The Diesel show had a lot to say. But in the end, I thought Glenn Martens lost his focus, as the collection went in too many directions and roamed into pure entertainment. But then, Diesel is the go-to brand for hedonism. As the first models came out in his artisanal-industrial shredded and devoré denim outfits, the rain started to slice with gusto through the spotlit area above the huge runway that stretched long into the huge crowd (the free tickets that had been made available online – first to 1,500 students from Milan’s universities, then to all comers – had been snapped up in minutes). Dieselized parodies of old-school movie posters appeared on the garments, which in majority were distressed, acid-washed and double layered. Close fitting ruched jersey or lurex dresses, some of them traced with the external outline of underwear, acted as loose human pastiche of the Oscars statuette. But it also read very Mugler. Destroyed tuxedos, half red carpet and half apocalypse, were the masculine counterpoint. Artisanal pieces included dresses handmade in shredded denim or burned mesh. Several models were caked in grayish ochre mud that matched the tone of their looks. As the last model walked, statuette-esque in a flowing black silk skirt and bralette/scarf combo, the rain suddenly cleared. The finale – and then four more hours of partying – followed.

Collage by Edward Kanarecki.
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