At Margiela, What's an Enigma?

We’re not really into Maison Martin Margiela, but we certainly get the appeal. The designer himself is the ultimate enigma, removing all signs from hi
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We’re not really into Maison Martin Margiela, but we certainly get the appeal. The designer himself is the ultimate enigma, removing all signs from hi
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We’re not really into Maison Martin Margiela, but we certainly get the appeal. The designer himself is the ultimate enigma, removing all signs from his boutiques and his studio (which goes notoriously unmarked, right down to his doorbell). Meanwhile, his fashion shows are often like puzzles, with various clues strewn about, waiting for Cathy or Suzy or someone to punch them the right way and spill out the light. Margiela also has a perverse sense of humor, as we discovered yesterday, when the designer beckoned his entire flock to the Bercy Sports Stadium – a monolith of ‘70s architecture that can only be described this way: What if Mayans built a sun temple while high on Coca Cola and disco music? Et voila, there we were. You should have seen various fashion fixtures attempting to get up the pyramid steps, with their pyramid-studded Burberry heels in the way. It was amazing. And the publicists all wore white lab coats, with backstage passes dangling like stethoscopes. When they denied entry to half the audience – and kept us waiting outside for an hour – it felt a little like a death sentence. As for the actual show, there were some square shouldered jackets and a series of jeans so destroyed, they looked like they’d been through nuclear waste. “Apocalypse denim