Christopher Kane, fall 2014 – text by Silvia Bombardini

Dear Shaded Viewers and Diane,


Give it a year or so, and as we will seat once more on these concrete benches waiting for the show to start, the telltale squeak of nylon skirt pressed against nylon skirt will announce just how desirable Christopher Kane's collections effectively are. If it rains, as it likely will, we will all be glistening and happy, no more wet then than how we looked before the downpour. With a daring but purposeful and highly welcome move, Kane fashionably upgrades this shiny, liquid  and rubbery fabric with ruffles and frills, enough so that now it can melt into pale pink lace of the softest of furs without anyone even batting an eyelash. A season of the vastest inspiration and scope, Christopher Kane's proceeds almost like a choreography, a study in delicate movements: arpeggios of sleeves curled like crepe paper streamers around the arm, or lenticular flower prints, frozen in blossom, as if picked directly from Marc Quinn's Garden. But most importantly, most remarkably, the graceful, tempting flutter of countless sheets of organza, like butterfly kisses or the pages of a pliable book, of music that's yet to be written.

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