If you were a child of the ’90s, you didn’t dream about Yves Saint Laurent. By then, the preeminent fashion genius of the third quarter of the 20th century and the designer so often credited with inventing the modern woman’s wardrobe had handed prêt-à-porter over to his assistants, who clung as if by commandment to the house dogma of bourgeois Parisian elegance. For a child of the ’90s, newer thrills abounded: the minimalism of Helmut Lang and the grunge of (early) Marc Jacobs, the full-blooded glamour of Versace, the humor and irreverence of Jean Paul Gaultier, the deconstructed shapes of Yohji Yamamoto.
Then again, Anthony Vaccarello was not the sort of future designer who had pages from Vogue Italia pasted to his bedroom walls as a teenager, though maybe he doodled a high-heel shoe o