I can’t help but think Anderson’s often steadfast refusal to engage in the inspirational nuts and bolts of his design (What’s that fabric? Why that fur?) and willingness to wax lyrical on the state of modern society is because, simply, there isn’t an explanation behind what he chose. He saw a ruffle, liked it, stuck it on a skirt, thought other people would like it to. Simple as. And simply, you could imagine women wearing the stiff cotton dresses and lightly draped sweaters. For cocktails, and beyond. So why do we care about a hidden depth, especially if there really isn’t one?
There’s no danger of hidden depth with Emilia Wickstead, whose posh clothes for posh girls going to posh dos tick pretty basic boxes. Her style can be neatly summarised as Lee Radziwill in radzimir: clean sixties-tinged couture gowns, straightforward coats, skinny gowns. Occasionally they’re muddled, such as by Wickstead’s predilection for jumpsuits so pronounced it amounts to a fetish that, like “splooshing”, say, or “yiffing”, is entirely inexplicable unless likewise inclined. This time, she let godet-hemmed trousers get the better of her in a valiant attempt to challenge the ubiquity of the cigarette trouser. To paraphrase the words of Abba’s Agnetha Faltskog, whom many of the models wound up resembling, Wickstead was defeated, the slender leg won the war.
However, this was otherwise a sharp, decisive, well-executed show full of engaging ideas. Confrontation, perhaps, for Wickstead – quietly so – as it challenged the niche she’s been placed in as party-frock purveyor. Many of the ideas felt new – if not entirely, then certainly for Wickstead. Few felt prim or precious, which has marred previous outings. The tailoring was great in giant boxy shapes with strapped sleeves; her knitted dresses deserved special mention and merit. Long and lean and body-hugging, even when shown as a potentially lumpen combo of knit pinafore dress over sweater. A cable-knit version, fluted at the hem, was lovely. Very modern cocktail
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