Before I veer off across the North Atlantic, I wanted to flag Peter Som’s collection show in New York a lifetime ago (loosely translated to a week and a foot of snow). In actual fact, I’ve just landed in Milan and have no idea what’s going on (help a sister out here), but until I get up to speed on my intensely backlogged Fashion Month updates, give or take a little sleep (I said I’d be bed by midnight, so I’m working from bed at midnight), my Instagram feed will have to provide your instantaneous gratification for the time being…
My second season in New York, Peter Som didn’t show, and it was a disaster – nobody knew where to go for their dose of Winter florals and brocades (the economic climate hadn’t been so pretty at the time, and most of New York’s
Meatpacking syndicate had receded into the shadows of black boiled wools and the odd sheer grey or two. The same can be said for this season just stomped it out down at MILK Studios – though unemployment does not seem to be as pressing a news headline as knee-deep snow and concrete slushies, so Som had a little more colour competition than your usual Winter slip-and-slide… and yet he stands his ground and empowers women in limbo between the 60s and the 70s (though, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I gave it a try). Bedroom eyes, bed hair, bed bound slips and floral sheers, a RaRa feather situation, a housecoat, and nothing much else underneath.
It was a subdued kind of sex appeal, and a much softer confidence than, say Cushnie et Ochs, whose outright cleavage and thigh-high makes for smouldering red carpet gestures. On this other axis of the spectrum, I would quite like to the likes of Lena Dunham, Carey Mulligan, and perhaps even Suki Waterhouse in some of this garb.