The YSL catwalk: it's not just women's fashion that has a problem with extreme thinness

Male models at Hedi Slimane's show for Yves Saint Laurent looked ill, tired - and unhealthily skinny.

Hedi Slimane has always liked to use thin male models. At Dior Homme, his skinny silhouette is credited with moving the men's fashion industry as a whole to narrower cuts, and he inspired Chanel's Karl Lagerfeld to lose 90lb - on a regime of Diet Coke - to fit into his clothes.

But his show yesterday for Yves Saint Laurent at Paris fashion week was exceptional, even by his standards. This photo sums it up:

(Photo from

While this model might be totally healthy, he doesn't look it. The skinniness of his thighs is also an extremely unrealistic shape for the vast majority of men to aspire to.

Here are a couple of the other models (photos from Getty)

Just how thin are these men? Well, a New York Times story about the increasing thinness of male models gave the vital statistics of Stas Svetlichnyy, as 6ft tall and 145lb (10st 5lb), with a 28-inch waist. And that's his "top weight", apparently. 

This being fashion, the reviews of the YSL show barely mentioned the extreme thinness of the models. The Washington Post observed that:

The styles were also very young, with slim pickings for older men.                    

. . .  which is a bit of an understatement, as I can't imagine many men over 30 have this body shape naturally. The influential fashion industry site Women's Wear Daily made reference to the models' shape very briefly, saying:

The first rocker out — pale and gaunt — pointed his Adam’s apple at the photographers and strode out in a lean tuxedo and black shirt, as cocky as Mick Jagger.

This is fetishising thinness, and the appearance of illness, as just another quirky aesthetic choice. And it's not healthy.

(hat-tip to @isaacjlock for the original picture)

The YSL 2013 F/W men's fashion show. Photo: Getty

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood