Haters gonna hate. And you could easily—and with reason—assert that the pre-grimed "Surf" pseudo-Keds, the bobble hats, the Bill & Ted's bleached jean gilet with pink leopard-trim collar, the tie-dye sweats, the frayed-hem check shirts, and, indeed, any number of other pieces here—with the exception of some couture-fashioned tuxedo jackets and bombers—were expensively assembled simulacra of cheap items one could find in any San Diego disposal sale. But that would both miss the nub of Slimane's power and simultaneously amplify it (because nothing feeds desire like the perception of disapproval). The word "curator," so often so foully abused today, truly applies to him. The excitable youngsters he casts—four in five of today's hailed from California—the artists and musicians he commissions, and the clothes he chooses to muster as a representation of the tattered archetype that he is trying to evoke are all faultlessly assembled.