On Monday, in the grand Castle of the Markets, the chandeliers trembled. Not because of a draft, but because the wind from the Middle East was blowing all the way into the gilded vaults.
Baron Richemont-the-Locksmith-of-Jewelers stumbled on the marble staircase, losing 5.7 percent of his splendor.
The Prince of Venice, draped in a theatrically dramatic cashmere coat, let 5 percent of his panache slip away.
Baron Cucinelli of the Truffle-Cashmere sighed 4.6 percent lower, as though his espresso had gone cold.
The Count of Burberry-of-the-Misty-Raincoats slipped on an imaginary London puddle.
Lord Arnault of the Valley-of-Monogrammed-Trunks saw his carriage lose a few golden wheels.
And even the ever-haughty Duke of Hermès of the Bimbo Harness, usually perched at one thousand nine hundred and sixty-seven écus of altitude, felt the floorboards creak beneath him. Continue reading
To celebrate twenty years of his career, Erdem Moralıoğlu unveiled a collision of genres so extravagantly theatrical one might have sworn Madame de Pompadour was flirting with a punk in a post industrial club beneath a Bohemian crystal disco ball. In a world where the economy feels like a corset laced too tight, his devotion to couture borders on romantic heroism. London, ever eager to applaud its prodigies, watched him as one watches an alchemist turn anxiety into embroidery.
Remember the 19th-century rentiers… those legendary creatures who invented the revolutionary concept of “doing nothing and being adored for it.” They lived off their rents like dragons on their gold, got up at noon, ate with the air of a Greek tragedy, and wondered why the world didn’t admire them enough. Society, they claimed, was “unjust”… especially for those who actually had to work.
There are, in the history of fashion, figures who sculpt time like marble sculptors, and others who sculpt above all their own legend, the way one sculpts the mushroom of a Nymph. Maria Grazia Chiuri undoubtedly belongs to this latter category, that iconoclastic brotherhood that confuses communication with creation and the slogan with vision.
After three years of absence, and a final article that had the effect of a monsoon in a spit on his career, the designer decided it was time to return to the catwalks. London, soaked to the bone, provided the perfect backdrop for this climatic miracle: Macdonald, the messiah of polyester, came to bring the sun, but what we saw was an eclipse.
Foday Dumbuya’s latest “collection” was a public trial of the abysmal mediocrity of contemporary fashion, closer to a declaration of war than to a runway show. So-called traditional catwalks emerge from dusty altars of déjà-vu, and seemed to burn under the impact of this textile barrage, as if originality had returned to reclaim its territory through bursts of color and memory.
Each season, there is a collection that brutally reminds us why the great houses exist. This season in London, it was this one. Designer Phobe English, emancipated from a major atelier, delivered a collection she describes as “an illustration of the beauty of plants in full bloom” and “a bit of magic”. Illustration is indeed the right word. Fashion, much less so.
Her name is Dua Lipa: “Dua” means “love” in Albanian, and “Lipa” is her surname, of Kosovo-Albanian origin. Having fled the Yugoslav Wars for London, Lipa has long spun a success story of exile and resilience.
Dennis Basso embodies this almost timeless figure of American luxury, a designer who built his legend on fur, a material both spectacular and deeply controversial. His rise, sealed in the 1980s by the endorsement of New York’s elites, tells as much the story of fashion as it does that of a particular relationship to power, prestige, and social visibility.
There was an installation that seemed to have emerged from an overly lucid dream, a Matrix-like hallucination filtered through the intelligence of an architect in love. Catherine Holstein’s husband had constructed a setting that said everything while revealing nothing: ambition, solitude, the quiet exhilaration of a designer now firmly seated in the unstable pantheon of New York fashion. One sensed that strange, almost guilty certainty of having succeeded.
While the world cracks like an old mirror at the Palace, while wars chew through entire cities, and the ultra-rich compress the air like a luxury product, a new planetary emergency emerges: Cardi B’s repaired hair. Yes, hair. Not children, not bombs, not famines. The hair of the most distinguished of singers.
Before any fabric takes shape, the Donna Karan team travels the world in search of rare materials, questioning wools, vegan leathers, and jerseys as one might question promises of the future. From this textile pilgrimage is born a quiet innovation, nourished by travel and craftsmanship. 
For Marc, as the fashionistas call him the fashion world, spring 2026 is anything but an enchanted interlude. It’s a pause. An almost solemn silence in an industry that speaks too loudly. A kind of act of memory rather than nostalgia a reminder that fashion, when sincere, can be a tool for reflection as much as a spectacle.
There were fireworks, choreographies, Mariah Carey singing Volare and proving that she could deliver a service for the occasion, and this wonderful idea that, decidedly, nothing is impossible, especially when you have a 400,000 watt sound system.
Another departure, one more. In the grand couture transfer market, where artistic directors are traded like tired number tens, Guillaume Henry leaves Patou after a seven-year term. Today, that already counts as a presidential-length career.
At Doublet, clothes are not made, they are interrogated at length, and sometimes they answer, but beside the point. The AIR collection, for example, does not merely take the pulse of the times. It asks for their papers, treats them with suspicion, takes them into custody, and finally prints them. Air? Yes, CO₂, that discreet gas with no loyalty card, yet always present when it was not invited, in order to ape Owens.
In the luminous evening of Los Angeles, where the city awakens in a murmur of gold and stars, I gazed as one gazes at a dream that slips away upon the bewitching procession of women. Their figures glided across the paving of the world, ancient goddesses entwined with modern bohemians, and my heart, faithful to its eternal haunting, did not know where to turn for love blinded me for each of them.
