE.
This is the same Michael Rider who previously spent time at Polo Ralph Lauren, a brand whose DNA is the dream of being the heir to an old American fortune and the owner of a yacht with the graceful name "Privilege." That is, in other words, a man who knows how to make himself dress rich without really being rich - which, as you know, requires more talent than the average haute couture campaign.
And so it was that this man - with a background in the land of turtlenecks, polos and pastel chinos - got his hands on the helm of CELINE, a brand until then run by Hedi Slimane, known for dressing people who look like they haven't eaten gluten or a solid meal in three years. Rider didn't even try to pretend to continue anything of the previous aesthetics. Instead, he stepped in with aplomb and delivered a collection that looks like it was commissioned by the Harvard Alumni Committee for a show for Forbes 400 list donors.
The collection was... sculptural, as those who believe that volume in clothing is a new form of intellect would say. The colors - luscious, sometimes even aggressive - made it clear: "I'm rich, but artistic, so I don't need black to look serious." Rider played with the form in a way so brazen that one would think Balenciaga himself told him: "Do something crazy, Michael, but you know, within the limits of good taste and Wall Street sponsors." The result? Suits with sharp lines, blazers of theatrical proportions, dresses that resembled architectural mock-ups, and capes that only miraculously didn't float from an excess of ego.
Of course, the fashion press - the same press that thinks every waist-cut is a feminist manifesto - immediately announced a new chapter in CELINE's history. It's just that this chapter smells more like a recycling of US East Coast aesthetics with a dash of Parisian pretension than any genuine innovation. Because, let's be honest, do we really need another version of "preppy meets couture," only this time with a bigger budget and a name that can't be pronounced without an exaggerated accent?
Rider's CELINE is not a return to its roots, or even a new direction. It's exclusive theater for those who want to look like descendants of the financial monarchy, but with a touch of "artistic soul." It's a brunch aesthetic at Saint-Germain with an innate sense of superiority and a closet that says: "Yes, I know what Bauhaus is and I have a dog named Artaud." There's something disconcertingly familiar about this, as if luxury has already completely stopped pretending to be for anyone but itself.
And don't get me wrong - it all looks great. In the sense: great on someone who has a chauffeur, a house in Tuscany and an Instagram account with a filter not yet made available to mere mortals. If you don't understand this collection, don't worry - Rider doesn't design for people who do. He designs for people who own. They possess time, money, space, and most of all... disdain for mass aesthetics.
Fashion isn't about being comfortable or understandable. Fashion - at least the kind with the CELINE tag under the Rider - is there to say, “You're not invited, but you can look.”
Photos courtesy of CELINE
No comments:
Post a Comment