On The Wings Of An Angel
 PARIS, July 4, 2006 - There they all were at the Dior Homme show on Tuesday
evening - Fashion’s extended family.
On the Editorial side: Suzy Menkes, Cathy Horyn, Virginie Mouzat, Anna
Wintour (currently being played on screen by Meryl Streep), Grace Coddington,
Glenda Bailey, and Stephen Gan.
On the VIP side: Karl Lagerfeld, Pierre Bergé, and Betty Catroux.
On the LVMH Side: Bernard Arnault, Dephine Arnault, and Sydney Toledano.
On the Superstar side: Elton John and Mick Jagger.
But nobody wanted to talk about the subject on everybody’s mind. Barring some
11th hour miracle, this was to be Hedi Slimane’s last collection for Dior
Homme, if as widely reported, contract talks have indeed broken down.
Sydney Toledano shrugged his shoulders at the very mention of the word
‘contract’.
Pierre Bergé spoke in a heartfelt manner. “I will always be faithful to
Hedi,” he said.
But it was Fashion’s outspoken grandpa, Karl Lagerfeld, one who LVMH
officials would probably liked to have locked in a closet, that said: “Hedi
will just have to make clothes for somebody else. I’m a designer follower,
not a label follower. And I’m certainly not wearing the clothes of Kris Van
Ascche.”
The show began in an atmosphere of high tension as a robotic arm, holding a
clump of speakers, moved the entire length of the long catwalk. In the
background lyrics played: “We looked good together. Is this love? Cause I
don’t know myself”
And out came a groundbreaking collection, one that proved Hedi Slimane’s
visionary talent beyond doubt. His fine, graphic silhouette was feminine,
with small male British models looking at times more like girls than boys. So
what if one boy lost his pants, it only proved his sex to startled editors on
the front row.
Leather tops, leather leotards, and T-shirt-quasi-blouses formed the
foundation on which skirts fluttered, oversized shirt tails draped, and jet
sequins streamed. A mesh shirt was crossed like a halter, an oversized bolero
sparkled with glittering silver and crystal embroidery, a vest was ripped
into a series of shimmering shards. One dress-like top of apricot chiffon had
the VIP side gasping in awe. These were clothes that transcended any
traditional codes, yet reinforced the linear beauty of the human form.
If the high-powered women editors needed proof that Hedi could design for
women, they got it.
So the finale came, in silence. A model with angels wings attached to his
back beat a tambourine as he led a flock of shirtless boys (black and white
cordons fixed over their hearts) down the long runway. They walked to the end
and then disappeared into the darkness of backstage. As they went out of
sight, they metaphorically crossed onto an imaginary road leading to an
unclear destination.
Hedi’s appearance on the runway was brief, and backstage he stood alone in a
little cubicle. Like a flash of lightening, a super angel, Mick Jagger,
appeared almost as out of thin air. “It was really incredible, Hedi,” he
said, putting a hand on the designer’s shoulder.
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