En route to Paris in mid-January, I calculated that this would be my 50th season attending the couture collections, which are held twice a year. That’s a lot of paper and a lot of ink.
Much has changed over a turbulent quarter-century in a business not known for sentiment. “In fashion, the camel shits and the caravan moves on,” a lugubrious friend advised me on that first, long-ago trip. Oui et non. At couture, some things remain: the operatic intensity of the most inspired shows, the head-spinning craft of the workrooms on which the whole edifice rests, the sense that here is a chance for designers to slip the leash and, perchance, to dream.
Guests still receive embossed, handwritten invitations; flowers are couriered all over town for top editors; hotel suites are commandeered for favored clients and brand ambassadors. Gossip flows like Ruinart. Once upon a time, Marlene Dietrich, a star from a distant galaxy, perched discreetly on the stairs at a Christian Dior presentation. Today, crowds shriek at the sight of Rihanna and Jennifer Lopez.
And I do mean crowds. Social media and live-streaming have made couture a spectator sport. The circus has moved to the street. Influencers, street-style stars, and dedicated followers of fashion bask in the glow of being envied. The show before the show.
Before camera phones, journalists sketched inky aide-mémoire. Today, extended arms and a thicket of phones, mine included, obstruct sight lines and telegraph the news: I’m here. (Where are you?)
So what of this season? Aside from Galliano’s triumphant tour de force for Maison Margiela, which played out like a dark fever dream by the River Seine, the mood was upbeat, an escapist counterpoint to the times and a world spinning off its axis.
At Valentino, Pierpaolo Piccioli returned to the salon, after last summer’s sojourn to the Château de Chantilly, with a ravishing collection. A colorist to rival Matisse, he is a romantic, a designer for whom a hoodie over a ball gown is as natural as breathing.
At Dior, Maria Grazia Chiuri’s inspiration was La Cigale, a dress designed by Christian Dior in 1952. Chiuri “took the stuffing out,” she said, and tailored it to her ever expanding client roster. Wearable couture, unruffled (but pleated and at times gloriously embellished), with, in this case, the most beautiful shoulder lines in Paris.
At Armani Privé, models have an old-school languor, hips tilted to the chandeliers. Crystals shimmered, and fabric draped and fell with a will all its own. “Couture,” said Mr. Armani, “is having fun.” But precision-controlled. In the kingdom of King Giorgio, everything is comme il faut.
Chanel’s loyal followers were treated to a 360-degree film projection by Dave Free with a soundtrack by Kendrick Lamar. It was a show with ballet at its core: tutus and white tights, miniskirts, and frosted-icing colors. Virginie Viard’s vision for the house is always youthful, always on the move, always so, well, French.
At Fendi, artistic director Kim Jones showed in a box that could have been lit by Stanley Kubrick to a score by Max Richter. It was a futuristic affair underlined by Delfina Delettrez Fendi’s collection of high-end eyewear. Silhouettes were long and liquid, the effects simple in the way only hours of workmanship can achieve. Throughout my time covering the shows, questions about couture’s relevance and cost have regularly surfaced. But the obituaries, much as those for fashion drawing, were premature. Here’s to that. Santé.
David Downton is an Editor at Large at Air Mail