Yamamoto nearly always yields himself to my obsessive interpretation of protect-me-fr0m-the world clothes. It's impossible to cover oneself up without revealing. Defenses always give us away. You pull the coat down to your ankles only to leave out the shoulder. Asymmetric capes hang down like worn out membranes or perhaps deformities. The bubble sweater dress is a shelter, but the seam looks like a string of stitches or a scar. The roomy coat is a world in which you're safe, yet, as a black-and-white diptych, it screams of the visible and the invisible.