Yves Saint Laurent, 1936-2008
From “Swann Song,” Judith Thurman’s account of Yves Saint Laurent’s final haute-couture show in 2002:
There was plenty of cerebral whimsy to offset the noirish sex play: feather minis suitable for a showgirl’s wedding to a peer; a minuscule suède tunic from the sixties worn with high-heeled waders; swanky cocktail dresses that exposed a nipple; a transparent black baby-doll disco nightie trimmed with fur; quite a bit of immaculately white-collared “Belle de Jour” respectability begging to be corrupted; a strong dose of double-breasted androgyny; and a backless evening gown cut to the cleft of the buttocks, then scored with lace. But while Saint Laurent can sometimes be pedantically outré, he’s never trashy. And he displayed such encyclopedic formal invention and technical virtuosity that the occasional bomb—like a series of umbrella-shaped flowered tea frocks in what looked like shower-curtain fabric, or a shapeless wool shift worn with a dowager’s turban—were like a sorbet between courses rather than a disappointment.
More on Yves Saint Laurent, Catherine Deneuve, and the fashions of Belle de Jour at Kimberly Lindbergs’s Cinebeats.