Jeremy Scott sure knows his audience. After last season’s riotously successful swag—a hot pink plastic Barbie vanity mirror iPhone case, given to the entire front row—every seat at tonight’s presentation of Moschino fall 2015 came replete with a large plastic teddy bear version, emblazoned with “THIS IS NOT A MOSCHINO TOY” and intended for the iPhone 6. (6 Plus users, tough luck.) Models appeared out of a gigantic boom box, the like flaunted on the shoulders of current hipsters and proto-rappers in pop-culture depictions of the 1990s. And should you be a child of that era, well, never fear: Scott’s take on the age was a decidedly toothless Fresh Prince of Bel-Air spin, where the worst thing that could happen was getting caught breaking curfew, and your rebellion was namely against your parents—remember, they “Just Don’t Understand.”
The clothes were cheeky, first and foremost: Leather baseball hats came double-brimmed, quilted parkas reached the floor in primary-school colors (electric green, highlighter yellow, bright purple). Erwin Wurm could have been credited on some of the backpacks, which were quilted exercises in swollen gigantism. All of the nineties excess was there, sanitized into double-barreled fanny packs or a pair of bright colored purses worn layered one atop the other (and occasionally all worn together). Chain necklaces were worn by the fistful; jeans were designed to look turned inside out; basketball, baseball, and hockey jerseys were emblazoned with “thug life” versions of Looney Tunes characters (so perhaps shades of that other ’90s kid touchstone, “Space Jam,” too); a Chanel-style skirt suit came tacked to grey sweatsuit material, complete with hoodie.
The finale, a series of otherwise de riguer evening wear (flounces et cetera, the kind Scott has professed an admiration for, going by last season’s Barbie extravaganza) was attacked with spray paint, like the wall of a rock club bathroom. And if fashion is foremost about fantasy, what could be more evocative than to claim an entire era—one in which, of course, far more than some radio-friendly rap emerged, but no matter—as your own? If some spray paint gets on your dress, all the better.
Jeremy Scott sure knows his audience. After last season’s riotously successful swag—a hot pink plastic Barbie vanity mirror iPhone case, given to the entire front row—every seat at tonight’s presentation of Moschino fall 2015 came replete with a large plastic teddy bear version, emblazoned with “THIS IS NOT A MOSCHINO TOY” and intended for the iPhone 6. (6 Plus users, tough luck.) Models appeared out of a gigantic boom box, the like flaunted on the shoulders of current hipsters and proto-rappers in pop-culture depictions of the 1990s. And should you be a child of that era, well, never fear: Scott’s take on the age was a decidedly toothless Fresh Prince of Bel-Air spin, where the worst thing that could happen was getting caught breaking curfew, and your rebellion was namely against your parents—remember, they “Just Don’t Understand.”The clothes were cheeky, first and foremost: Leather baseball hats came double-brimmed, quilted parkas reached the floor in primary-school colors (electric green, highlighter yellow, bright purple). Erwin Wurm could have been credited on some of the backpacks, which were quilted exercises in swollen gigantism. All of the nineties excess was there, sanitized into double-barreled fanny packs or a pair of bright colored purses worn layered one atop the other (and occasionally all worn together). Chain necklaces were worn by the fistful; jeans were designed to look turned inside out; basketball, baseball, and hockey jerseys were emblazoned with “thug life” versions of Looney Tunes characters (so perhaps shades of that other ’90s kid touchstone, “Space Jam,” too); a Chanel-style skirt suit came tacked to grey sweatsuit material, complete with hoodie.The finale, a series of otherwise de riguer evening wear (flounces et cetera, the kind Scott has professed an admiration for, going by last season’s Barbie extravaganza) was attacked with spray paint, like the wall of a rock club bathroom. And if fashion is foremost about fantasy, what could be more evocative than to claim an entire era—one in which, of course, far more than some radio-friendly rap emerged, but no matter—as your own? If some spray paint gets on your dress, all the better.
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