The Encyclopedia of Deconstruction

Antwerp Six. The Crows. Virgil Abloh. A comprehensive overview of the influential artistic philosophy.

WRITER: Joe Bobowicz PUBLISHED: May 20, 2024

One fateful day in 1989, lauded fashion photographer Bill Cunningham changed the way we speak about exposed seams forever. “Deconstructivist” was the term he used to describe Martin Margiela’s FW89 collection in Details Magazine, after which the word became a fixture in fashion discourse. The concept, which ranges from distressing to disheveling to a process-revealing approach to design, finds its roots in mid-century continental philosophy and was first popularized by Jacques Derrida.

From there, it made its way into the world of architecture, graphic design and contemporary art. When it reached fashion, deconstruction offered a riposte to the polished, prim and office-appropriate aesthetics that had ruled the runways of the early ’80s. Fronted by a guerilla group from Antwerp, Belgium, the movement forced fashion to reckon with time-honored traditions and established ways of working.

Of course, the story of deconstruction—now omnipresent from everyday ripped jeans to asymmetrical formal dresses—is one of many chapters in the long history of fashion. Below, an extensive overview of the movement’s key figures, moments and storylines, arranged in alphabetical order.

Consisting of Ann Demeulemeester, Marina Yee, Dries Van Noten, Dirk Bikkembergs, Dirk Van Saene and Walter Van Beirendonck, the Antwerp Six were all trained at Antwerp's Royal Academy of Fine Arts. Showing together in London in 1986, the collective’s revolutionary perspectives helped shape modern fashion design.

Antwerp Six

You can’t talk about deconstruction without mentioning this visionary crew of designers. Alumni of Antwerp’s hallowed Royal Academy of Fine Arts, the Antwerp Six comprised Walter Van Beirendonck (who now teaches at the institution), Ann Demeulemeester, Dries Van Noten, Dirk Van Saene, Dirk Bikkembergs and Marina Yee. Today, Martin Margiela is considered an honorary member of the group, with the collective being rebranded as the Antwerp Six+1.

Together, they traveled the globe, leaning into their mutual taste for anti-fashion. Graduating from the infamously strict course headed up by Chanel-obsessive Mary Prijot, the designers were trained to the highest degree, leaving with a sharp knowledge of line, pattern-cutting and symmetry. By learning the rules so well, they could undo them to better reflect a sometimes grim world. For Van Noten, this meant potato-sack tailoring and outrageously roomy cuts—a heathen act at the time. Demeulemeester, meanwhile, opted for half-undone shirting, translucent vests and clothes that appeared as if cut apart and repieced together.

Devoted to the work of avant-garde designers like Yohji Yamamoto and Comme des Garçons’ Rei Kawakubo, “The Crows” were known to exclusively wear garments from the Japanese legends, identified by their all-black ensembles.

The Crows

So named for their loyalty to the color black, the Crows (or Karasu-zoku) were a movement of Japanese fashion diehards who obsessed over Issey Miyake, Rei Kawakubo and Yohji Yamamoto’s spliced-and-diced blend of East and West. Former lovers, Yamamoto and Kawakubo brought Tokyo sensibilities to Paris in the ’70s, offering up ravaged, falling-apart designs that embraced frayed edges and concepts like wabi-sabi—an appreciation for the impermanence, imperfection and transience of life and objects.

The Crows flocked to this way of thinking. But it wasn’t just the Crows taking note. Given Kawakubo and Yamamoto’s radical approach to design, it’s unsurprising that they were some of the key figures influencing Belgian designers like Martin Margiela and Ann Demeulemeester to ditch the couture prissiness in favor of something leaner and rawer.

Challenging traditional conventions of glamor, designers throughout the ’80s, ’90s and into the new millennium intentionally crafted garments that appeared as if they were falling apart on the wearer.

Disorder

Just as deconstruction disrupted the status quo of power shoulders and working-women silhouettes, it also questioned the very foundations of traditional garment design. This was done by working back from the perfected prototype, tarnishing it or completely challenging its functions. Dirk Bikkembergs’ laced-heel bungee boots of the ’90s, now considered a breakthrough among fashion archivists, embody this thinking. Ultimately, deconstruction was about designing so that the outfit looked as if it was coming apart. In this manner, Marina Yee clinged ensembles together with apron strings, while Ann Demeulemeester refashioned collars as necklines.

A rebellion against the excess of the ’80s, grunge reflected the emerging cynicism of the ’90s. Known for its raw, thrifted aesthetic and epitomized by Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain, the style made waves in the fashion world after Marc Jacobs presented a grunge-inspired SS93 collection for Perry Ellis.

Grunge

Grunge style arrived on the streets concurrently with the emerging music genre in the ’90s. Think faded jeans, aged flannel shirts and shredded band tees. Making its way onto the catwalks in sync with the sounds of Nirvana, the look was pioneered commercially by Marc Jacobs, whose SS93 collection for Perry Ellis famously got him dismissed. Today, his “tear gown” design—a T-shirt-cum-dress shredded at the navel like laddered tights—remains pivotal in the fashion canon.

Austrian designer Helmut Lang represented a new wave of minimalism in the ’90s. Lang often reimagined everyday garments like denim, tank tops, T-shirts and military surplus outerwear, reexamining their functionality or transforming their look and shape with tactful alterations.

Helmut Lang

Regarded as one of the most intellectual designers of all time, the Austrian recluse left fashion behind in 2004 to pursue a career as a fine artist, yet his ghostly, ethereal aesthetics and his intentional display of process continue to inspire a new wave of talent today. Whether the paint-splattered jeans he made his signature for SS98, the hemmed cutouts, disemboweled chaps, scrimp-laden vests or layered tank tops, his designs challenged the most conventional archetypes, forcing viewers to reckon with the very meaning of garments.

Martin Margiela’s work plays with expectation, challenging industry conventions across virtually every dimension. Rarely seen in public, his reclusive persona made him a counterpoint to the modern concept of “fashion designer as celebrity” further fueling interest in his avant-garde garments.

Martin Margiela

Margiela graduated at the same time as the Antwerp Six, but rather than traveling the world with them, he went to work for his mentor, Jean Paul Gaultier. Later, he went it alone, designing collections at his eponymous label from 1989 to 2009. Throughout his fashion career, the notoriously private designer worked fastidiously, critiquing the industry from the inside out by deboning its very components.

His first show, held in a Parisian garage, saw kohl-eyed models walk effortlessly in lab-coat whites and turret-shoulder blazers. The floor was lined with paper, and models were instructed to walk in red paint, leaving a bloody trail. This paper trail was then used in his next collection. A young Raf Simons attended the show with Walter Van Beirendonck, and was so moved by it he began crying.

With time, he became renowned for his “Salvation Army” chic, repurposing discarded garments, crafting coats from duvets, jackets from pattern paper and corsets from showroom mannequins. He was, quite literally, inverting fashion, and remains the master of deconstruction. Today, the house is run by John Galliano, another legendary designer widely hailed as a savant of deconstruction. Signature touches from Margiela’s era remain, such as the four white stitches on the back, serving as a reminder of fashion’s inner workings.

In 1988, the Museum of Modern Art launched “Deconstructivist Architecture.” The exhibition exposed a new generation of interior and industrial designers, turning Frank Gehry, Zaha Hadid and Rem Koolhaas into household names.

MoMA

The year was 1988 and the term “deconstructivist” was already in vogue across university campuses. It was only a matter of time before the more pragmatic minds of architecture would come around. Enter: the Museum of Modern Art’s influential exhibition, “Deconstructivist Architecture,” which skyrocketed the careers of Frank Gehry, Zaha Hadid and Rem Koolhaas. Together, they embodied the deconstructivist philosophy in their rejection of classic architectural codes. Taking a more artistic bent, the deconstructivists embraced unorthodox, intricate design, rather than the cold cubism and function-first thinking proffered by constructivism. This thinking soon trickled down to fashion.

Based in Berlin and helmed by Cosima Gadient and Christa Bösch, Ottolinger builds on the legacy of designers like Martin Margiela and Helmut Lang, deconstructing silhouettes to form new shapes while recontextualizing familiar garments.

Ottolinger

Fast forward to the present and Berlin-based brand Ottolinger is carrying the torch of deconstruction. The brainchild of Swiss duo Cosima Gadient and Christa Bösch, two graduates of the Basel School of Design, Ottolinger takes all manner of materials and finishes—from gossamer tracksuits to pony-hair trench coats—and twists them, wrapping skirts into off-kilter drapes, splaying collars to one side and collaging fabric scraps like appliqué.

Alongside their use of Margiela-esque cutouts, the pair also displays affinities for Helmut Lang in the shirting harnesses and bizarre reworks of everyday basics. But those two-piece business suits converted into off-the-shoulder gowns? They’re a whole new development in deconstructivist fashion.

Postmodernism rejects the belief in a single absolute truth. This concept lent itself well to the deconstructivist architectural movement, which challenged rigid conventions to create new shapes and forms of being. On the runway, this manifested as presentations that defied the idea of a traditional show.

Postmodernism

From the ashes of postmodernism came deconstructivism. At least, it did in the architecture world. Postmodernism rejected the idea of one absolute truth, finding its visual manifestation in the likes of architects Michael Graves and Robert Venturi, the latter famously stating, “Less is a bore” in response to the clinical modernism of Mies van der Rohe. Deconstructivist architecture took this thinking in stride, but instead of rejecting regular design principles altogether, it tweaked them anew.

In the fashion sphere, a similar dynamic followed, with Martin Margiela taking Chanel-level precision to his work but then using it against itself, turning a pleated cotton blouse into a bra or a pair of suit pants into a skirt.

Celebrating the cycle of destruction and reconstruction, punk rebelled against the idea of functionality and traditional “good taste.” Designers like Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren embraced the movement’s sense of chaos to give new life to older forms.

Punk

What could be more punk than actively destroying your clothes? After all, it was the word “Destroy” that plastered all those safety-pinned shirts Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren sold at Seditionaries in 1976. Clearly, they were onto something. Westwood’s fascination with ripping it up and starting again was a throughline in her work.

From her football-strip-turned-leotard of 1984 to the eaten-away denim of FW90, many of her designs were as hacked-up and rehashed as the more commonly name-dropped deconstructivists. As for her infamous bondage pants sold at SEX in 1974, these also relied on taking the most basic garment—a classic pair of smart men’s trousers—and adorning them with adjustable straps and zips to completely skew the piece’s function and fit.

Despite his reputation for dark colors and themes, Rick Owens’ designs have a sense of lightness, riffing on proportion and silhouette to create an aesthetic that brings together minimalism, punk and couture.

Rick Owens

Deconstruction takes a very literal form for the master of darkness. Coats come primed with internal hangers so they can be worn like backpacks, while vests are contorted with numerous necklines. A special mention for the trouser waist extensions he so often experiments with.

For Rick Owens’ SS18 menswear collection, these took on a whole new form, landing somewhere between harem pants and high-water tuxedo trousers. Delve deeper into Owens’ back catalog for his more Langian touches—not least his SS12 collection, where shirting morphed into longline dresses. Even his purest Owens-isms, such as the Jedi-style capes that wrap and fasten like intricate vectors, feel akin to the geometric, Tetris-style designs that defined the Antwerp Six and Martin Margiela.

Through deconstruction, garments can be rebuilt anew. Designers like Martin Margiela and John Galliano have played with the idea of upcycling items into entirely new collections, resurfacing archival pieces in ways that honor their heritage.

Salvage

One of the immediate positives behind the deconstructivist movement is how keenly it lends itself to upcycling. Long before sustainable production became a dominant narrative in fashion, the likes of Martin Margiela were doing their bit for the planet, knowingly or not. For Margiela, his proclivity for reworking vintage came down in large part to cost.

In 1990, he debuted his Artisanal line, pulling together market finds and even wartime tea gowns. By the mid-’90s, he was reworking his own archive. FW94 saw him replicate his former collections’ designs in monotone hues, continuing a chronology that had no beginning or end. To this day, the house of Margiela embraces that very preloved aesthetic and deadstock-heavy approach under Galliano, with unfinished hems employed as a recurring feature.

Through his work at Off-White, Louis Vuitton and Nike, Virgil Abloh prioritized deconstruction, breaking down barriers to reveal the inner workings of both garment design and the insular fashion industry.

Virgil Abloh

The late designer and former architecture student had a technique that guided much of his work: take something familiar, and change it by just three percent. It was telling, then, that arguably his career-defining project was “The Ten,” a one-off sneaker collaboration in 2017 that saw him take a scalpel to 10 legendary Nike, Air Jordan and Converse silhouettes, chopping them up and exposing their materiality.

It was as if Abloh had turned the Nike Air Max 90, the Air Max 97 and many other iconic designs into an exoskeleton, pared back to their essentials yet slightly off. This disassembly of readymades became a core part of his visual lexicon, later manifesting as sliced Arc’teryx shell jackets collided with tulle dresses for Off-White’s FW20 collection.

Helmed by Glenn Martens, Y/Project’s conceptual approach to design plays with proportion and convention, reimagining familiar garments by distressing, destroying and reshaping them.

Y/Project

If ever there was proof that deconstruction has legs, it’s Glenn Martens’ Y/Project, a brand that revels in caricaturing everyday staples like triple-layered UGGs. In Martens’ world, denim is to be treated with hues, sandblasting, crinkling, bizarro popper placement and plenty of laser-cutting. Part of the appeal that has seen the Belgian designer amass a cult following at both Y/Project and Diesel is his uncanny ability to make the most mundane item look offbeat and desirable. Trench coats morph into checkered hoodies while jean legs wrap the hair like a headscarf before draping down into long denim skirts. Unfinished but completely wearable.

The Encyclopedia of Deconstruction is part of GOAT’s exploration of DECONSTRUCTION. Discover more about the influential artistic philosophy through the mind of Martin Margiela and the avant-garde founders of Ottolinger.