In the niche world of luxury fashion gossip, uncertainty currently reigns. On Friday, Valentino announced that Pierpaolo Piccioli, its hugely successful creative director, was stepping down after a 25-year tenure. Earlier in the week, Dries Van Noten, one of cult favourites the Antwerp Six, let it be known that after nearly 40 years he was relinquishing control on his eponymous label.
These revelations came on the back of the dismal demise of Matches, which was put into administration two weeks ago, merely two months after it was acquired by Mike Ashley’s Frasers Group for £52million.
That sum was a vast fall from grace for the company which was sold by founders Ruth and Tom Chapman for a reported £400million in 2017. The nearly 300 employees who instantly lost their jobs found out on Instagram.
Days later a curt email came from Alaïa cancelling a cocktail event it had been due to host in the opulent Carlos Place townhouse. The fashion party really was over.
There are currently stylists — including Harry Styles’s dresser Harry Lambert — pulling their hair out over bought clothing they can’t return (purchased for clients or shoots); fashion editors are wondering what we’re all going to wear if Raey, the in-house label — which does strong industry trade through its cool oversized minimalist classics — becomes collateral damage.
Perhaps the loss of a store selling clothes most people can’t afford isn’t the same capitalist tragedy as say, Woolworths or Wilko. But it’s a cruel blow to the shopping landscape of London, which is becoming a depressingly homogenous state of affairs. Boutiques like Matches with its clever curation of emerging design talent and white-hot covetable pieces shape the fabric and intrigue of the city. Without them we’re in danger of losing our creative personality.
For me, it feels quite personal. Matches was my first taste of high fashion, my entry into a world of style thrills. My elder, and always much cooler, cousin worked in the Wimbledon Village and Richmond branches when she was in sixth form. She’d come home and waft around in Joseph tops and Rifat Ozbek dresses while her younger sister and I were clad in polyester Topshop watching Clueless.
In the Nineties she proffered champagne to the Wimbledon FC Crazy Gang and tennis stars in the village, the store managers wearing bright-coloured, giant-shouldered Claude Montana suits, selling Versace to glitzy clientele.
Years later when I bought my wedding dress, Matches was my only port of call. Horrified at the idea of wearing an actual “bridal” dress, I booked a slot at its old outpost on Welbeck Street and eventually came away with a mushroom-strewn printed gown from Giles Deacon.
Throughout my career, Matches was the place you’d look to for its informative buy, snapping up clever, clever new fashion stars as well as carving out the chicest edits from established luxury houses. But I also remember when a pair of Miu Miu shoes cost £140.
Richmond town centre and Wimbledon Village have become sad zones stuffed with chain restaurants
Back in its heyday, Matches gave an essential drop of cool to its suburban outposts in south-west London. For us locals they offered a glamorous lifeline to a different world — one you could access by saving up for the sale.
Both Richmond town centre and Wimbledon Village have become sad zones stuffed with chain restaurants and Joe and the Juices rather than interesting shops with a unique point of view. They’re crying out for a strong dose of originality. But I’m not quite sure where in this climate that’s going to come from.
