John Galliano feels like at home at Maison Margiela, and that’s visible – his collections start to look-alike. The textiles are chaotically layered up, the circus opulence from the Dior era is present, and Margiela’s codes seem to sink in this musty trunk of an Old Hollywood star. I’m not saying that Galliano is burnt out – but I perceive his presence at Margiela as appalling. The aristocratic capes, exhausted pussy-bow shirts made from a fluorescent, green mesh and college jackets seem to look so pretentious and, sadly, outdated. Others say that Galliano’ collections for Margiela are innovative – but I constantly see dusty clothes that look as if they escaped out of a granny-wardrobe, filled with souvenirs from her 20s.