When Liza Keane closed LFW SS27 with a post-apocalyptic sermon of a catwalk, our towering expectations were instantly gratified. Each of Keane’s collections seem to arise from the same psychosexual fantasyland. A cross between the deepest corners of the dark web and the hallucinatory dreams of a psychiatric inpatient. Amalgamating the haunting and the erotic, Keane appears at war with her own mind yet simultaneously hyper-aware of all that exists within it.
Her LFW debut was presented by playbody – the design studio that builds structures and hosts raves for human connection – at 180 Strand. Their brutalist set design served as commentary on “contemporary existential fatigue and post-spiritual nihilism”, playbody told Cold. The flashing lights left a permanent imprint of the collection inside our eyelids, while their architectural world building transformed a runway into an alternate universe.
The room was a barren storm. Lightning illuminations and industrial rainfall dampened both models and the unsuspecting crowd. Eroding slabs of concrete littered the floor, broken off from piled bricks upon which the powdered angels later stood. Everyone in the show, models and the powdered figures holding the constructs, were meant to be angels. Suspended between was a cross between a medieval hospital stretcher and a mould and deckle, tension framing a flesh-coloured material with four steel clamps at each edge and creating an uncanny visual parallel to Doctor Who’s Lady Cassandra. The accompanying olfactory notes were provided by the show’s scent partner, Escentric Molecules.
Two full-grown cherubs, virtually bare bodied and painted plaster-white, opened the show; carrying oversized metal lamps on their shoulders to light up the rear of their fitted white undergarments. Once stationed before the crowd, they mounted their beacons into a gateway for each model to pass through. With the lamp-arch acting as a portal, members of the crowd were journeyed through the fragmented remnants of an apocalyptic dystopia. The naked, ghastly creatures multiplied, acting as pallbearers for the peculiar metal contraption.
Leaking, dripping, stopping, pouring. A lone sprinkler began gushing through the angelic bridge and the crowd realised that this suspended skin was not as shielding as it once appeared. The first model emerged in a hoodie and tattered angel wings – hood up and hands firmly pocketed like an angsty teen – refusing to acknowledge the enamoured onlookers.
The aesthetics of motogear and fetishwear coalesced seamlessly to form the remainder of the collection; which consisted of ragged and bodycon leather, unfinished hemlines, and models carrying their sole belongings as though it were the last thing they were able to grab before their homes were destroyed. Some charged through with a quiver of black arrows, clad head to toe in raven-coloured trenchcoats – undoubtedly the vigilantes of this universe. Another walked topless in a gas mask, belt trailing along the floor behind him, with his torso blackened by a mysterious sludge. Then came the outliers: models in dreamlike couture, glistening and billowing tulle, floating through the room with a dissociated absence of purpose. Juxtaposing the brutalist backdrop, they appeared as spirits of the demolished realm – with zips undone and business unfinished – wandering tenuously as though searching for their former life amongst the wreckage.
Models took isolated steps through a shallow vat beneath the waterfall, trailing their freshly-baptised feet through soil and grounding them onto concrete. Playbody’s trademark focus on human participation was intentionally woven throughout. Each carefully-curated element of the show reminded the stunned audience that the downfall of humanity is manmade, that nature’s elemental forces will always reclaim what has been stolen from them. The leather was torn and the landscape weary, but the divine messages of this show prevailed, untouched.
Thunderous applause slashed through the palpable silence of the room as the final formation of angels retreated and Keane surfaced from backstage. As light returned, everyone seemed a little dazed; uncertain of where they were or where they were going, unaware that the show had ended at all. A moment to bask in the afterglow, to soak in the surroundings, was integral to processing this dizzying performance.
The final day of London Fashion Week SS27 was, as always, bittersweet. Industry professionals across the city are currently thanking their lucky stars that the cyclic overwhelm of the season has settled at last. But also, we each had to wave a melancholic farewell to our favourite designers, who closed the week with showcases that will leave an aftertaste until February when everything begins again. For us, Liza Keane stole the show with one of the most groundbreaking LFW runway debuts we’ve seen so far. The remnants and debris will be lodged into the collective memory of the fashion world for years to come.
