Very few fashion shows make me cry. Most of us fashion obsessives love fashion so much because we worship beauty above all, beauty in all forms. This beauty can be dark, violent, weird, creepy, funny, light, airy, full of sunshine. I don't speak here of attractiveness, of socially acceptable aesthetics or any sort of prettiness. Beauty is undefinable, I cannot say it is perfection because beauty is usually found in imperfection. I can only list its symptoms. You know you have experienced beauty when every cell in your body starts vibrating, it can be an airy tingle or a loud, hypnotic buzz. You are overwhelmed, you feel something needs to escape your chest but can't, you feel the need to sacrifice all to be in its presence, to be the tiniest speck of dust in its glorious orbit. The beauty can be purely aesthetic or part of story, with the fashion acting as the visual clues to a hidden tale that come to life with every wear. We fashion lovers yearn for beauty, not only to be hung from a wall or in the form of a sculpture outside of ourselves. We want to be so close to it that we weave it inextricably into our lives. We want it in our memories, experiences and permanently close to us, readily within our sight, ready to touch, to love. But love is the most unfortunate condition. What we love we yearn to merge with, to be a part of, to completely dissolve in, yet we are restricted by the reality of our physical limitations. We worshippers of beauty have reached a compromise by putting it on our skin, the closest it can get.
Sarah Burton's first show for McQueen made me cry. The materials were so airy, so light, so positively blossoming with life on the runway that I could not stop. Sheaves of wheat of the palest gold were embroidered onto the cleanest cut velvet suits the world has ever seen. The pagan old-English braids were joyous and strange in their elegance. The horsehair sculpted into a dress caught the light and absorbed it, looking like a woven piece of sun. Even the black was full of joy, it was the black of surrender, of acceptance, of beauty. Butterflies in searing autumnal colours burst forth from the model's neck in an euphoric exhale long overdue at the house of McQueen. It was a new day, the fight was over, the streets had been washed down, the flora could blossom once again and the people rejoice. I felt a bubble full of oxygen swell in my chest, ready to burst. It was joyous, magnificent, symphonic, transcendental! I couldn't stand it, I lost my head.
