ARMANI AND THE SPIRIT OF MILAN

At the hour when the Milanese sky parts like a heavy eyelid laden with mascara! Silvana Armani, within the sacred walls of the Armani/Teatro, struck a powerful chord with something rather unexpected: cotton. Indeed, she brought cotton onto the runway, that humble, pure fabric which Giorgio, in his pride as a master, might have considered too modest, unworthy of his altars. But she, the daughter of the house, adores it with an unwavering love. Should we be surprised? Often, daughters turn out differently from their mothers, and the heiress of Sergio does not always follow in her father’s footsteps.

And so the collection began: with fluid, wide-legged trousers, floating like sails in the Italian wind; with roomy Bermuda shorts as well; and with jackets whose shoulders stood proudly erect, ghosts resurrected from the archives of the 1980s, which the house had kept close to its heart like an old oath.

And cotton proved itself a wise counsellor! For summer refused to die, extending its caresses into the mists of autumn, a supreme sweetness that the Milanese, a fortunate people, savour every minute of like a final kiss.

But Silvana’s rebellious spirit, like a romantic heart that no rule can contain, drove her to reopen the family album, that reliquary of memory. Giorgio Armani, for his part, had his dark double-breasted suits, recognisable among a thousand, broad and solemn. Silvana, however, likes to shatter gravity: like an Italian woman with a resounding voice, one who knows how to make herself noticed, she tied a necktie around her models’ necks. Jackets with covered buttons, slit pockets and generous trousers: what a splendid ensemble! It will suit perfectly those evening cocktails that dawn finds still going at the Baron, when the night lingers on.

These pieces will flatter a thousand silhouettes. The tuxedo jackets, in black or midnight blue, work beautifully thrown over shimmering evening gowns, like night upon the stars.

Short jackets, embroidered with sequins, glittered as though winter itself had covered them with crystals of ice. A white dress, with long, fluid fringes, seemed like a stream dressed in light. And that dazzling gown, where tiny butterflies alighted upon the delicate straps and the edge of the décolletage, captivated every eye. Ah! Decidedly, I love femininity: it is the sweetest of poems.

FM