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It’s 10am on Friday morning of men’s week. My bed feels like heaven on earth, paradise found, but the sweet anticipation of Comme-day lifts up our heavy heads and somehow beckons us out into the rainy streets of Paris. First on the docket and the only reason on god’s green earth to be out right now is Junya Watanabe. As we walk (stumble) out of the drizzle and into the dark, smoke-filled runway, dotted with black terrasse tables, a minimal yet effective stage is set.
In the collection which follows, Watanabe explores the more cinematic elements of 1950’s dandyism, expressed in somber tones and sleek tailoring superimposed with Watanabe’s signature affinity for integrating punk-rock utilitarianism- constructing a contemporary neo-noir for the runway. The velvety improvised articulations of Miles Davis’s trumpet works complement the collection, breathing rich life into his show.
Where a less expert designer might stumble into a hackneyed, antiquated display of performative gallantry, (I mean- had you told me yesterday I’d have seen a tipped fedora done correctly this week, I’d have been doubtful) Watanabe grounds his collection with these contemporary punk references often manifested in artisanal detailing and then conversely in quite literal Frankenstein-ing of contrast garments, material and pattern. A leather biker jacket is embedded into a long grainy tweed overcoat, bomber and puffer jacket details are paneled into a long double breasted blazer. 1930s front-pocket safari inspired jackets, a form which YSL popularized again in the 1960s, and became associated with early Hollywood, are reimagined in supple wool, paired with washed black denim. Patchwork mosaics in shades of grey are splashed onto blazers and cropped trousers, bringing kintsugi artistry to otherwise strict influences. And although these looks are paired with sleek brogues and oxfords, they could easily be replaced with Doc Martens. These pieces evoke in their wearer a refrained nonchalance- that particular swagger of back-alley glamour- a slow burn in minor-key. Languid, sultry, polished, and hauntingly gallant without trying too hard.
This crew of jazzy, grunge-leaning debonairs are darkly intoxicating, embodying the variety of references Junya Watanabe stitches together with his distinct and impeccable, avant-garde reconstructionism. The FW26 Watanabe Man is a modern-day Alain Delon in Le Samouraï, with a penchant for rock’n’roll.
Maybe he brushes up against organized crime every now and again, or hell- for all you know he’s running the joint, and he reeks of cigar smoke and whisky when he comes home, but you love him and his stoic, mysterious heart. Might also steal his clothes and wear them if they fit you. He promises you you’ll get hitched and hit the road in a stolen black Cadillac series 62. But when he walks away into that misty night, set to meet with your luggage packed at dawn, a part of you wonders if you’ll really ever see him again. Maybe one day, years from now, at a souk in Marrakech, he’ll walk by, hat tipped below his eyes, but you’d recognize that saunter anywhere. Or maybe on the dance floor at Berghain- a flash of slicked back hair, plaid and pinstripe.
