I’m looking for irony, which is (perhaps) so dear

When “Il Foglio della Moda” asked me to write a piece on the lack of irony in the fashion industry over recent decades, I was reminded of a poem by Aldo Palazzeschi, written in 1909, entitled “Chi sono?” (“Who am I?”), the ending of which I have reproduced above. It is well known that mental associations often have more to do with dreams than with reality, but evidently the word ‘irony’ had the effect of bringing back a memory – perhaps from my school days – which, on the face of it, had nothing to do with the topic I had been assigned. Then, upon calmly analysing this intuition, I perhaps understood the reasons behind this association. There are states of mind that pertain to the indivisible mental spaces of individual people; they cannot be transferred. Everyone lives their own life, their own experiences and – even if parallel paths can emerge amongst humans – as individuals we are truly like prototypes: each of us is our own acrobat; unique and unrepeatable. So, returning to the theme of irony, I must say that, at least as far as I’m concerned, I’ve never thought of infusing my work with even a gram or a kilo of irony. And I think this is because, unless you’re a creative or a provocative designer – and here Franco Moschino or Vivienne Westwood spring to mind; they really did rely on irony and subversion to highlight their highly personal collections and styles – but I believe that, just as the habit doesn’t make the monk, irony does not make one ironic. Let me explain: to dress in an ‘ironic’ way, it is not necessary to wear garments that are inherently ironic. Rather, it is the blend that each person creates that transforms a look into an ironic style. It is not the designer or the creative director who will provide the key and the garments needed to be perceived as ironic individuals. Rather, I imagine that – if a person harbours a light-hearted instinct, a desire to surprise a little and not to remain in the shadows – they will know how to put together a playful, biting outfit, drawing inspiration from here and there. So, when I think about my collections, it’s clear that colours, certain cuts, and even specific buttons serve to create that subtle difference which, if used well, can help ensure you don’t go unnoticed. Nanni Moretti’s famous dilemma: ‘Am I noticed more if I turn up and stand on the sidelines, or if I don’t turn up at all?’ applies perfectly to those who seek out irony, for whom it’s obvious that it’s important to be there, to go along and – why not? – even to stand on the sidelines – just to see what effect it has. I adore irony – not so much my own, which is constantly kept in check by a watchful seriousness, but that of others, once I’ve recognised it as genuine. But this theme has really put my thinking to the test, as I’ve tried to reconcile two worlds that rarely coincide. I’ve taken the example of two iconic designers whom we can imagine at work: in those ateliers, the desire to amaze came before the garment itself, culture before production, and a love of diversity even before customer satisfaction. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately?), Piombo is the result of a, all things considered, more traditional approach. I have always said and written that I would like to dress ‘everyone’ – and I put ‘everyone’ in quotation marks precisely to make myself clear – this is not hyperbole on my part but a constant aspiration, and it goes without saying that, in order to dress everyone, I cannot and must not show any preference. If anything, the task is to find a factor we might call the ‘wearability factor’, which helps to infuse every collection with something that can intrigue and stimulate, precisely, anyone. And so, yes, I do like to appeal to those with a sense of irony, but also to the melancholic, the defiant, the shy, and – why not? – to all those who understand that luxury is not the pinnacle of beauty, but rather that beauty is the pinnacle of simplicity, which for me is the true luxury. Years ago, I thought my work might help people feel like ‘somebody’; then, over the years, I’ve come to realise that it’s better to let the garments speak for themselves rather than imbue them with hidden messages that, ultimately, would only convey my own thoughts. When I work, I set Massimo aside and let Piombo go its own way – not because a brand doesn’t also represent its creator, but because, as a poet friend of mine wrote, ‘the individual emerges from chaos and moves forward’. In conclusion – and I’ll ask myself a question in the time-honoured Marzullian tradition – but without giving myself an answer: is it possible to convey the immaterial nature of language within products? To describe them, certainly yes, but to imbue them with a primal feeling, I really don’t think so.