After showing in Milan, Martine Rose returned to London doing what she does best: talking about her people. The designer returned home, and transformed a former job centre in Marylebone into her twisted and sublime version of a couture salon.
In an abandoned three-story building Rose staged a show that represented the most honest and less Instagrammable essence of the London that inspires her. A kind of emotional homecoming -yes-, but above all an act of cultural resistance in times when the city is gentrifying by leaps and bounds and spaces for independent creation are disappearing.
The collection did not revolve around a closed concept, but around a constellation of lived references. Characters that Martine observes in the street: at the tobacconist’s, at the barber’s, in the queue at the bank. From there emerge crumpled envelope bags, leather or ripstop barber coats, tailored pants that mutate into soccer socks, lace underpants, jackets that combine varsity with leather, denim super shorts and sports socks in nylon gauze.
Everything in the proposal is crossed by an ambiguous eroticism, shameless and half dirty. You don’t know if you like it or if it repels you, but you keep looking. As if sleaze were the new luxury.
And so, what started as just another off-schedule London Fashion Week show, ended up being a kind of collective ritual. Martine reminded us that real fashion doesn’t need golden domes or instagram algorithm-driven front rows to make history. It just needs a city, its people and a gaze that knows how to see beauty where others only see margins.
One thing became clear: even in uncertain times, when London seems to be going aimlessly, seen through the eyes of Martine Rose, there is no city more fucking vibrant.
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