Just before sunset in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, Ronald Van Der Kemp presented his most recent couture collection in the historic fashion photography Studio Astre. Branded ‘Defile D’art Wardrobe #23’, we were subtly guided into a rich world of 20th century art history.
The show was arranged over multiple rooms in the studio, heating on full blast to shield against the rain-sodden Paris outside. It was a more casual environment than the other couture shows earlier in the day. A secret sigh of relief. Strange futuristic 1970s music crackled as though from an old radio player.
The dresses felt like playful deconstructions of historic couture, taking references and planting them sharply in the now. A striped boofed skirt and form-fitting polka dot top was adorned with shell-like pearls and spikes, colliding 1940s couture with renaissance costume. A military jacket was draped in a beaded curtain, paired with an alarm-coded red and black skirt and pirate hat embellished with fashion debris. Another model is wrapped in a yellow butterfly, catching form as a 1930s silk slip. A 70s futurist, metallic silver dress looks like a studded lava lamp.
The model walks almost drunk, clinging onto her composure like Kate Moss returning to the Ritz after a party. Another, engulfed in a black spiralling coat, erratically jolts around the room like Cruella de Vil trying to scare children ft. a crack addict who just snorted something they found on the floor in the bathroom.
The show was presented as a staged photoshoot, models storming around, from room to room, up and down stairs. A photographer choreographs. “Over here! Give us a spin. Beautiful. And a smile… Thank you. Next!” A blue dusk haze filtered through the windows as warm beams of bulb light gently toasted the models. A 1970s fever dream. It felt like a piece of situational performance art, as though we had stepped into an alternate, functioning world that was unaware of intruders or onlookers. Each model was allowed to flesh out and play within their constructed characters. It made for an incredibly visceral world, one I was jealous of, and sad to exit.
Culture is now stuck in a destructive cycle of regurgitation. Fashion is arguably the most regurgitative art, constantly cannibalising at an ever increasing speed. A lot of shows this season chose to use that idea as a resource, and represented it through metatheatrics. The irony sometimes dies from the seriousness of which it is handled. RVDK proves that cheek and playfulness can open up a breathable space where couture can be fun and activated.
Outside, as night unfurls over the city, I indulge in a conversation bitching about Andy Warhol and reminiscing on Jerry Schatzberg and Al Pacino. I try to cling desperately onto the fantasy that briefly washed over me, jealous of a world that never existed.
