PARIS, France — A Yohji Yamamoto show is a riddle for the reviewer. No official explanation is given by the house and the designer is not easy to access. The shows are, in a way, always the same yet always different. Menswear, in particular, is an autobiographic affair for Mr. Yamamoto, the grand poet of deconstructed masculinity who invariably sends down the catwalk a posse of maudits and men of strong character.
This season there were opposite feelings going on at once. On one side there was the extreme romanticism of fluid tailoring in generous proportions and devorè velvet for suits that exuded the dreamy ease of a pajama. On the other, there was the aggressiveness of biker jackets, the creepiness of hoods concealing faces and the spookiness of the prints depicting young girls looking as pale as ghosts. Otherwise, it was pure Yamamoto, with a newfound ease and a pervading lightness, even in the darkest corners of the show. This vision of romantic aggression was a joy to behold.