MOLI VIEW™

I've always been struck by Marc Jacobs's sense of timing. A recent collection found him bored and musing on boredom's appeal — but it didn't feel like the boredom most people feel: the confining, gray, dull sense of time scraping against itself and getting nowhere. It was a period when some of us were holding our breaths: There was a war on, no end in sight, none of the republicos in trouble yet, things were shaky on Wall Street, hurricanes turning into monsters, and there was a general sense of anxiety around. So there came Marc's models: self-contained, completely involved in their own lovely, elegant thoughts, or so the clothes would say. It was a perfect response: Let this stupid world go away for a while. I'm just going to take myself out for a little stroll, dressed impeccably, unlike anyone else, and wait for it all to sort itself out. I remember that red coat with long lapels for fall: a don't you dare look at me or not look at me statement, screamingly serene.

And now, the Marc Jacobs sense of timing wins out again. He knows how to be different without being alienating, how to be ahead of the curve without breaking it in two. The show was upside down and backwards on purpose. What a relief, after day after day of orderly shows.

It went like this: He came out first. Cue "Bolero" by Ravel. Then the models appeared in finale line-up, which usually happens at the end of the show. But this was just the beginning. Gorgeous dresses, constructed and deconstructed, trains attached like long, careless folds of silks, like a bow tied on at the last minute. Dresses that looked like they were half on. Slits up to the hip. Pants made of sheer material that made legs look more naked than if they were bare. Underwear. Bags stuck onto other bags. Shoes that were too small. Garments that looked like the model had just grabbed the black satin sheet off the bed and tied it on to go downstairs for a late breakfast at the hotel.

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