(This piece previously appeared in the New York Times in 2008)

Cintra Wilson is about to spend a year performing Beckett and staying in Motel 6’s across the land. Please make her life less grim by becoming a paid subscriber.

Hey! For those of you in the Bay Area, I will be at Specs Bar in North Beach, SF this Sunday (Feb 22) from 2-4PM, reading some damn thing as part of the “Stranger than Fiction” reading series. Come on out! XXX CW

IT seems that with old, eccentric or artistic people there is a fine line where self-permission is pushed to excess. Sometimes they let go of the rope and allow their whims to wander. This can make for compelling art, a dissonant clang or both: a vertiginous feeling of being divorced from context.

In the storefront window, before a backsplash of beveled mirror subway tiles, a geyser of yellow chiffon ruffles stands powerfully atop a shiny black Louis XV table: cabriole legs astride a field of red lacquer. Behold the mannequin!

It appears that Christian Lacroix had some pent-up creative urges he had been itching to unleash. Perhaps they were ideas better left unrealized, but they’re loose now, and there’s no screwing their froofy fuchsia top back on. His current looks are doing a bad job of aging gracefully. They don’t want to grow up, so they’re throwing a visual tantrum and regressing to 1983. But it is definitely fun to watch.

M. Lacroix, a fashion historian, costumer and master of his own couture domain, is best known for romantic reinterpretations of gypsy costume in hot, saturated colors and clashing prints, and “le pouf,” a short, bunchy ball of a skirt — almost a tutu — favored by debutantes in the 1980s. At the moment, he seems to be indulging one of the great luxuries of fashion design: the creative recycling of past spirits of the age.

It’s a fantasy ’80s-ex-’80s, a heyday where drugs never killed the party and AIDS never ravaged the earth. A flush new look for a life of freewheeling decadence, for stepping out of red sports cars with teased hair and a rolled-up hundred in your lipstick case.

Look out! A tree-frog-green eelskin trench coat.

One display case had tiny yellow kidskin gloves that only reached above the knuckles. Not gloves so much as finger shrugs. Form: yes. Art: yes. Function: not even a little. You might wear them to ride half a bicycle.

The designer has been very busy, explained the demure French saleswoman, doing all kinds of interior design projects: a hotel in Dubai, the Hôtel du Petit Moulin in Paris. I asked her what modern artist the prints were reminding me of, but she couldn’t say. It was a fusion: Willem de Kooning and Niki de Saint Phalle, if they were collaborating on a grade school mural in Mali.

There is a small but beguiling men’s section, with dress shirts in terrific versatile prints for $260. But beware, gentlemen: the suits are ver-r-ry tailored at the waist for a swerve line not seen since the mutton chop and the burgundy formal wear of “The Dating Game.”

I did, however, love the seersucker: black, gray and white. A butch new twist.

I ASCENDED the red carpeted stairs to the area devoted to gowns, a large portion of which seemed to be indulging a Matronly Infant paradox. A washed-out candy-striped chiffon in cream and watermelon ($3,060) would tend to all the human frailties and bourbon fevers of a Tennessee Williams “sisterwoman.”

Lacroix does use superlative fabrics. The silks are silkier. The linens, more linear. You could just see Joan Collins walking away from the pool in a black lacquered hat and that pleasingly thick pair of black dress shorts ($750).

One particular gown stood out: a sleeveless white silk sheath with an elaborate print ($3,400) that said, “I am Basquiat in hell, forced to endure a Sisyphean nursery school where I trace my hand and paint multilegged monster turkeys and get an F, forever. Then these discarded paintings end up on earth as formal wear for rich women.”

Some items were an acute reminder of Mr. Lacroix’s background in historical costume. A French maid-inspired number in black matte satin ($2,025) was perfect for a Merchant Ivory soft-core, but really, it was a French maid costume. There’s only one conversation you can have in that dress, pardon my French.

I was wild about what looked like a primitive argyle seat belt made of tiny glass Lite-Brite beads ... it was $804.

A rack of beachwear hit the right balance of haute whimsy and realistic accessibility. One cotton tunic looked as if Mr. Lacroix had attacked it with a set of felt pens and made an art-brut dashiki for the friendly price of $200.

I tried a fat beaded African bracelet. “Isn’t it wonderful?” the saleswoman asked. “It is like childhood.” Proportionally speaking, it was — a bangle the size of a grapefruit.

While the rest of the developed world is circling Africa like a kettle of vultures, the French seem to be getting sentimental about the aesthetics of their old colonies. It’s a casual approach to the perpetual ransacking of pre-conquered cultures, old icons converted into trendy adornments. Old Gods are rendered symbolically meaningless at the moment that the dominant culture declares them adorable. High fashion 1, Africa 0.

There was a fitted suit that I coveted instantly, a sleek 1940s secretarial thing that I was afraid to try (the jacket alone was $1,380). Happily, it didn’t fit; the smallest size, a 36, was roomy in all the wrong places. I had the same problem with the skirt.

I also tried a long black crochet ball gown in a 38. This fit fairly well but looked disconcertingly like something an evil walk-on character would wear on “Bonanza” ($3,799).

On my way home, a gorgeous woman was dragging herself up the subway stairs, clinging breathlessly to the handrail. Enormous painted eyes, perfectly blushed and powered cheekbones, jet-black hair, black flamenco shawl, black satin dress side-slit up to her hip. She had to be 80 years old.

Perhaps boxing the dusk in the twilight of life is the inspirational purpose of all great men and women. Perhaps the task of a public life is to reach the inevitable self-parody that accompanies this pungent state of persona as slowly as possible.

TOUT À FAIT The designer famous for rich colors and pouffiness sets a new boutique ablaze with a riot of richly pouffed colorfulness.

TOUTEFOIS The clientele tends toward those with a fond a remembrance of Lacroix past — i.e., monochromatic blondes with retro mahogany Bain de Soleil tans and big silk scarves who appreciate sleeves the size of organza football helmets.

TUTTI-FRUTTI Lacroix offers a transgressive visual romp right into a gilded second childhood (case in point: a lavishly finger-painted men’s polo for $200) or at least a chance to do the ’80s all over again with fewer social humiliations.

Theme song: Jack Black!

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