Rick Owens told the Los Angeles Times that he calls his clothes his “diary and biography.” After dropping out of Otis College of Art and Design, Owens said “fuck it” and enrolled in a nondescript trade college to learn patterns and how to drape — dude just wanted to roll up his sleeves. And so began his line that would’ve left ancient Greek maidens, Middle-earth warrior chicks and the showgirls in Kubrick’s “Eyes Wide Shut” agape. It’d be naive to call him derivative, as each piece, no more influenced than it is fresh, communicates his fascination with time and how solemn it can be.

His “diary” actually pulls from all of these areas — dark and violent and mystic — and even his own Mexican blood. His dusty and fringed moccasin-like deerskin pieces swallow his models, wrapping them with asymmetric twists without suffocating or tightening gaits. Replete with quiet granite beiges, impenetrable blacks and lukewarm beiges, Owens tapers virtually nothing and drapes everything. He marries Roman tunics with skirts that hang ankle-length up front while cut at the knees in the back — both a way to showcase his form-fit boots and lock-in breathability.

The collection plays with shoulders over all else, Owens seeing them as the vertex for functionality and ingenuity. He hits extremes when one piece boxes in its wearer, shoulders jutting straight out nearly a foot, reminiscent of “Dr. Calgari” ’s somnambulist. When he’s not inflating the shoulders, he just gives them wings, as the back fabric spreads out, leaving the fronts of the arms still exposed. No matter the cut, you can bank Owens will rattle the cage with oblique seams to disrupt when things get too parallel, too perfect.

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