Ruby Jean. Remember that name. “You’re destined for big things little Ruby Jean”. It’s that kind of name, and fitting for the bleach blonde beauty that opened the Marc Jacobs show. It’s possible that her entrance was so picture-perfect, so holistic in mood, so Marc Jacobs at a molecular level that, at least for this editor, the message that would play out for the next seven minutes announced itself entirely in that moment. Dressed in a white T-shirt and barely there shorts, dark eyes and a lazy ponytail, she could’ve been Edie Sedgwick herself, not giving a fuck, walking out of The Factory after a long night, not stumbling, but owning the territory.
That territory being the Mod-frenzied streets of New York City in the 60s. Jacobs’ feat here was transporting the seminally 60s black & white stripe motif, which has had its glory in practically every decade since, and gave it next year’s modern polish. Parallel lines of black and white raced across the top of a hip-hugging low slung skirt under a striped blazer cut short enough to expose the midriff. Those particular skirts hung to the hips in a way that was so essentially Jacobs, it’s almost impossible to put in words. Almost like a Meryl Streep-ism – you just recognize the touch. Beetlejuice stripes ran packed in varying assortments through skirt-suits, Ruby Jean’s tee, down coats and tops in rounded leather strips and came to a swirl in a smashing quartet of maxi dresses in black, red, beige and brown respectively. The patterns of black and white intersecting lines became so minuscule and deeply compacted on a printed overcoat and matching cropped shorts that from afar, the model looked composed of TV static.
It wasn’t entirely consistent of all black & white, but that’s what most will take away from this show (that’s not including the adorable Mickey Mouse intarsia cropped sweater). There was obvious show-stopping merit to the finale dresses, with their pseudo-quasi Dr. Octopus sequined tentacles (the white and gold sequined gown made one wish he had given gold a little more glory), and still, even those couldn’t hold a candle to the bad ass-ness that was Jamie Bochert’s sequined jumpsuit. If Andy Warhol and his Factory entourage had been at Jacobs’ show to see it for themselves, they’d suggest you spend your 15 minutes of fame wearing that.