A MAN on roller skates with Vulcan eyebrows, drag queens, club weirdoes and fashion cognoscenti gathered at Jeremy Scott’s September fashion show, a hair-metal-meets-hillbilly reverie. First Mr. Scott conjured a promiscuous denim world. One model wore fringed cut-offs so tight Daisy Duke would be appalled.
Then a cowboy element appeared. A male model in green leather chaps and a jockstrap garnered an ovation. (It was unclear whether the cheering was directed at the outfit or how amply the young man filled it out.) At the end of the show, Mr. Scott didn’t just peek out from backstage to wave but stormed the length of the runway, the designer as grand finale.
“If I don’t walk all the way around, the photographers won’t get a picture!” he said a few days later, sitting outside an East Village juice bar. “I don’t like to be on display.” Mr. Scott, who once closed a show reclining on a cloud sculpture and hurling fake money with his face printed on it, added in his Missouri salt-of-the-earth accent, “as much as I might have a look.
No comments:
Post a Comment