Haider Ackermann Spring 2012

My words are insignificant next to such tremendous beauty. If I were wealthy enough, I would lounge around in Haider Ackermann all day like his muse Tilda Swinton famously does. His designs speak for themselves. I think of his aesthetic as if Rick Owens’ post-apocalyptic warrior goddess left behind battlefield Earth for a fabulously wealthy alien planet in a far away galaxy. Now instead of fighting all day, she lounges around in noxious-gas colored silk ensembles with her new coneheaded extraterrestrial friends. This is a totally ridiculous story I just wrote. Staring in the face of abject beauty does that to me. See, I told you my words had no meaning.