Yohji Yamamoto is among the rare designers whose process is as visible as the outcome. Which is not to say the cascades of fringe or expanses of basketweaving on the runway this evening were easy to parse. But the show offered a crescendo of process, and for anyone who appreciates his slow burn of conceptual craft, this was one to behold.
Of the 42 looks, there might have been two that entailed pants. The dress-centric lineup opened with spiraling, wire-rimmed panels of two-tone fabric—almost like deconstructed yin and yang shapes. Soon, this softened to looser, wrapped silhouettes with collaged shapes—prints and patchworks—that had an air of Matisse during his late-career cutout years. There were black layers in varying degrees of opaque and sheer that were adorned with white rope knotted like Cy Twombly sketches, and then an extended progression of elaborate textile techniques, seemingly all executed by hand and likely requiring hours upon hours of focus. Interestingly, although these compositions enveloped the models as spontaneous gestures, several descended from properly constructed shoulders—as though Yohji-san could not possibly forsake his dedication to tailoring.
Whether intended or not, one effect of these cross-hatchings and webbed workings was that even when shroud-like in volume or dense with strips and threads, they nonetheless permitted glimpses of the body—an exposed shoulder, the negative space. Backstage, Yamamoto maintained that he was once again responding to how the planet is heating up. “Enjoy summer!” he said. And if the hybrid sandals, water shoes and slatted boots corresponded to his outdoor intention, it was also notable how one of the models, also backstage, seemed surprisingly joyous as she twirled for me in her dress, the basketweave opening up and floating, which never happened during the walks paced to tender, folksy musical accompaniments.
It was at some point during a beautiful rendition of “Unchained Melody” that a thought surfaced as to whether, after all these decades of hands-on creation, Yamamoto actually enjoys the process. “No,” he answered. “Process is suffering.” Was he pleased, at least with the outcome? “I really don’t know…”
What the 82-year-old ought to know, if he doesn’t already, is that the artists and talents who attend his shows season after season—the likes of Juergen Teller and Dovile Drizyte, Luc Tuymans, Carla Arocha, Marc Ascoli, and Guram Gvasalia—invariably come away enthralled. Ascoli was mulling over the ideas around interior violence or else freedom; Tuymans noted how the show started very different than what it became. “He builds it up to a point where you start to understand the process of what he’s doing,” he said.
A few beats after the masterful final look—masses of red fringe dripping over a black base, a coiling black neckpiece and black net gloves (one worn, one held)—Yamamoto emerged for his requisite, two-handed wave. As he was leaving, he turned back around for a mini-encore—perhaps satisfied with both the process and the outcome after all.
