Fashion stopped intimidating me some time ago. Art, however.
For me, art has never had the emotional muscle of words,
music, cinema. It has somehow stayed in that aggravating space
where knowledge meets incomprehension. Not for want of trying,
either – from the NGMA to the Centre Pompidou, Tate Modern to
MoMA, the Louvre to the Met, I have looked and wondered, even been
awed, but rarely moved. I have to keep reminding myself that being a
philistine never killed anyone (that I know of).
A few months ago, in Milan, when I walked through the sets
commissioned to Latin-American street artists by Miuccia Prada for her
Spring/Summer’14 show, I felt the pull that I normally associate with
literature.Massive murals saturated with emotion, colour, impudence –all translated unbroken onto the clothes. It was my favourite show of the
season.It moved me.