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The new spring and summer collection he unveiled last week has many traditional Lacroix touches, if such a short career can have traditions. There are whopping cabbage roses, short lengths and, in the lace-printed fichus, references to Arles, in Lacroix's native Provence. Some expectable hoots were present: bamboo sunglasses, giant hatpins, whimsical buttons. But Lacroix is changing. The collection was better focused than his 1987 offering. And following the advice of his favorite designer, the late Jules-Francois Crahay of Lanvin, he planted some clues to the future. They included high-waisted flowing pants and some variegated lengths. "I am bored with short lengths!" he says. "I refuse to become a prisoner of my image."
After the show, Lacroix took over the fabled Opera Comique for a celebration. When the crowd of 800 old pals, press, dandies and punks arrived, they sat down to a 30-minute video of the making of the American Ballet Theater's $350,000 production of Gaite Parisienne, which opened last month in Tampa and is now touring the U.S. The dancing was effervescent, but the stars of the show were the sassy, spectacular costumes served up from the sketch pad of the host. Gaite was a stand-up, cheering hit. After the lights went up, Lacroix joined the crowds and danced the farandole, the heels-up peasant dance of Provence. He hoofed it until 5:30 a.m.
Other top Paris couturiers went for sizzle last week too, especially Emanuel Ungaro, whose bright follies exposed virtually the whole thigh. Yves Saint Laurent presented his customary, imperturbable show of regal but wearable clothes. His only jape was the bridal dress that traditionally ends couture shows. His bride wafted out in a white shirred micro-mini-bustier with an applique dove on her head.
There can be adverse reactions to these champagne clothes, and not everyone is hopping aboard Lacroix's bandwagon. His outfits are not for the dress-for- success crowd -- only for those who have succeeded. Then there are the enthusiasts of top ready-to-wear designers like Jean-Paul Gaultier and Claude Montana and several of the Japanese, all intellectual, all looking toward futuristic silhouettes. To them, Lacroix is a crashing irrelevance. Alan Bilzerian, owner of two au courant shops in Massachusetts, who heavily backs the Japanese, writes Lacroix off briskly: "It's like a foul ball; he hit it over the fence, but it didn't go anywhere. It wasn't in play."
Lacroix may be as much a ponderer of clothes as any of the Japanese. His career was built mostly at the venerable House of Patou, whose line of perfumes (Joy, Moment Supreme) is among the best known in the world. After four years of experiments -- Lacroix never tires of saying haute couture must be a "laboratory of ideas" -- he burst upon the fashion world in 1985 with his Spanish collection. It was earthy, sensual, funny and, above all, fresh. It exuded a feeling that wonderful clothes ought to push their way out of the confines of couture. The crowd in the gilded ballroom of the Pavillon Gabriel cheered and pelted the young master with its complimentary violets.