Rick Owens
“There was beauty of a sui generis kind here: in the fine, grid-like bugle beading on the torso of shifts; in the trio of all-white looks cobbled from humble-looking T-shirts stretched gracefully across the shoulders; and in the vibrant, living green of one of the show’s asymmetrically draped dresses, its swaddled midriff evoking nothing so much as a marsupial pouch. Like Owens’s Spring men’s collection, this show was called Dirt, which, coupled with the spouting fountain, offered another reading of those strange show-ending looks that were less like clothes and more like moving sculpture. They’re not refugees or meringues; they’re seeds. Hopeful, life-giving seeds. Maybe Owens has been reading up on matriarchal feminism? Maybe not. ‘Crude American brutalist’ though he may be, he’s too subtle to put it in any specific terms, but what a kick it is to parse it all out and wonder.” —Nicole Phelps