One day, the Mont-Saint-Michel was bound to meet its fool. For thirteen centuries the rock has watched pilgrims, kings, armies, and tides capable of swallowing entire regiments. Yet it was still missing a rarer apparition: the little advertising strategist convinced that a thousand-year-old monument is nothing more than a backdrop for a miniature handbag.
And so here comes Jacquemus, supposed child of Provence, arriving at the feet of the archangel like a hurried tourist who has mistaken national heritage for an Instagram studio. Mont-Saint-Michel, that old lord of granite rising from the bay, suddenly becomes a campaign prop rather than a municipal monument. This small Typhus does not ask permission, because ethics, in certain fashion houses, remain a fabric readily cut down to save costs while keeping the candles.
And what a delightful spectacle this geographical metamorphosis provides: Jacquemus, once a troubadour of Provence, apostle of lavender fields, lemons, and childhood memories, suddenly becomes a Breton by convenience. He seizes Mont-Saint-Michel the way others seize a striped pattern, like the awnings of “Giorgio Beverly Hills.” Continue reading
Alice Taglioni, a silhouette with two faces, the one before and the one after, now stands beneath the spotlights of the Series Mania Festival in Lille. Here is how the struggle of appearances comes together to shape the world. Allow yourself to be carried into a theatre where elegance whispers, yet invisible storms rumble beneath the surface.
In the vast tapestry of fashion, where threads of gold intertwine with destiny and legacy, there emerges a quiet yet resolute heroine: 
You recognize Bella Hadid as she arrives at a party on this fashion planet where even black holes have a dress code.
Vestiaire Collective is strengthening its tech division with two strategic appointments, as its new chief executive officer, Bernard Osta, aims to accelerate innovation and move the luxury resale platform closer to profitability.
With its brushed steel gleaming like a freshly polished wing, its paddock-style concrete, and its flashes of red leather worthy of a bucket seat ready to take a splash through Eau Rouge, the new Ferrari Lifestyle flagship is clearly no longer a boutique. It’s a permanent qualifying lap.
Hair experimentation has become Cardi’s trademark. At 33, the rapper, actress, entrepreneur, and trophy-wielder parades through a carnival of transformations where gaudy wigs and excessive makeup pass for identity. On red carpets and runways, she flaunts high-impact “looks,” supposedly unfiltered, that thrive above all in a society obsessed with glitter and vulgarity. 
At Paris Fashion Week, people usually come to showcase a style. Then there’s Jaden Smith, who seems to have decided to show up… with his housing slung over his shoulder. Yes, the son of Will Smith, now apparently the creative director of “Loubou Catin.”
In the perpetual carousel of creative leadership in fashion, change is almost a house tradition. This time, the shift comes at Etro, where Marco De Vincenzo is stepping down from his role as creative director after several seasons shaping the brand’s aesthetic.
This season, the house of LITKOVSKA appears for the first time on the official calendar of the Paris Fashion Week with its Autumn-Winter 2026/27 collection, FIREFLY. It is born from a fragile, almost nocturnal image: that of a stubborn light that refuses to disappear.
In the vast machinery of luxury, certain details chime like small bells in a silent corridor. At times, a simple moment, almost furtive, can spark a thousand hypotheses. The appearance of looks reminiscent of Rick Owens among the first models in the Louis Vuitton collection designed by Nicolas Ghesquière was, of course, not insignificant to attentive observers.
Parisian fashion possesses a curious talent for social metamorphosis. It often begins in a spirit of almost joyful insolence, a provocation that is vaguely sexual, vaguely artistic, and then, with time, it gently settles into the comfortable districts, where the trees are neatly trimmed and the dogs perfectly vaccinated.
As if the Parisian night had opened a notebook of dreams, Seán McGirr presented his fifth collection for Alexander McQueen not as a simple runway show, but as a strange ceremony of visions.
Perched at the prow of Celine, Michael Rider, who is not the “Cup” but holds the cut, did not summon ghosts nor ask the hangers to whisper the secrets of his predecessors. No séance in the wardrobes. No turning tables between two clothing racks. No. Rider chose the most straightforward liturgy of contemporary fashion: to sell. To sell as one beats time. Wearable, profitable. The Lord will surely be pleased.
The show by Chinese designer Caroline Hu was said to be a striking demonstration of her talent for craftsmanship and storytelling. Striking indeed. Like a cold draft in a couture salon.
The sun, that worldly critic of Parisian high society, had decided to attend the show. It blazed with the insolence of a poorly aimed spotlight, turning the Tuileries Garden into an incandescent tearoom borrowed from Piton de la Fournaise. The traditional tent had vanished, exiled like an idea deemed too timid. In its place stood a mirrored architecture, delicate as a mischievous jewel, encircling a small octagonal lake. A runway hovered above the water, suspended between sky and reflection. My neighbor leaned over and whispered, “It’s the fashion duck pond.”
