When the dissonant, glam-rock-esque soundtrack started up at Prada, spectators might have been forgiven for expecting a glam-rock extravaganza. But Miuccia Prada is rarely that thematic. Instead, the collection was a hodgepodge of eras, and, in some cases, a remix of the her own past work.
Prada’s genius was in juxtaposing frayed, ultraplain, almost burlap-sack-like textures with extremely ornate ones — the overall effect evoking an aristocrat who’s been forced by circumstance to go DIY. She’s patching things together, literally. Her heavy, rich fabrics — jacquards, silks, damasks —seemed intended more for furniture than for clothes, giving the whole collection an intentionally half-upholstered feel. Think of it as Miuccia’s glamorous answer to Marc Jacobs’s apocalyptic, olive drab-clad combatants. This collection, too, seemed meant for life after the burnout, full of many of the same anxieties as Jacobs’s, but with more of a flinty, make-do feeling.And this being Miuccia, things got self-referential. »