“It’s just clothes.” That’s what an editor said to me about Phoebe Philo’s various alphabet spaghetti-monikered collections over the past few years. She meant that as the highest of compliments, and she is both right and wrong. Philo’s clothes are just clothes, presented in a direct way freed of the demands of catwalk theatrics. Those don’t have to mean Galliano-level histrionics – in the attention-grabbing petri-dish of a show, just as big gets evenhellip;

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