Tim Burton Meets Jane Eyre at Alexandre Herchcovitch
An unsettling siren of a violin opened Alexandre Herchcovitch, and what began as something like Tim Burton meets Jane Eyre—beautifully unsettling, with frizzy haired models in oversized bug-eyed sunglasses and winklepicker mules conjuring Helena Bonham Carter firing on all cylinders—started to give you ideas about what that spinster daughter in Grant Wood’s American Gothic might have been wearing under all that drab paisley. There were pintuck dresses with one strap hanging a la Gautreau, and Victorian layer cakes of embroidered tops over combinations of terry cloth, scalloped lace, and hot pants; with a glimpse of bunched knickers here and a jaunt of t-shirt hem there. In blush, crème fraîche, and putty, they conjured prairie underpinnings, but not the sort that leave little to the imagination: the delicate cutwork highlighted just how stunning Herchcovitch’s talent for construction is.
The violin soundtrack ground into full-on hoedown, which couldn’t have been at more lovely odds with a dash of secretary shifts in the pink and red of a squeezed pomegranate. And then came the grays: flannel suiting with ruffled shoulders, and a double-breasted jacket with sleeves that ballooned with all the arch modesty of a schoolmarm. The denouement was a triumvirate of less prim lace pieces that were like gracefully fussy doilies.
Photography by Anthony Cabaero and Joe Marquez and Chris Swainston
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