At 81 years old, Yohji Yamamoto has seen it all. The rise and fall of movements, the churn of time eroding once-radical ideas into nostalgia, the way fashion cycles through opulence and restraint, only to return to the same questions: What does it mean to endure? What does it mean to fail? And how do we, despite everything, keep moving forward?
This season, Yamamoto draped these questions over the body like a weary sigh. Somber black, his eternal signature, swallowed the runway, punctuated only by glimpses of white and bruised purple woven through his deconstructed wardrobe. Models wore their hair slicked in the front, frazzled in the back—a mask of internalised distress that becomes increasingly difficult to contain. Defeat personified in the face of nihilism.
The clothes were patched together, layers of wool cascading in asymmetry, garments seemingly unravelling mid-motion, as if caught between states of becoming and collapse. Oversized blazers slouched over draped skirts, held together by loose knots that whispered of fragility, yet also of persistence. Woven leathers and frayed finishes evoked the slow degradation of time. And then, there were the boots—adorned with a rectangular patch of leather that flapped with every step, a subtle poetic gesture of the exhaustion that hovered over the collection.
With the global political landscape growing increasingly volatile, Yamamoto’s embrace of disorder is no coincidence. Channelling our collective helplessness into clothing—shredded fabrics, unfinished hems, garments that look as though they are succumbing to catastrophe. In Yamamoto’s hands, distress is not just an aesthetic; it is an acknowledgment of the very human feeling of helplessness in a time of instability.
But Yohji does not leave us stranded in melancholy. There was a shift—bruises turned regal in satin gowns standing as a quiet act of defiant opulence. Defeat is not the end, Yohji tells us. It is merely the pause before we pull each other back up. The show concluded with a group of models turning their coats inside out, revealing vivid violet linings and putting them on their companions. It was an act of camaraderie, a reminder that even in solitude, we are not alone. The final procession: hands clasped, a silent vow that were in this together.