Whether ruched, hoiked, wrapped, draped, or pulled partly away from the bodies in them, the designs in Barbara Casasola’s collection were, as she said, much touched: “It’s just a feeling of hands. Wearing the garment. Dressing and undressing.”
The first few looks established the postcoital Max Mara mood with two loose cashmere camel coats tugged off the shoulder. The second significant fabrication—first meaningfully seen in green pajamas that prompted Amanda Harlech to declare, “I want those!”—was a sheer knit silk cellophane mix, softly ribbed, and crumpled as if it had been washed and left to dry on a heater. This fabric, in various muted shades, was deployed in dresses, vests, and the cross-strap bras that Casasola kept resolutely baring. Against it we saw high-waisted, double-buttoned, wide-leg triple-pleat pants, shirtdresses fastened by poppers or buttons both laterally as well as conventionally down from the throat, plus dresses puckered with ruche mustered by running drawstrings across various bodily contours. Black apart, the colors were washed out and wan, but comely in the spotlights. Slyly dropped in among the push and pull of Casasola’s more overtly sensual pieces was a series of soft, deconstructed suiting that looked more prosaically good. Modest in ambition maybe, this collection nonetheless delivered some highly desirable clothes gently charged by languid frisson.
