The invitation for Natasha Zinko’s spring presentation arrived in the form of a chest radiograph revealing two silicone breast implants, along with a postoperative letter from the designer’s fictional medical practice. “The Plastic Clinic will not be liable for any discomfort caused,” it threatened. “In the case that you choose to pursue any kind of monetary reparations, let us remind you that our legal department is widely known for causing 12 bankruptcies.” Ouch—this would not be the holistic service that some of tonight’s showgoers had perhaps become accustomed to. To wit: A preset performance included a swarm of bandaged models admiring their reflections through the Oval Space’s industrial windows. It could have been a scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Zinko is not immune to the morbid fascinations that lurk on Instagram’s Explore page, where the algorithm will often serve before-and-after photos of strangers with swollen augmentations. “People are proud of their procedures these days,” the designer said at a preview. “And they’re not afraid to broadcast the process on social media.” A series of T-shirts had been printed with “Insert Tits Here” with dotted incision lines, and supple silicone molds were inserted into half-cup bras and the back pockets of leather trousers and acid-wash jeans. (Denim is, after all, beloved for its curve-accentuating properties.) The now transparent cultural attitude toward cosmetic treatments was otherwise evoked in stiff mesh dresses with corseted panels and silicone-dipped cotton cargos that were just sheer enough to hint at impropriety. “People do this stuff to look sexy!” noted the designer.
But this was Zinko’s medical madhouse, where the surgeon’s knife is not to be trusted. Doctors charged about in high-collar lab coats laced up the back like surgical greens, while inpatients hobbled behind them in double-layered jersey hoodies and tracksuit bottoms that were sutured together at all sorts of comically lopsided angles. (The word botched comes to mind.) The designer’s continued fascination with underwear—something she considers to be fashion’s most democratic item and is, coincidentally, the only thing that a person can take into an operating theater—surfaced in tote bags with waistband branding and minidresses that had been collaged from upside-down Y-fronts. Boxer shorts were sometimes used as makeshift face masks. If Zinko’s intention was to comment on these extreme vanities, then the 45 minutes we had to sit and watch content creators film videos of themselves on the catwalk before the show could begin did an equally potent job.
