September 30, 2016 |
Ann Demeulemeester’s coven was out to play. Coven of the night. Leonard Cohen’s voice vibrated though the room, “Magnified, sanctified, be thy holy name, Vilified, crucified, in the human frame. A million candles burning for the help that never came. You want it darker.” Super crisp white shirts sliced and restitched for that off kilter Demeulemeester construction were layered under backless vests and one shouldered sleeves giving structure to the looser, pulled apart tailoring. Rosary beads hung off straight leg boy pants and wrapped themselves around shirt sleeves with trailing cuffs. The girls were tied and fastened into a collection that felt dark, complex, deep and troubled. It was unravelling. This was their moment. Their chests branded with the words True Black. Their coven’s name. The finest mesh peeked out under deconstructed suits in inky blacks and bruised sky purples you only see at midnight. Women of the underworld that only come out at night.
Photographs by Jason Lloyd-Evans
