Agathe in Balmain, photographed by Garance Doré.
It happens to me every year. When the air loses its sharp edge and the sunlight lingers a little bit longer, I emerge bleary-eyed from the comfort of an indoor winter and am suddenly walloped by neutrals! nauticals! and (gag) pastels...
Maybe it's because within me beats a heart of darkness, or maybe it's because the palette reminds me of my undergrad years in New England, or maybe it's because it simply clashes with my colouring, but whatever the reason, the arrival of spring fashion always feels like a cruel joke. To me, the whole bloody season prolongs the kind of annoyance I feel around Valentine's Day. If it is ridiculous to think that chocolate and roses can inspire love, isn't it equally ridiculous to think that florals and frills will turn us all into blushing romantics? (That whistling sound you hear is the spirit of individualism and originality collapsing like a wrinkly balloon.)
To me, winter fashion has always been far more interesting. Winter is complex, multivalent, and richly textured. She arrives, shrouded in mystery and gradually unwraps to reveal skin and sparkle and a hint of danger...minimalism is for chumps. So before we all make a frothy mockery of ourselves, let's have one last hurrah for the season of sartorial intrigue!
Freja, photographed by Boo George for Twin
Lou, in Anthony Vaccarello, photographed by Julia Champeau
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