The reigning queen of anarchic majestics took a break from saving the world to lend some british disobediance to paris' current up-hill struggle. So, tonight, the heavens opened, extending the erratic Westwood archive with a honeyed, golden down-pour.
The great Dame finally returned to her Kings Road roots by digging through cockney heritage. Governing an unruly glam-rock-oliver-twist, the models sauntered with a brassy swagger, proud in pinstripe suits that were boyishly tailored under tweed overcoats, cocky tipped flat-caps and sporting a coal smeared smirk, rife with deceptively vulnerable orphan charm.
Then, as if by magic, lambasting a rebellious thrash, Westwood unleashed a throng of those familiar dirty-old-maid dresses, adorned with crumpled florals, dishevelled with sexual prowess and burying the figure like an assaulted tea-towel (i don't know, just go with it)
Of course, her ethical passion could not escape the artistic vision for too long, as a cavalcade of primitive eco-warriors stormed the catwalk, Fully dressed with feathered helmets and tribal war paint, the soldiers moved with intense virtue, wearing heiroglyphic-cave prints enhanced with forestial hues and jungle swinging imagery. Burying themselves deep into woodland habitat, the dresses then emerged in soiled browns, stained with autumnal patterns whilst overseeing organza dresses viciously torn at the breast, venting a sea of sequins to reveal an "animals of farthing wood" sort of torment
The collection came full circle; somewhat representative of Viv's career. Rejoining the artful dodger irreverence, Oliver's Nancy arose from the golden ruins, under victorian structuring, alongside a group of delightfully misfitting, eerie-elfins. Their peplum dresses, although soaked in aristocratic antiquity, had a dusty moth wing fragility. Hauntingly delicate- but beautifully so, beautifully Westwood.