From the outside in
Paris
Dutch duo Viktor Horsting and Rolf Snoeren could be two of the cleverest designers on the fashion planet.
In the 10 years since they met at art school, they have followed a deliberate path, at first creating a sensation by offering high-minded but mostly unwearable collections that commented on the fashion establishment. One of their first fashion presentations, “Miniature Doll” in 1996, portrayed a fashion empire in miniature, including tiny dioramas of a design showroom, a runway and a boutique. Barbie-sized dolls wore the clothing. They even made a fake Viktor & Rolf perfume; it came in a bottle that did not open.
But by poking fun at the system, they captivated it, and climbed to the top. In a time when so many contemporary designers are working to revive fusty brands like Dior and Yves Saint Laurent, it’s no small feat to have started a Paris fashion house of their own. With their most commercial collection yet, presented to great fanfare on the runway here earlier this month, and a retrospective exhibition at the Musee de la Mode et du Textile, they are poised to convert their outsider status to mainstream, retail success. Backed by L’Oreal, a real Viktor & Rolf perfume will be launched next year. And now the designers can finally loosen up and admit that what they really want is to make it in Hollywood.
“We’re definitely interested in having our clothes on the red carpet ... on the right person,” Horsting said last week at the museum. “Our spring collection was aimed at that public. We thought all the evening wear that you see out there was very cliche, so we tried to make it modern.” Their vision included a gown that was half skirt, half trousers.
When they were first starting out, their shows took place in art galleries, and their clothes were not produced but instead bought by museum curators around the world. But that wasn’t the future as envisioned by Horsting, 34, or Snoeren, 33, who rattled off “ambition” as the quality that first drew them together at the Arnhem Academy art school in the Netherlands. They want to be stars.
And so, visitors to the exhibit are greeted by lifelike wax figurines of the two designers, who could easily be twins. “We wanted it to be a bit like Disneyland, with Mickey and Goofy there to welcome you to our world,” said Horsting (who has a longer face, their publicist offers).
The soft-spoken designers helped the museum’s director of programming, Olivier Saillard, create the Viktor & Rolf universe in a dark, murky gallery with a cosmic soundtrack playing in the background.
It may seem odd to have a retrospective after a mere 10 years, but Saillard said “they are a mirror of the fashion system, who represent a new way of having shows and a new way of making clothes.” He believes they were responsible for ending the fashion elite’s 1990s obsession with Japanese-style minimalism, personified by such lines as Commes des Garcons.
The show, which runs through Jan. 25, is organized chronologically. Runway footage is paired with the actual clothes in glass cases. Fashion in a museum “is a little like taking the life out of the clothes,” said Horsting. “So we wanted to treat the exhibit like a zoo. In here are the animals,” he said, pointing to the cases. “And here, onscreen, is the jungle where they come from, or the proper context of the fashion show.”
Their first collections were illustrations of ideas rather than any real attempt at selling, said Snoeren, who wears the same kind of nerdy black glasses as his design partner. “They were experiments, answers to questions about who we are and how we fit into the fashion business.”
The 1995 “Supermodel” collection was dedicated to superficiality; dresses looked like candy wrappers. “We were very irritated by collections seeming to revolve around everything surrounding fashion, like the models, and the accessories, when we thought it should be about clothes,” said Snoeren. “So we started with the idea of bonbon packages, or gold foil, and treated the clothes purely as decorative elements for the models.” As part of the installation, there was a tape playing in the background, featuring schoolchildren chanting the names of famous models, “Naomi, Eva, Cindy,” etc.
The designers, who live in Amsterdam, could well have been dismissed as fashion pranksters without any real substance. But their workmanship and tailoring skills prove otherwise.
Their first Paris collection, presented in 1998, celebrated the art of haute couture. On one glorious gray satin gown with a dramatic high collar and asymmetrical closing, they left the embroidery hoop fastened to the front, the work half-finished.
Their critical breakthrough came with their winter 1999 “Atomic Bomb” collection of dresses and suit jackets puffed up with helium balloons to resemble mushroom clouds. “We were thinking about the millennium, and wondering whether it was going to be one big party or a disaster like Nostradamus predicted,” Horsting said. They showed the entire collection once with the stuffing, and once without it.
It was followed the next season by the “Russian Doll” collection. During the runway show, the designers layered model Maggie Rizer with clothing, like a nesting doll. She began in a muslin mini-dress, added a striking beaded paisley coat, and finishing in a shroud-like cape. “The idea was that everyone can enjoy beauty, and you don’t necessarily have to buy something to enjoy beauty. Beauty can be enjoyed like a very precious diamond, because it’s unattainable,” Horsting said.
They were approached by Franco Pene, the head of Italian manufacturing company Gibo, who asked if they could translate their offbeat ideas into actual ready-to-wear.
The pair responded in March 2000 with a collection of casual sportswear in a red, white and blue flag print. “We dedicated our first ready-to-wear collection to our ambition to become a global brand, using symbols of global colors, flag patterns, and icons of American sportswear known throughout the world,” said Horsting. They also debuted their official logo, a red wax V&R; “seal of approval,” as they call it.
In a “desire to go beyond the product and celebrate the wearer,” Horsting explained, their 2002 “Bluescreen” collection featured all-blue garments that were screens for films that were projected onto them during the show. It was an interesting idea, to be sure, but entirely impractical.
Even working commercially, they are still far too challenging for most fashion customers, and sell in only a handful of stores, including Barneys New York and Ron Herman in L.A. (Jackets retail for about $1,000 and pants for about $500.)
Earlier this year, they presented their first menswear collection in Florence, modeling it themselves. The limitations of men’s clothing inspired their fall women’s line, presented in Paris last March. At the show, their muse and friend, actress Tilda Swinton, and models made up to look like her wore men’s blazers, fanned out with multiple shirt collars.
Their spring collection shown earlier this month was a definite departure from their avant-garde past. Reworked men’s white shirts, tuxedos and trench coats were immensely wearable, and noticeably different from anything in the retrospective exhibit.
“I think they have come to see there are people who want to wear their clothes who aren’t avant-garde,” said John Eshaya, head women’s wear buyer at Ron Herman. “They finally did a wearable collection, and it’s not boring. It’s full of twists and turns. The clothes are beautifully tailored and we have done well with it. Women who you would not think would wear Viktor & Rolf are wearing it.”
Already, though, some critics have bemoaned the designers’ defection to the commercial side.
“That’s the trouble with being labeled conceptual,” Horsting said. “People assume you don’t want to sell clothes.”
