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If the Prada show had been narrated by Woody Allen, the way he does it in so many of his films, Woody would have told the story of a young intellectual in the 60s, probably pretty well-off and definitely highly educated, whose neat apartment interior – built to perfection in Prada’s elaborate levelled wooden set with windows, coffee tables and the likes – spoke levels of his perfected appearance. He was so banal that he was original. It was – and excuse the terrible word that’s about to hit you in the face for it’s not meant that way – a little bit retro, but in that subversive Miuccia-esque way you’d expect from a Prada collection. Take for instance those washed leather jackets you get by the ton in any provincial thrift shop, or your granddad’s cropped check trousers you wore with large shoes during some existentialist phase in high school. Like Woody and any intellectual geek or those infantile young advertisers on Mad Men, and like the soundtrack of classical radio hits that was playing throughout the show, the Prada AW13 collection exuded an inexplicable appeal, which was really quite hot.
Text: Anders Christian Madsen
Photography: Mitchell Sams
