Dear Shaded Viewers and Diane,
A sense of slight turmoil, half anticipation and half apprehension, frequently appears to pervade the audience, just before a J.W. Anderson show. We arrive there early and queue unusually pensive, sit unusually straight as if perched on the edge of our white bench. It's J.W.'s manifest intention, after all, to "commandeer and pervert" those terms of menswear we're familiar with, and the precision of his touch, so pristine and so strict, has not once failed to comply. It's a corruption of the most tempting kind, exercised from within the caste of tailoring and with mastered skill, and that's enough to make quite few sartorial devotees worry at the implicit threat such perceived, and most of us oddly tense, interseasonally impatient as to what will come next. Such shared sentiment was most at odds, this morning, to the attitude on show down the runway: a display of confidence, relax and ease, certainly reflecting the consistent prosperity of the brand, that took the form of silky robes, pinstripes so tender they trembled across the hips with each step. J.W. Anderson's famed, audacious play in-between genders gave way for spring 2015 to a parade of distracted sensuality, with tiny elaborate knits, loose bows and skewed bateau necklines, diagonal stripes with a fearless 70s vibe – a decade that already seems well on its way to become the favourite revival of the season. To open the show in rapid succession, three pieces de resistance – in collaboration with textile artist John Allen, squared t-shirts were woven just like tapestries, outlining in muted hues the unassuming, solid serenity of British landscapes: green hills, a waterfall, a prehistoric site and cloudy sky.
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Later,
Silvia
