Mrs. Prada has long maintained a reverent relationship with art, supporting and collaborating with her favorite creators, without ever formally declaring herself among their ranks—no word on the god situation. So, what were we to make of the statements pronounced, at techno speed, over a blue-lit runway at the Minsheng Art Wharf?
To those at home in the Pradaverse, the words, lifted from Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Welcome to the Pleasuredome, were Prada subversion at its best. In the show notes—unlike her in situ shows, Mrs. P did not assemble journalists for a debrief—the collection was described as one of optimism, suggesting that being hopeful can be an antidote for accepting the darkness of our actuality. It’s a continuation of the themes she launched at her recent women’s Resort show in New York, but when presented on male models, it took on a kinkier edge. The girlishness and sweetness of those paillette scarves and embroidered shirts were replaced with an almost erotic purity—the idea of fetishizing a thing as perfect as it is, unadorned in simple cotton or loose leather. The clothes were essentials in the most classic sense of menswear—twills, tweeds, shirting, sportswear, khaki—but oversize or misplaced in their proportion to reveal, say, a bare collarbone in a baby doll–ish tank, or to accentuate the strangeness of wearing a cropped jacket over a blazer in the same material. Together the looks comprised all the musts of a traditional male wardrobe, recut with the freewheeling spirit of boyhood.
