Gucci’s creative vision is becoming more defined season after season, reaffirming an aesthetic that deliberately draws on the stylized, instinctive energy of the 1990s. Blending structured minimalism, assertive silhouettes, and a refined sense of nostalgia, the Florentine house is redefining its own visual language while reconnecting with the bold spirit that shaped some of its most iconic eras. Continue reading
Williams offers us yet another celestial illumination, dressed in Adidas and aphorisms. That evening, under the New York spotlights, he didn’t just accept an award: he delivered a revelation. A sneaker-clad homily. The “shoe of the year” is a nice touch, but above all, it brought us the “quote of the decade.”
One must acknowledge the man’s true talent: elevating banality to the rank of profundity. “God is great”; “I’m from Virginia”; “I got my first pair of sneakers at sixteen.” So many cymbal crashes announcing… nothing. But since it’s delivered with gravity, the audience applauds, convinced they are witnessing the birth of a prophet of the pavement transfigured into a messiah of marketing.
One might have hoped for a bit of substance behind the staging, a thread of thought behind the slogans. But no: Pharrell mostly preaches for his brand and for his legend. He doesn’t recount hardship; he puts it on display. The story of the poor kid turned icon serves less to enlighten than to sell a shoe, as if transcendence lay in a well-designed sole. Continue reading
Chanel made its big comeback in New York yesterday with its Métiers d’Art show the first under Matthieu Blazy’s “little pompadour,” a trial by fire that sent a jolt through the city, or at least through everyone who knew where the subway entrance actually was.
Because yes, right in downtown Manhattan, under 168 Bowery at the edge of Chinatown maybe a sign literally on the decommissioned platform of the Bowery station (its name supposedly coming from the Dutch bouwerij, meaning “farm” or “building”), a place where even the rats think twice before going… but for fashion sharks, it was child’s play. Chanel set up its runway exactly where Tom Ford staged his show in 2020, only this time the vibe was less “abandoned transit hellscape” and more “couture chic with a touch of No.5.” Continue reading
The chief executive of the British Fashion Council, described the Dame du Châtelet, chairwoman and CEO of “Christian J’ADior”, as “one of the most visionary and influential leaders in global fashion a figure whose impact extends far beyond the company itself to shape contemporary culture.” A polite, perfectly calibrated turn of phrase that, in itself, summarised the general mood of the evening: an unqualified celebration of institutional power.
For of London once an incubator of irreverence, creative chaos, and alternative modes there remains here only a carefully varnished scene, where boldness survives through an award when it no longer expresses itself directly in the collections. The Fashion Awards, once a laboratory of independence, now seem to have morphed into a prestigious stage at the service of conglomerates, where, year after year, the same names are applauded and the same mantras repeated.
What is most striking is the impeccably oiled closed circle: the lauded designers all belong to a handful of sprawling houses; the invited icons orbit the same associations; the speeches, interchangeable, speak of humility, gratitude, genius, commitment words that have become common currency in a ceremonial where no one seems to question their meaning anymore.
Born in Paris in 1989, David Benedek fell into perfumery the way others fall into the sewers of Paris except his version smelled of jasmine and bargain-basement vetiver. Between two snacks and three spelling tests, his grandmother Édith taught him the sacred art of the perfume bottle and was already predicting a grand destiny for him: “My dear boy, one day you’ll be swallowed by an empire à la Jacquemus, and then you’ll know glory… or Excel spreadsheet purgatory.” Visionary, that Édith.
It must be said, the grandparents had already laid the first stone of the future buyout: a boutique opened in 1959 near the Palais Royal perfect location, well before the Sephora Group absorbed all of France’s distribution channels with a dominant position. But in the luxury world, “dominant” is their favorite position.
While other children were playing marbles, David was sketching perfume bottles in the living-room. Who could have guessed that those innocent scribbles would one day be resold as “limited editions” packaged in recycled-luxury cardboard?
The Institut Français de la Mode welcomed him in 2012, where he learned two essential things: how to become a “Nose,” and how to talk about perfume using words like “emotional texture” and “olfactive pigment” as well as the universal truth that everything ends up being sellable, even candles. Continue reading
In the bustling streets of Seoul, where the crowd moves like an invisible current, Louis Vuitton has opened a new space. It is no longer just a store, but a place that aims to tell a story blending the memory of a house with the appetite of an age hungry for experiences. One might see a paradox in it: to win back a distracted younger generation, the answer is not fewer signs, but more, more shapes, more symbols, more fleeting moments to consume.
After the release of her mini-documentary charting her career change, broadcast on an international platform, the former singer turned luxury ready-to-wear couturière makes a triumphant return to the studio with a pre-autumn collection defined by sharp lines, considered draping and fluid silhouettes, designed to accompany women from morning until night.
A collection that, in some respects, borders on stylistic imitation, as certain pieces seem to offer a rather obvious nod to the Spanish fast-fashion giant… Continue reading
For the past few years, the fashion industry has been undergoing a transformation unlike any other a quiet revolution, masked by the glitter of digital marketing. While discussions focus on generative AI and hyper-personalized campaigns, the real shifts are happening elsewhere: in processes, in organizational structures, in consumer habits, and in the power dynamics these tools are reshaping. The vision of Canal-luxe and its leaders sheds light on these overlooked realities realities that will soon determine which brands survive and which fade away.
There’s plenty of talk about AI-generated visuals, automated descriptions, and “magical” videos. Yes, these things exist. Yes, they impress. But the deeper issue lies elsewhere. Until now, brand storytelling relied on a narrator: a designer, a photographer, an artistic director. Now, AI analyzes purchasing behavior, detects micro-trends before they emerge, crafts tailored narratives, and adapts a product’s story in real time based on who’s looking at it.
This isn’t storytelling anymore it’s storyshifting: a fluid, ever-changing, algorithmic narrative.
Never expect Glenn Martens to follow the beaten path: he would much rather, as always, take the corner at full speed and let everyone else choke on his dust. In a landscape where every brand seems to beg Gen Z for attention, Martens settled that matter long ago. Under his command, Diesel has become nothing short of an amusement park for Zoomers: iridescent pop, public happenings, and winks to the 1990s and early 2000s an era this generation knows only through the filters of algorithms. Continue reading
We finally reached the shores of Osaka, a vast hive of metal and wind, escorted by a cohort of journalists and a legion of models from America and France. The entire airport rustled like an ocean stirred by the tumult of currents licking the coasts of Japan: Parisian Haute Couture, arriving in a dazzling procession, awakened in the crowd a frenzy that made the security services nervous and almost fierce.
When suddenly, in this din of voices and lights, an improbable silhouette emerged: an old Japanese woman dressed in an ancestral kimono, advancing with the sacred slowness of two thousand years of history. She appeared like an apparition, a breath drawn from a Kurosawa film, a parenthesis of poetry slipped into the middle of human clamor.
For an instant, time suspended its heartbeat. Then it resumed, heavy, as the security agents, discovering that she belonged to no protocol, rushed in and stopped her just a few steps from my father. She shouted words in a language that vibrated like an ancient chant, words whose meaning he did not grasp.
“What is she saying?” Jacques Mouclier asked his interpreter.
“She is thanking you for her son, Mr. Mouclier.” Continue reading
Rodeo Drive, that tiny strip of asphalt where the sidewalks shine brighter than the financial future of 99% of humanity, has just welcomed a new Bulgari flagship. Four floors of marble, gold, and glass basically a temple where even the door handles probably have tax advisors. Over there, the poor aren’t technically forbidden… they’re just invisible, as if some force field gently redirects them toward less Instagrammable zones. No judgment: it’s just nature. Some places are meant for migrating birds, others for Black Cards.
I went there myself, into this millionaire ghetto, with my Chrysler “Le Baron” convertible a car that screams “90s glamour,” but which Californian law enforcement apparently interpreted as “mobile homeless shelter.” I barely had time to turn off the engine before the CHiPs showed up, looking at me as if I were an extra in a Lifetime movie called The Beverly Hills Homeless Man. They seemed genuinely ready for me to pull a camping stove out of the trunk. I almost disappointed them by having only sunglasses.
Do you remember Walmart’s “Birkin,” affectionately nicknamed the Wirkin, born as an unintentional tribute to American creativity and a certain impatience with Hermès’ legendary waiting lists? Well, guess what: it’s back shinier than ever ready to parade alongside chrome pickup trucks and XXL burgers.
“Real or Fake?” people ask, as if this were a reality TV show sponsored by mainland China. Influencers even test the bags by banging them against SUVs, as if shock resistance were the first criterion of luxury. Bethenny Frankel turned herself into the official referee of real vs. fake, collecting hundreds of thousands of likes along with a few cold sweats among Hermès’ legal team.
This generation born between 1965 and 1980 aka Generation X, who really earned their name by showing both their sex and their butts, the ones who “knew life before the Internet but answer emails faster than their kids” is now at the peak of its career and earning power… and yet luxury brands still treat them like an Ikea bookcase: practical, sturdy, but, you know, something to deal with later.
To be fair, Gen X never liked being put into a box. Even back then, they didn’t care for labels neither on jam jars nor on people. Which makes them a big mystery for brands. According to CANAL-Luxe, that’s a strategic mistake roughly on par with “forgetting your suitcase when getting off a train.”
So, out of 1,150 people aged 45 to 65 financially comfortable folks in the U.S., France, the UAE, and China the report shows that everywhere except China, luxury isn’t a way of saying “look at me” but more like “leave me alone, I’m treating myself.” Basically, we’ve moved from bling to “inner peace with a silk lining.” Continue reading
At the heart of Paris, Saint Laurent unveils its new flagship, a monumental setting that redefines the experience of contemporary luxury. More than a boutique, it is a true piece of brand architecture: a space where Anthony Vaccarello’s radical aesthetic meets the house’s timeless elegance. Continue reading
One might have thought that the eternal darling of concepts would eventually manage to surprise us with something other than déjà vu. But no he tirelessly falls back into the same habits, and his latest bag arrives with a strong sense of déjà vu, to say the least. It’s astonishingly similar to the bag created by Maison Monnier in 2013; same silhouette, same spirit.
Fashion history is a palimpsest everyone borrows from everyone else. But there’s such a thing as a subtle homage, a discreet echo, an intelligent reference… and then there’s a copy-paste wrapped in Provençal flair, photographed at sunset as if the golden light could dissolve the similarities. Continue reading
Failed Chanel Heist: Police Already Tracking Suspects… Teenagers With Dubious Taste. Chic panic hit Avenue Montaigne on Saturday morning: four individuals attempted to rob the Chanel boutique. Armed to the teeth rifles, an axe, and Yamaha TMax scooters repurposed as luxury battering rams, the rookie bandits charged the storefront as if they were filming Fast & Furious: Golden Triangle Edition.
Fortunately, a security guard endowed with admirable courage (and likely motivated by the proximity of his lunch break) managed to drop the metal gate just in time. Curtain down literally. Caught off guard, the four culprits immediately fled.
According to our sources, the police are now pursuing an explosive lead: the suspects may be young individuals… with particularly questionable fashion sense. Continue reading
Hermès is adjusting the trajectory of its Fragrance and Beauty division by appointing Anne-Sarah Panhard as its new managing director. This move comes as the beauty segment considered a strategic driver of diversification and international expansion has shown a slight decline over the first nine months of the year.
Before joining Hermès, Panhard built a strong international profile, first as a Fashion Buyer at Printemps, then as UK Country Manager for Salvatore Ferragamo, and later as Country Manager for Saks Fifth Avenue. She joined Hermès in 2011, subsequently leading Hermès France first overseeing commercial activities and then the domestic market during a pivotal phase of premiumization and retail consolidation.
Since 2018, she has headed Hermès Maison, overseeing a portfolio ranging from furniture to tableware, as well as Puiforcat, formerly owned by Pochet et du Courval, prior to its integration into the Hermès group.
FM
A 41-year-old designer, trained at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Antwerp (yes, another one who studied in Belgium it’s basically a national sport by now). Then he honed his skills under Raf “Simonster,” a true reference! Let’s hope he didn’t learn too much. After that, he sailed on the lord’s ship, and finally landed at “Gi vent chie,” alongside Riccardo Tisci, “the great user of motivation in powder form.” In France, we love funding talent with generous subsidies especially foreign ones. The French, meanwhile, emigrate abroad to go slumming it in Antwerp’s nightclubs. It’s our version of the start-up nation, but with a draped annus horribilis.
After a stint at Balenciaga between 2012 and 2016 otherwise known as the era when sneakers became museum pieces Antonin launched his own label, Atlein. A name inspired by the Atlantic Ocean and the draping of Madame Grès, because the man likes to ride the wave; some designers do yoga, others meditate in Bali. As for him, he drapes the way he surfs with grace, precision, and a little sand between his toes. His first name, “Antonius,” whose etymology suggests some kind of alliance with the dolphin, makes sense “in short, the guy can swim.”
Only a finalist for the LVMH Prize in 2017, but winner of the “A tooth” (“Rhinestone Crown for a Throne of Trends”), Antonin proved he could turn fashion into an aquatic discipline—always fluid, never static a sort of Jacques mu-muse of the rich. Continue reading
Tonight, no mercy, says the London Moon, ruthlessly wiping out all before vanishing leaving behind only a few last glimmers to shield humanity from the dark. For the battle of the perfumes is raging not over granny’s little bottles, but over great vaults that reek of roses and gold dust. HFC Prestige International, Coty’s Swiss arm, is baring its claws and dragging Gucci and Kering into court, over there in perfidious Albion.
Indeed, on 20 October, in a tale of contracts, licences and egos scented with amber and vanilla, the sweet-smelling world of fragrance and the less fragrant world of business are now colliding in the courtroom.
Because, the day before, we learnt that Kering had got all cosy with L’Oréal for fifty years of exclusive love, because they’re worth it. An imperial alliance, half a century of creams, bottles, logos and botoxed smiles. Once the lease with Coty ends in 2028, all being well, Gucci’s perfume will be changing beds.
But beware! Kering swears, cross its heart, that it honours its contracts! That it betrays no one! That it’s as loyal as a saint in a tailored suit! Yet in the world of luxury, when one starts talking about loyalty, one feels a sudden urge to turn celibate of the brain. Continue reading
French literature does love its ghosts especially the ones that sell. After Dumas, resurrected by Sarkozy’s sentimental marketing stunt, Adélaïde de Clermont-Tonnerre now takes it upon herself to dig up Milady de Winter and dress her in modern clothes. The result, however, is clumsy and misguided. “Je voulais vivre” promises a bold reimagining, a fresh take on one of Dumas’s most intriguing characters, but delivers only a stiff, overwrought pastiche a novel corseted by ambition it can’t possibly sustain.
In trying to compete with Dumas, Clermont-Tonnerre gets lost in her own ornate prose. What aims for brilliance feels merely heavy. Every line drips with forced literary references; every page bears the weight of self-conscious style. You can almost hear the rustle of period costumes, but there’s no energy, no wit, none of the effortless vitality that made Dumas irresistible.
And Milady? Dumas’s darkly fascinating femme fatale becomes, here, a glossy-paper heroine a kind of reheated feminist icon, somewhere between Nabilla Vergara and a luxury-brand influencer. In trying to give Milady a second life, Clermont-Tonnerre drains her of mystery, danger, and soul. Continue reading
The collaboration between Net-a-Porter and Rabanne was celebrated in dazzling style in London, with a glittering party at the Scotch of St. James, the legendary venue of the Swinging Sixties. Transformed into the “Club Rabanne” for one night, the club welcomed celebrities and VIP clients dressed in pieces from the new capsule collection, inspired by the golden age of Miami nightlife — metallic dresses, zebra prints, and luminous silhouettes. Continue reading
Here is the couture man the most destitute of Fashion Week and the most pathetic, armed with merely a month of study at Esmod. He is a one-man amateur lexicographer, crafting a couture born from a phlegmatic spit, slowly making its morbid descent to the ground and muttering back: “I am the black hole of the universe.” Hammering away at common sense with his needle, he stands at the very antipodes of today’s trends.
He leaves Balmain after fourteen years of reign without a throne fourteen years of sequins, selfies, and gold-shouldered jackets. Olivier Rousteing, the man who turned a couture house into an Instagram and TikTok franchise, takes his final bow. This tormented soul who imagines all the world’s misery was meant for him a lonely child first, then burned later, after the theft of a collection that, truth be told, was never going to fly that high. And when he is alone with himself, staring at the blank page, he strikes his own forehead to summon the genesis of creation yet nothing comes.
Now fashion sighs not with emotion, but with disbelief: how could a designer who couldn’t sew lead such a prestigious atelier? Balmain, once synonymous with perfect cuts and architectural tailoring, had become a temple of the “digital pout”, where the needle was replaced by a filter.
Of course, one must credit him with a certain talent: that of self-performance. Rousteing managed to make himself the most profitable product of the house. The Balmain Army that battalion of models and influencers as dazzling as a sequin curtain paraded more often on social media than on catwalks. Continue reading
This is a(Chronicle of a Small Earthquake in the Kingdom of Fashion). In the golden heavens of haute couture, where reigns the Almighty Lord of Luxury, a strange sound was heard: “Versace sold to Prada for $1.4 billion!”
The angels of marketing lost their wings. Even the tailors of “j’aDior”, overcome with emotion, pricked their fingers on their pins. For you see, the rival Capri Holdings thought to be dozing off atop its Michael Kors and Jimmy Choo had just landed a major blow, an uppercut in Italian silk.
At the head of this little rebellion stood a certain “John Idol” a name predestined, if not divine. The man may not have multiplied margins as others multiply loaves, yet he has kept the faith:
“We performed better in the second quarter,” he declared, like a preacher in a Roman collar. “Our revenues fell by only 2.5% praise profitability!”
Granted, the prophet of ready-to-wear has yet to turn the water of losses into champagne: a $34 million deficit still means a lot of bubbles to chase. But optimism remains the essential accessory in this world even more than handbags. Continue reading
On Monday night, the gods of fashion gathered at New York’s Museum of Natural History where usually it’s the dinosaurs that steal the spotlight. This time, it was Ralph Lauren roaring: he took home the CFDA American Womenswear Designer of the Year Award. Ralph beat out Wes Gordon (Carolina Herrera), Rachel Scott (Diotima), Daniella Kallmeyer (Kallmeyer), and Tory Burch who’s probably starting to wonder if the jury has a personal vendetta against her.
Naomi Watts handed him the award, proving once again that she can do it all: cry in a horror movie and smile sincerely while giving a trophy to a man whose polos have taken over the planet since 1995. Continue reading