"There is this idea that Paris is the city of love but really it's the city of lust" states Deacon as he unchained a cavalry of models, bound by skin-tight sheaths of satin and corsets that withdrew a forgiving breath. Modesty fell at the fist hurdle, fought off by sadistic leather dog collars shackled to temptresses whose pulled back hair whipped with every forceful step. Submissively playful but suggestively dangerous impulses of underground clubs vented in bondage zips, leather panels and stiff ornate embroidery, saturated in oily blacks, crude splashes of vibrant pink and enrapturing puddles of blue and green.
Thin lace slips indecently exposed revealing lingerie, only occasionally covered by throttling bestial inclinations such as feathered wings and fierce animalistic motifs, derived from the barbarous photography of Sølve Sundsbø, and provoked with a face full of glitter.
The Emanuel Ungaro which once flatlined at the hands on Lindsay Lohan...lets not go there....has now been fully restored by Giles Deacon, whose unformulaic versatility will always keep us guessing, begging for more.
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