Verdict - cold and expensive.
IN the beginning, at the new Jil Sander
store, there was nothing, and it was good. It was clean, German and
perfect; a high, white space tiled with four-foot slabs of Carrara
marble and a wall of vertical mirrors rotating slowly for a wavy
Venetian-blind effect, like that once used on ?The Price Is Right.?
Then there was the word (on
the street), which said that the beautiful nothing should be ashamed
because it lacked clothing. And so there came to be mannequins:
headless women standing on white blocks in a straight military row down
the center of the space, wearing knee-length sleeveless dresses in
wools of exquisite quality and design.
One black dress, covered
in microscopic, weeping polka dots, had pin-tucks at the waist that
acrobatically flipped inside-out to become vertical eye-shape details
at the bust. Another curved hourglass waistline in gray flannel became
the pistil for a built-in protective tulip of a shoulder cape.
A
creation in midnight blue had, running its length, stitched seam
details of a type ordinarily reserved for faux pockets on men?s tuxedo
jackets; these pockets, however, instead of yielding to silky inlets,
were lined with what looked like the shattered safety glass of a
Baccarat windshield, forcing the viewer to ask, ?Is it beauty or is it
violence??
It was very J.G. Ballard, and good.
After
spending an intense period of isolation and despair, wondering when
help might arrive, one discovers the white marble staircase by which
one is granted the power to ascend bodily to an even higher room of
nearly blinding luminosity.
Much like Immanuel Kant?s ?Critique
of Pure Reason,? Jil Sander?s creations were too ahead of their time to
be greeted with critical enthusiasm when they were trotted out on the
runway in the 1980s, amid the lurid pink poufs and sateen trophy-wife
frippery that prevailed. Her collections of chilly, boxy office-wear,
engineered with all the necessary equipment for an accelerated rise to
power in a world of low glass ceilings, were not fully appreciated
until the 1990s, when women?s shopping habits evolved to more fully
embrace their roles in boardrooms, as well as their bedrooms.
Ms. Sander greatly admired Coco Chanel, who once commented that elegance was the ?absence of vulgarity.? Under Raf Simons,
who has been designing the label since 2005, the Jil Sander line now
allows a bit more than just absence in Sander?s starkly perfect void.
The new looks maintain a distinct reverence for the modern severity for
which Jil Sander became immortal in certain power circles, but they are
a little less butch and conservative, a little more femme and
body-conscious. Jil Sander clothing still has no sense of humor, but it
may now find your joke amusing.
She may now permit, perhaps reluctantly, a tasteful application of lipstick.
The
garments, arranged with great care at equal distances, are industrious,
no-nonsense cuts on a strict solid-color diet of teal, navy, black,
gray and magenta. These valuable wardrobe tools work productively
because great thought, diligence and mathematical precision has gone
into their styling.
Because you are terrified to touch the
clothing, the store is fortunate to have a handsome salesman, Paul
Silva, who is exceedingly kind and supplied a variety of intelligent
selections in Size 34. I was tempted by a deliriously soft, belted
camel overcoat with an extra kimono collar ($2,345). It was flawed only
in that German girls who wear Size 34 seem to have arm spans the
breadth of great condors.
The dressing room was conceptual; it
was simply not there, an open white area of mirrors and light without
form. Mr. Silva abruptly moved a large white wall, suddenly caging me
into a doorless hexagonal dressing apparatus where I was forced to
confront myself on all sides with excruciating clarity.
I beat my fists against the mirrors and shouted in my best Patrick McGoohan accent, ?I am not a number, I am a free man!?
Mr. Silva was pitiless.
I
first tried a black, shapeless cowl-neck shroud in silk jersey ($575),
something I thought Tilda Swinton might wear triumphantly to the
funeral of someone she had killed. It felt like slipping into cool
water, looked flattering and forgiving worn both correctly and
backward. With a proper belt, it would be ideal for round-the-clock
poolside meetings with chief financial officers, especially if I were
30 pounds heavier.
The highly pleasing wool skirts fit perfectly.
I admired a black just-above-the-knee basic with a large pleat draping
diagonally across the front ($675); a fetching, nubby blue plaid skirt
was responsible, desirable and even (gasp) a bit sexy, but was beyond my weak buying power at $1,045.
I
was keen to try a gray wool suit with purple pinstripes ($3,875).
Sadly, it was a harsh reminder of my physical puniness; the jacket was
large enough to have been tailored by Paula Poundstone.
One
zippered shirtdress was a brilliant co-opting of male luxury tailoring.
The tuxedo-pocket seams were back, now swerving like an autobahn up the
hips and bust, and repeated in two faux pockets slanted above the bosom
and two more slanted down at the hip. It had velocity, verve and
magnetism. I looked shapely and iconic, yet professional and
respectable. I was the People?s Hood Ornament! I loved the dress, but
was not worthy of it ($2,175).
LIKE a mother who is stern and
correct, if not terribly affectionate, Jil Sander sacrifices a great
deal to prepare you for a corporate world she finds coarse and
potentially dangerous. These garments are your Valkyrie breastplate,
serving as both protection and dazzle camouflage in battles of the
sexes and otherwise. They reveal in no uncertain terms that unless you
have personally mastered the exquisite discipline of not needing to
look at the sticker price, you still have a great deal of work to do.
But
a mother need not be particularly warm to prepare you to achieve
greatness beyond measure. She must, however, be extremely sharp.
Don?t touch my collar, little boy, you?ll cut yourself. Give Mommy the keys, we?re going to Washington.
JIL SANDER
30 Howard Street (at Crosby Street); (212) 925-2345.
THE WANTS Like a lady doctor, Jil Sander
really knows the clinical tricks of how to fit a female shape. If the
store seems a bit cold, you must understand that these garments find
public life a painful intrusion.
THE TAUNTS They
aren?t looking down on you, these clothes, they are just naturally
austere. The sales clerks, however, are so welcoming and pleasantly
human as to be a tacit apology for the wholly intimidating perfection
of the store.
THE EXISTENTIAL PANTS
There is also a nice men?s wear section, featuring brighter reds,
pegged pants and a microfiber car coat in a faux marble camo print that
looks primed and ready for combat in both museums and finer hotel men?s
rooms.
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