Gone are the days when the hands sewed before the head theorised. From now on, there will be lengthy discussions on the profound meaning of an asymmetrical sleeve before you’ve even learnt to sew on a button. Fashion is taught as an intellectual exercise, a conceptual gymnastics in which we go into raptures over a jacket without sleeves or arm holes, because, you see, it’s disruptive.
Every season, we see self-proclaimed geniuses with degrees in wacky design and impossible tailoring. Clothes you can’t put on without assistance, but putting on is still a word we like in this business. Imagine yourself wearing an inflatable coat three metres wide, stuck between the automatic door of the RER B and a granny who doesn’t understand whether you’re a passenger or a contemporary art installation.
These young creators, trained to obey the dogmas of the absurd, pile up ideas like silkworms spinning a bad yarn. The result? Concept outfits that scream: ‘Look how innovative I am!
And while these little prodigies of academic submission compete in creative futility, the fashion oligarchs, these masters of an empire where submission is sold as a virtue, applaud this breeding ground of future designers already trained never to disturb the established order. They are taught controlled audacity, calibrated impertinence and creativity that never questions anything. The result? A whole generation of designers who want to revolutionise fashion… all following the same rule, that of the lord.