MAXHORA THE CARPET OF MEMORY
I remember that evening somewhere in Johannesburg, I think. It was for the fifteenth anniversary of Maxhosa Africa. The light fell softly over the carpets that had been laid out before the show. There was in the air an almost domestic warmth, a blend of incense, wool, and silk… I no longer knew whether I had come for work, or simply to find a fragment of the past. Continue reading
THE FIFTH ELEMENT CHANEL
Last night in Paris, the planets bowed. Beneath the dome of the Grand Palais, the universe held its breath: Chanel had just entered a new era. Matthieu Blazy didn’t simply present a collection he launched a voyage to an asteroid. After months of silent gestation, the century-old house projected itself into the future with the serene force of a star aware of its own light. The Chanel galaxy was reborn — denser, more vibrant, perhaps even more human. Continue reading
SACAI: THE UNFINISHED THREADS OF SPRING
In her house of silence, in Paris, Chitose Abe opened a window in time. Spring stepped In, barefoot, holding in its hands needles of air and shreds of cotton.
The garments began to breathe. The jeans borrowed the tenderness of the wind, the t-shirts learned the grammar of clouds. A tank top, a crumpled prayer, covered itself with jet-black dreams: the night had fallen asleep upon its shoulder. Continue reading
DURAN LANTINK THE SPECT OF THE MEDIOCRES
Upon discovering Duran Lantink’s first collection for Jean Paul Gaultier, I admittedly felt strangely bewildered. On Sunday, October 5, 2025, amid the hushed tumult of the runway show, the Dutch designer, who emerged from obscurity in 2018 thanks to Janelle Monáe and her daring pantsuits reminiscent of a woman’s nymph in the Pynk music video, had already provoked outrage. Continue reading
CHLOÉ THE MAUSOLEUM OF NOSTALGIA
They say that one day, in a house on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, the dresses began to breathe. It was the breath of Chemena Kamali, new guardian of the Chloé temple, whispering to the fabrics of oblivion and rebirth. For two years, she has been summoning the spirits of lightness and sun, searching through the archives as one would search for relics in a perfumed crypt.
Under her hands, sheets of cotton twist like prayers, faded flowers regain their color, and the ghosts of Karl Lagerfeld wander among the mannequins, their silhouettes brushing against the mirrors. They say she learned her enchantments at Alberta Ferretti, where women once wore their dresses like dreams of sea and salt.
But the spring she promises is not an ordinary one: it is born not of soil, but of memory. The babydoll skirts, the tops tied like seashells, the floral prints scented with the past all seem to drift in a golden light that even time itself has forgotten.
In a corner of fashion’s sky, the spirit of Gaby Aghion still smiles. She, the founder the one who once made freedom walk down the runway at Café de Flore and Brasserie Lipp must look with tenderness upon this new generation trying to clothe the soul in cotton and remembrance. Continue reading
VALENTINO: RED AND DELIRIUM
It’s true that after turning Gucci into a Venetian bazaar for children of the moon, Alessandro Michele wasn’t suddenly going to embrace minimalism at Valentino. But was it really necessary to repaint Rome in the colors of Saint-Germain-des-Prés after a bad trip to San Francisco?
On Sunday, at nap time, in the Piazza Dati sacred temple of Italo–Parisian couture the neo-hippie sanctuary on LSD, Michele held his grand mass for Valentino. The setting? A dark hall with ceiling lighting that irritated Di Meo, sitting next to Marisa, who was made up like a stolen car. An inclusive fashion festival sponsored by a Pantone color.
On the runway, a procession of baroque angels dressed in crumpled taffeta, lace, and drapery vaguely reminiscent of an over-ironed opera curtain. The models seemed to recite a pagan prayer to lost beauty, repeating, so far, so good. It was pure Michele: a blend of bourgeois woman in search of sex and a chic Notting Hill flea market.
The fans cried genius, the investors simply cried. The new Valentino, apparently, wants to “reconnect the soul of the house with the youth of the world.” Translation: sell Zara-style shirts to Gen Z kids convinced that nostalgia is sustainable and production in China is artisanal. All, of course, at prices that would make a Saudi princess blush. Continue reading
BALENCIAGA 2026
The house of Balenciaga, founded by the master of Getaria, is entering a new era. From now on, it is the Italian Pierpaolo Piccioli, former artistic director of Valentino, who takes the helm. A bold turning point for the historic brand, known for its avant-garde spirit and mastery of volume.
When Pierpaolo Piccioli landed in Paris to assume his new role as Balenciaga’s creative director last June, he went straight from the airport to the brand’s archives, where he spent three days eagerly studying dresses he had only ever seen in photographs. Continue reading
SARAH BURTON’S SECOND ADVOCACY FOR GIVENCHY
Sarah Burton’s first runway for Givenchy had already betrayed signs of an over-manufactured sensibility, and her second confirms the slope: a couture of loud affirmation in the Chiuri vein, believing itself feminist simply because it exhibits. The clients, living trophies of this supposedly liberating fashion, paraded that evening in a pale yellow duchesse satin pea coat, cinched in black, as if to proclaim loudly and clearly their right to ostentation.
We are told of the lightness of deconstructed jackets, now reduced to the limpness of a cardigan, as though stripping away all structure were synonymous with freeing women. Progress indeed! Erase poise to better expose. And that coat-dress of once majestic curves, now undone, its lapels ripped from the shoulders to let fall, miserably, the straps of a bra. Emancipation served up as freedom at any price, under the pretext of deconstruction.
The full vocabulary is there: gaping collars, slanted jackets, hems hitched up, skirts dragged barely below the navel like a misfitted cloth fastened in haste. The body is no longer celebrated but turned into a noisy battleground of claims, a loud textile manifesto that mistakes provocation for power. Burton herself admits it: “the mind for business, the body for sin.” Thus the message of female power reduced to a shop-window slogan, Marilyn Monroe recycled in black-and-white motif to wrap a counterfeit ideology. Continue reading
ON THE WATERS OF OWENS’ WORLD
The procession of “Owensgroupises” filed in line with quiet discipline, awaiting their oracle. True to his fierce singularity, his models stepped onto the still waters of the Palais de Tokyo fountains, like an ancient procession crossing a mirror of azure. Hieratic figures, draped in modern boldness, they wore trouser-boots so towering they could make the ” Burj Al Arab” blush. Thus, the swell of skirts embraced the wind of sails for shipwrecked souls. Continue reading
PACO RABANNE 2026
The show opened with singular silhouettes, veiled behind titanic glasses vast portholes that evoked less elegance than the wreckage of a maritime market. Was it a castaway of fashion approaching us, crowned with a diver’s mask, or the House of Rabanne itself, drifting through the troubled waters where beauty’s dreams go astray?
Once, it dared bronze armors, draperies forged like meteors fallen from the sky. Today, it offers us nothing more than trinket necklaces, those glass tears that gleam without radiance, destined to be forgotten as soon as they have flickered.
The aesthetic wavered, undecided, between the scraps of a hardware store and the remnants of a naval arsenal, lacking the prophetic vision that once opened horizons of steel and stars. Some spectators, indulgent, claimed to see there the allegory of fashion itself submerged, struggling against the undertow of time. Others, harsher, perceived nothing but a grotesque parade a ready-to-wear weighed down by heaviness and vain irony.
Far from the metal dresses which, in the heroic years, seemed to clothe women with an as-yet unexplored future, this 2026 collection resembles a Saturnalia of bad taste, where imagination drowns in the stagnant waters of vulgar chrome. Critics, divided between laughter and sighs, nonetheless bowed to one merit: Paco Rabanne knew how to capture attention. But to please? For that, like the stifled diver, one must resurface and breathe pure air once again where art regains its grandeur and fashion its immortal reason for being.
BALMAIN BETWEEN ST TROPEZ AND MARRAKECH
Wednesday evening, Olivier Rousteing raised, on the edge of the sumptuous ballroom of the InterContinental in Paris, a singular ode to femininity. His collection, stripped of the armors that once made the glory of the “Balmain army,” allowed itself to be caressed by the sea breeze. As in the days when Yves Saint Laurent, in the ochre gardens of Marrakech, transfigured the desert into a palace of colors, Rousteing too seemed to seek the impulse of a fashion that breathes, that pours out, that surrenders. Continue reading
FENDI EMBRACES MARIA CHIURI’S MONOTONY
Fendi has made its choice sorry, the Lord has spoken and it is Maria Grazia Chiuri who takes over the artistic direction of the Roman house. This appointment comes in the midst of a chaotic reshuffle: Kim Jones’s departure, once expected to embody the creative breath of both haute couture and ready-to-wear, has left a void that Fendi is now scrambling to fill. Silvia Venturini Fendi, meanwhile, has been asked to step back, relegated to the more symbolic role of honorary president but given her last collection, this hardly comes as a surprise.
The thorny question remains: is Maria Grazia Chiuri truly the embodiment of Fendi’s future? Her years at Dior left a mixed legacy. Celebrated for her feminist slogans, criticized for a style often deemed repetitive, the Italian designer has hardly achieved unanimity. Before that, at Valentino, she worked in tandem with Pierpaolo Piccioli… and some still wonder whether she was ever truly the soul of the duo. Continue reading
MADONNA, GOD BOY, AND JOCOMBE IN PLS
Big bows and old lace that’s about as faithful a summary as you can get of Nicolas Guesquière’s latest show for Vuitton. The staging is as stable as a Windows 98 system on life support, swinging between awkward hybrids and copy-pastes from Milan Fashion Week. You can tell the inspiration made a pit stop at Malpensa before taking off.
But the real ambition? To push the brand deep into the bowels of the Louvre, with heavy-handed red carpets. The result: Madonna storms in with her “god boy,” the only young man who looks like he’s carrying his bag to kindergarten, while an army of extras straight out of a Netflix catalog pretends to be “iconic.” You spot a former B-movie wizard, an influencer in wildlife-documentary mode, and even a guy swearing he dubbed a dolphin in a Spanish production. It was all about laying the groundwork for the brand’s triumphant entry into the Louvre, in “express museum-ification” mode.
The couture cherry on top: the First Lady, self-proclaimed eternal muse, walks as if the red carpet were an extension of the Élysée steps. Her peck on “little Nicolas” wasn’t an affectionate gesture but a sort of bureaucratic stamp: “Seen and approved by the Republic.” At this level, we’re no longer talking fashion, but textile diplomacy.
DGENA DM SACRA NOVA
This collection was born from a secret oath between the splendor of yesterday and the vigor of today (says the designer). From the magnificence of the French court, she borrowed grandeur, brocades, solemn braids, and radiant crosses; but instead of letting them slumber in the dust of palaces, she set them against the wild momentum of our century, so that they might clash and fertilize one another in a dazzling embrace.
Each garment is a burning cuirass: it protects, it adorns, it proclaims. It is a silent language that crosses the centuries, a grammar of drapings and symbols that speaks to restless souls. She has shaped these armors with regenerated fabrics, proud cuts, signs carved like prayers, questioning humankind about its time, its identity, its spiritual quest, at the heart of a storm-stricken world.
Three breaths preside over this edifice: the quest for the invisible, the defense of one’s own, the impulse of combat. Three immemorial forces, engraved in the human soul since dawn, which she has translated into silhouettes, into icons, into attitudes standing like statues of flesh amidst the crash of the present. Continue reading
ERMANNO SCERVINO SPRING 2026
Once again, Ermanno Scervino has given free rein to his taste for the exceptional. Guided by his passion for precious fabrics and couture-like craftsmanship, the designer has created a collection conceived as a declaration of love to women — women who are at once free, modern, and eternally elegant.
BOTTEGA VENETA 2026
SPORTMAX THE CITY MOOD MEETS MONTANA HERITAGE
Sportmax opened its show on Friday morning, following in the footsteps of Max Mara, while remaining faithful to a luminous palette of beiges and diaphanous tones. The runway began with a series of reimagined trench coats, playing with lightness and deconstruction. The first looks, sometimes sleeveless, with multiplied collars and lapels, immediately set the direction of the collection: generous volumes, layered silhouettes, and a confident attitude. Continue reading
FENDI: WHEN CLOTHING MOCKS THE RUNWAY
On Wednesday in Milan, Silvia Venturini Fendi unveiled a motley collection for Fendi, bursting with flowers and references to the 1990s. The exercise is clever: taking what, until yesterday, was considered “cheap” elastic cords, adjustable straps, flimsy windbreaker zippers and elevating it to the status of a new chic ornament on Calais lace “made in China.” Luxury has always loved recycling the banal since the man from Toledo, provided it’s wrapped in a carefully crafted narrative and staged with theatrical flair. It was as if we were laying the first stone of a memorial dedicated to the victims of stoning.
This is anti-fashion, a kind of “Haute Ready-to-Wear Couture” for shapeless school smocks worn three days in a row, destined, with Micron’s blessing, to become the uniform of Catholic institutions. As for trousers, we’re talking about sweatpants desperately trying to slip into the category of wardrobe “essentials.” Continue reading
ICEBERG: RAGS OF THE APOCALYPSE
Summer not the heatwave one, but the world’s summer that clings to old Britpop rags. Shabby tracksuits and drooping polos with fishtail parkas dragging through the mud like the Gallaghers, priests of nothing and celebrants of noise…
Iceberg, or the runway with its puppets on the podium, parading with arms crossed, hard but empty stares, and shoes in hand against doll-like stilettos replaced by flat, soulless sandals… all this to play “90s youth.” A fake rebellion, collars buttoned up to the throat, for bourgeois ladies as spotless as a sink, with knobby knees discreetly hidden—because the Bible doesn’t make the monk.
And the music—Champagne Supernova—closing the show, nostalgia for the zombies. Of course, it has to be, since the English love their mud as much as their noise. But James Long, the rag maestro, sly as an iceberg, sniffed out Milan and the polite chill of luxury, diving deep and dripping money from every seam and button…
That is the world we applaud, we buy, we forget, and will endlessly reproduce again in 25 years.
THE DEMNA ERA OPENS IN MILAN
On Monday, Gucci officially inaugurated its new creative chapter: the Demna era. In an entrance true to his flair for surprise, the designer unveiled his first numbered silhouette “Look 37” accompanied by a lookbook shot by American photographer Catherine Opie. The following day, Milan pulsed to the rhythm of The Tiger, a short film directed by Spike Jonze and Halina Reijn, offering a cinematic dive into this new Gucci universe. Continue reading
WHEN DESIGNERS DARE TO DREAM
What are American designers dreaming of for Spring-Summer 2026? In a world clouded by uncertainty, fashion has chosen to breathe in lightness. Clients crave a sense of ease embodied in the billowing harem pants at Michael Kors, the sensual knit dresses at Proenza Schouler, and the whisper of soft pink blouses at Rachel Comey. Between bold statements and subtle trends, here’s the ultimate best of from New York Fashion Week.
DEMNA’S NEW VISION FOR GUCCI
To convey the full “Gucci spirit,” Demna imagined a series of characters gathered under the name “La Famiglia,” each with their own personality and distinctive attitude. In collaboration with Francesca Bellettini, the newly appointed president and CEO, the designer chose to unveil a look book photographed by Catherine Opie on Monday, ahead of the short film The Tiger, directed by Spike Jonze and Halina Reijn, which will be presented Tuesday evening in Milan. Continue reading
THE FAKE MARTYR OF MAGA CIVILIZATION
What a vile farce, what a grandiose comedy this televised mass for that Maga YouTuber, this liturgy of a stuffed corpse in global broadcast! They shower him with incense, they weep like hysterical church ladies before the coffin of a cardboard prophet, a racist antisemite disguised as a universal martyr! We are force-fed with violins and rancid speeches, as if the sanctified carrion could wash away our collective sins!
And so, the uncultured American masses, flabby-bellied, stuffed with slogans and images, hypnotized by the media liturgy, applaud, cross themselves, click like, share, and the next day return to their supermarket errands, their debts, their petty miseries! That’s the real miracle: turning the vile into the sublime, infamy into heroism!
Malraux once said: the 21st century will be religious… but who could have imagined it would come in this grotesque form, this morbid fair, this circus of sanctified corpses and politicians in vestments? The border between politics and religion? It’s already shattered! The rulers kneel, the priests bless, the cameras broadcast: everything dissolves into the same stinking stew of hypocrisy! Continue reading
DILARA FINFIKOLU 2026
Enough! Let us put an end to this travesty of style’s History, dressed up only to amuse the fashionable gallery. Gothic was not born in some backroom of Central Saint Martins between two Instagram selfies and a sponsored “rebellious” performance. No: it was conceived, forged, and imposed on fashion by Jean-Luc Amsler. Full stop.
And now we’re supposed to swallow the idea that Dilara Findikoglu with a name fit for a roadside inn is the high priestess of darkness? What a farce! Here is a designer who proclaims herself subversive, yet only extends her hand to the market like a carnival barker. Her so-called “punk” is nothing but a runway special effect, her “feminism” a Turkish sales tag, and her “gothic” a kind of watered-down carnival for gullible spectators.
Her grand show “Cage of Innocence”? A cage indeed: one where imagination is locked up and reduced to a Versailles-style amusement park backdrop. Marie-Antoinette had her Hamlet of the Queen, Findikoglu will have her Disneyland of lace-clad anguish. Add a little pink, a little white, just enough to reassure investors and clients and voilà, “radicality” becomes Instagrammable! Continue reading