Guests arriving (promptly, of course, for Marc Jacobs’ infamous on-time starts) at the Louvre for this morning’s Louis Vuitton show were rewarded for their last-day-of-the-circuit early morning exertions with a selection of sweets, macarons, coffees and, for the die-hard fabulous, champers, making their rounds on trays carried by white clad waitresses in immaculate LV-logo perforated white gloves. The trays themselves were embossed with the house’s grand name, as were the napkins, just to drive the point home: at the house of Vuitton, at least under Marc’s tutelage, no detail, however small, is overlooked.
Monogrammed napkins properly loaded, guests quickly took their seats inside the rounded white tent, where a giant white curtain concealed something from view. At 10:00 on the dot, when the tinkling music began, we found out what that something was. As if to atone for last season’s fetishistic foray into the chicly sadomasochistic, this season, Jacobs staged a marked return to girlish innocence in the form of his sixty-something strong cohort of models each poised sweetly atop whitewashed horses on an actual working carousel erected in the middle of the Louvre for Louis Vuitton and Louis Vuitton only. Sorry children of Paris, must be at least this chic to ride.
Round and round they went, descending one at a time, in sugary sweet 1960’s couture inspired looks: swing coats in pastel tweets with exaggerated peter pan collars, lace, dipped in ice cream shades and coated a million different ways adorning dresses, blouses and skirts, floral appliqué creating dreamlike textures and even a touch of girlish rocker edge in the form of a luxe powder blue crocodile biker jacket (sigh). For cocktail and evening, lightweight ostrich feather fringe pulsated gently off of ultra-feminine tweed suiting or adding an additional layer of soft dreaminess to floral cut-out beehive dresses. And then there was the newlywed Kate, closing the show for the second season in a row, albeit this time more swan than seductress, having swapped last season’s diamond handcuffs and smoking cigarette for a cloud-like daisy-cut out, white feather-bestrewn creation.
As the show notes prattled on about the “circular dance of fashion,” one could not help but find oneself thinking that, with this production, perhaps Jacobs was referencing his own Parisian turn on the fashion merry-go-round. That is to say, the dizzying whirlwind of rumours surrounding the empty seat at Dior, with Jacobs’ name being, all along, the most persistent of any tossed into the running. And with this collection demonstrating that his craftsmanship is eking ever closer and closer towards the realm of couture, the aesthetic elevated far beyond his eponymous collections shown in New York, one really has no choice but to conclude that Marc really is the man for the Dior job.