Spring/Summer has never been my favourite season, and I'm far more excited about the imminent Autumn/Winter shows than I am about what's about to hit the shops right now. Aside from the fact that the AW shows tend to be where the designers really make their statements, I'm much more of a Winter girl, which renders me freakishly grateful for Scottish weather, and thus somewhat of a pariah in the myriad social situations which demand ritual bemoaning of our nation's climate.
The ubiquitous and tedious conversations that revolve around a longing for summer and the wearing of pumps and short sleeves are lost on me, as are the delights of (at least) six months of the year on those perpetuating this endless moaning, in my opinion.
Saying that, I have sartorial ennui, and am delighted at the prospect of anything new and fresh right now. And the SS11 shows (the ones that were held last October but are telling us what we'll be wearing this Summer, for those who don't keep up with the fashion calendar and yet are still, inexplicably, reading this) had plenty of that to offer.
Most instantly notable is the explosion of Pantone neons on the runways; a clear reaction to the sea of tasteful Phoebe Philo-endorsed camel and navy of AW10.
My favourite example of this, and my favourite show, was without a doubt Jil Sander.
I've been a Jil Sander fan for years, channelling their fresh, uncomplicated Germanic sensibility the only away I could afford (Sun perfume), and could not be happier to see a return to form so triumphant that it stole the shows.
This is basically my dream wardrobe. A stark, clean, voluminous, structured aesthetic in black, white and navy, but with great swathes of hi-tech neons to update it. The three looks above would fulfil my every sartorial dream.
This season's neons are a world away from the heady days of nu-rave we all knew and loved five years ago, although I'm sure American Apparel will be cashing in again. Think Ladurée macarons and hothouse flowers, geraniums and gerberas, rather than fluoro highlighter pens, which this time round must be worn in classic shapes with structure; shirts, gaberdine skirts and prim, button-down dresses.
Predictably enough, with their customary and appropriately Calvinistic minimalism, Calvin Klein was another personal highlight. Still managing to stand out when everyone else has suddenly adopted the pared-down-to-the-point-of-barely-qualifying-as-an-effort aesthetic that has been your trademark since forever is some achievement, but this collection is my favourite from the label in years. With it, they proved that none of these Johnny-come-latelys do minimalism like Calvin Klein.
Severe and yet somehow simultaneously romantic, these beauties would make the perfect blank canvas for my piles of jewellery to corrupt. Ah, Lara. You thought I'd forgotten you but I've never wanted you more.
In stark contrast, my usually beloved Marc Jacobs pretty much broke my heart this season. With this:
The entire collection was similarly hideous. This will do for illustration, as I can't bear to look at any more of it ever again. You can wax lyrical for as long as you like about the clever use of the late 70s as a fitting inspiration during an economic climate that mirrors that time exactly, but you're not going to wear it are you?
Similarly, Mrs Prada appeared to have some sort of breakdown this season:
Fluoro green banana print bowling shirt anyone?
Fugly 70s prints were a worryingly oft-seen occurrence. I've never been a fan of the decade taste forgot. Early 70s rock'n'roll, which was basically a late 60s hangover anyway, I can deal with. But then it all went a bit Marc Bolan and within a few short years people were dressing predominantly in mustard-hued prints reminiscent of the curtains you might hang in a caravan were you inclined to ever set foot in one.
Even irony does not save this look for me. But Thakoon, Rodarte and, disappointingly, Peter Pilotto apparently couldn't get enough of it. Unsurprisingly given their default aesthetic, Gucci made the best job of attempting to inject some sex into this essentially repulsive look, but I'm still not even vaguely interested in wearing it.
While we're dealing with disappointment, we might as well get Chris Kane and Jonathan Saunders out the way. I feel let down on a personal level by both our Great Scottish Hopes.
Christopher Kane, with his Princess Margaret-inspired boxy suits in fluoro PVC-coated lace, was particularly upsetting:
Jonathan Saunders' collection, while less offensive, was all just a bit too Cheryl Cole. I suspect that this will be the high street hit in provinces across the country, and the one most beloved of Glasgow's kitchen beautician crowd, staggering to Boho in their sky high patent platforms.
Lanvin helps me deal with the bitterness:
Alber Elbaz's slightly offbeat version of the colour trend, played out in a more muted palette of crimson, midnight blue, sea green-grey and aubergine, with flashes of chartreuse and raspberry, made this show a standout. The combination of billowing skirts with an athletic aesthetic renders the look totally wearable, as seen already on Blake Lively, my slightly embarrassing but just-can't-help-myself girl crush. While we're on the subject, what the hell is the Kaiser up to making her his new #1 girl when there's a perfectly good Clémence Poésy already out there in the world?
Needless to say, the insect brooches were another massive selling point.
Chloé's USP, in a season awash with eye-watering brights, was ballet. I loved that Hannah McGibbon went right to the other end of the colour palette, and no doubt her collection of crossover tops and ballerina-length skirts in pleated chiffon and shades of white and camel, worn with proper ballet pumps, will be a huge high street success thanks to the Black Swan influence. This is a look I can definitely see myself actually adopting, and I'll most certainly be sticking with my new found signature bun and trusty (haven't washed my hair for a few days) milkmaid plaits in light of this.
N.B. One other notable mini-trend is the rise of a new erogenous zone: the stomach. First seen at Miu Miu a couple of seasons ago, this is a trend that has come into its own, possibly due to the dominance of the maxi length, which rules out former favourite the thighs. This was glimpsed via cut-outs and seen at about half of all the shows, notably at Dior, YSL, Versace, Rodarte and Marc Jacobs (and less notably at House of Holland).
Personally I'm not keen, and not just because I'm a lazy bitch who takes a dislike to people as soon as they tell you which gym they go to. Off the runway and out on the streets, I'm pretty sure this will just translate as tacky. It won't help that the legions of bright orange morons who populate Sauchiehall Street of a Saturday night and are similarly averse to the gym, but not to wearing very small clothes, will make the trend their own.
As for me, I'm planning to venture into the new and challenging world of floor-sweeping maxis, although I'll ease myself in with a black one before venturing to AmAppy to see what they have in terms of Jil Sander pink rip-offs. The maxi trend has been on the brink for a couple of seasons now and I've tried and failed before with a Topshop McQueen digital print rip, but I couldn't walk in it, literally. That was an elegant day.
This season's more voluminous, romantic version gives me new hope. I'll be wearing it Jil/Tilda style with a slouchy white tee and all my jewellery, just so I know it's still me in the mirror.
Similarly, I've been toying with the idea of a neon pink lip (while simultaneously pondering the eternal existential conundrum and Hu Jintao's true intentions) for a while, but now it's a must.
