Katy Perry was booed by the photographers. Here’s what I wrote about the womenswear show:
Milan fashion week is sometimes a little bit like groundhog day. The same shows are staged in the same showrooms, at the same time, to the same audience. It’s all rather predictable.
Jeremy Scott’s opening gambit for Moschino was rather predictable, too. He snitched and stole icons, slogans and ideas from the house’s back-catalogue, as well as from McDonald’s, Chanel and Nickelodeon (via Louis Vuitton, who did the high-fashion SpongeBob thing first). It was all whizzed together in a blender and made for a high-camp parade of clothes that oscillated between unwearable couture-alike clodhoppers (gargantuan silk dresses garnished with enormous bows, frills and furbelows) and anodyne sportswear. It’s exactly what you imagined he would do.
I didn’t enjoy this Moschino show. But the Moschino show wasn’t for me. It was for Katy Perry, who delayed proceedings by 53 minutes before she was ushered to her seat by a chorus of boos from the photographers’ pit. Not just for Perry, of course, but she’s emblematic of the client Moschino are trying to attract via the appointment of Scott: high profile (Scott dresses Rihanna, Perry and in a prior incarnation Britney Spears), and young. Too young to remember what Franco did first time around, too young to demand too much from their clothing.
We shouldn’t demand too much of Moschino. It’s a little like complaining that a National Lampoon film doesn’t have the subtle nuances of Woody Allen. They’re both comedies, but they’re for entirely different audiences. Moschino isn’t for an informed fashion connoisseur. It’s fun fashion junk food, like all those McDonald’s logos Scott splattered across the clothes. It had absolutely no nutritional value, no food for thought. It filled a hole in the schedule, and will no doubt be easily stuffed down consumers’ throats. A selection is offered for sale already, patterned with Scott’s twisted takes on the golden arches.
i need to get something off my chest
*takes off my nipple*
Grimes, Pitchfork 2014.
okay, I’ll go back to lilac now