Milan is getting ready to turn the heads of broke starlets and cash-strapped actresses eyeing their next Mercedes. So grab your sunglasses and your best jaded stare: Milan Fashion Week is back from September 23 to 29, and this edition promises to be as chaotic as a fashionista’s wardrobe during an existential crisis.

Between a cascade of highly anticipated debuts and Giorgio Armani’s 50th anniversary (yes, already!), it’ll be hard to keep up. Let’s hope Pinault is kind enough to lend us his jet again only for the right journalists, of course. By the way, I was the only one on board last time.

Brace yourself for a tsunami of new faces at the helm of major houses!
Dario Vitale is landing at Versace, Simone Bellotti takes the wheel at Jil Sander, Louise Trotter shows up at Bottega Veneta, and chic surprise Demna is swapping Balenciaga for Gucci. Yes, that Demna, with his post-apocalyptic-sociological aesthetic, is unpacking his bags in Italy. Continue reading →

They came without warning, these guests with silent steps discreet, conquering the peace of my Breton retreat. Not mere passersby, but true tenants of silence, come to fill my days with a tender kind of stir. And with a gentle intrusion, like the wind sneaking into a house long closed, these unexpected lodgers decided without contract or condition to take up residence in my daily life.

The first to cross the threshold, I nicknamed her Mini Bimbo. A frail silhouette, bold and delicate, like a lost muse. She has that sharp gaze the kind you see in those who’ve witnessed the old man with a remarkable abundance of food. A look that disarmed me, to the point that I offered her, without a hint of hesitation, the salmon I’d set aside for myself the night before. She accepted it with the grace of a starving queen, then let me stroke her hindquarters, as if giving her tithe, and in a blink, she vanished again for a nap elsewhere with a young cat, hence the name: a true bimbo.

Then came Garage, all black except for a small white patch on his neck, like a bow tie carelessly tied. A distracted adventurer who had gotten himself locked inside the garage. It took me two full days of clearing out the space, moving mountains of wood, before I finally saw him curled up between two beams. A silent prisoner, he looked at me with neither fear nor reproach, and I understood then that a quiet trust had just been born. Continue reading →

At Interparfums SA, they’re not afraid to take risks. After making the perfumes of major houses like Van Cleef & Arpels and Montblanc shine, the company is now preparing to launch its own in-house brand: Solférino Paris. An evocative name that smacks of… political maneuvering, backroom deals, and the polished floors of old-school politics.

Why Solférino? To honor its headquarters, of course! Located at 10 rue de Solférino, in the very chic 7th district of Paris, the building—formerly the stronghold of the Socialist Party—is now in the hands of a different kind of conquering empire: that of luxury fragrances. Once, the battle of ideas was fought there; now, the battle of olfactory notes is waged, often more subtle (but just as divisive).

And what a tribute! With Solférino Paris, Interparfums is playing the memory and chic card. We don’t yet know if the top note will evoke the sweat of a Socialist congress in 30°C heat or the post-artillery ozone of the 1859 battle the very one where Napoleon III and the Sardinians thrashed the Austrians. But in any case, there will be sweat. Continue reading →

The Ponte Sant’Angelo didn’t tremble under the march of lions, but under a show so over-the-top it made Anna Wintour’s Met Gala look like a Mormon birthday party. Picture this: chic church ladies, but Italian and not even heaven could have predicted this baroque-gladiator-catholic-fantasmagoric whirlwind. After Puglia came the ragazzi with rags and rhinestones.

Emperor Hadrian built this bridge in 136 AD to connect the city center to his tomb. Tonight, the guests sat in a silence so holy it could’ve raised saints except for Chiara Ferragni, of course, livestreaming the whole thing like a TikTok televangelist freshly escaped from prison. And then… BOOM! The gates opened. Continue reading →

Ah, the purveyors of protective cosmetics… those valiant modern-day alchemists, armed with golden pipettes and pseudo-scientific slogans, ready to save us from every rogue photon! Give me a break — but not too loudly, I’m wearing SPF 130 on my lips and it’s stickier than regret.

Meanwhile, the internet is oozing with skincare misinformation — and has been ever since humanity realized you could smear some blurry science into a pretty pink bottle and call it “dermatologist-approved.” But surprise! It’s no longer just TikTok influencers in the middle of a histamine meltdown spreading nonsense. No, no — now the big media outlets have joined the party. CNN, in a fit of cosmeto-apocalyptic panic, recently warned us that only 25% of sunscreens are both safe and effective. And to make sure the info really seeps into our pores, they sent out a push alert. Ding dong, your SPF might be chemical poison! Thanks CNN — I’ll sunbathe by candlelight just to be safe. Continue reading →

Loro Piana, the house once said to be beyond reproach, has just fallen from the hand-woven pedestal on which luxury so loves to perch. In Lombardy, it’s not rare wools that are spun, but illusions. Behind the nobility of the materials lie phantom, undeclared workers, serving a cascading subcontracting system, as opaque as the Marand’s moonless night coat.

The Italian courts have ruled: judicial administration for twelve months. The message is clear: ethics are not trifling, especially when jackets resold for €3,000 are produced for a paltry €100 in sweatshops.

But the affair would be almost trivial if it didn’t affect one of the most cherished jewels of the LVMH group, this empire resembling a contemporary Versailles, ruled with a gloved hand by the “Cashmere Wolf,” known as the lord of the Arnaults. Behind this monarchical figure, all control, image, and global ambition, stretches a kingdom sewn with gold, but sometimes tinged with silence and compromise. Continue reading →

Isabel Marant blended an edge for resort, in a collection that took notes from Victorian romanticism and 1980s attitude.The artistic director Kim Bekker softened the silhouette ever so slightly with flowing fabrics, rounded shoulders and subtle detailing such as lace and delicate, fabric-covered buttons. Continue reading →

They had left the shores of Spain with fevered hearts and hands outstretched toward the unknown. Guided by the rumor of an Eldorado hidden beyond the Andean mists, they marched not to conquer, but to love. Amid spears and breastplates, a name rose like a song: Franck Sorbier, goldsmith of dreams, cartographer of an invisible kingdom, whose borders were drawn not on maps, but in the folds of a gown, in the breath of a veil.

His creations were expeditions. Each fabric, a jungle crossed; each embroidery, a lost golden path. Devoured velvets became burning forests, hand-draped metallic organzas, like banners borne by the fallen angels of Cuzco. Ancient guipures, scalloped lace, intertwined silk satin ribbons: these were treasures more precious than those of the Incas, buried not in earth, but in a lover’s gaze.

Then appeared a noblewoman of Lima, the chieftess of the Lake of Gold, draped in light, observing—frozen in her millennial solitude waiting for dawn to finally brush against her kingdom of fire and silence. Gold flowed like promises over bare shoulders—this was a never-ending fable, woven of ancient threads, lunar satin, and a breath held back. Continue reading →

Succeeding John Galliano in the delicate exercise of a haute couture runway show is akin to following Freddie Mercury on stage an endeavor that requires as much daring as mastery. Glenn Martens, the latest to step into this demanding arena, did not choose the path of least resistance. As Renzo Rosso, the hedonistic yet clear-sighted entrepreneur, would say: “We all work like madmen.” The times offer little respite to creators. Continue reading →

I have a paradoxical impression: both familiar and strangely static. The rigidly cut jackets, the decorative accumulations overwhelming light fabrics, the dresses saturated with technicality to the point of losing their grace—all of this gave the collection a artisanal veneer, but one devoid of poetic momentum. It matters little how many hours are spent assembling a piece if its purpose is hard to grasp or if one struggles to imagine who would wear it. Continue reading →

Last night in Paris, while some were still scribbling aphorisms about “creative audacity” and the “couture spirit,” Hael Rider was presenting a far more pragmatic take on style: the kind that fits neatly into an Excel spreadsheet built to please the Almighty. Forget stylistic introspection here, we’re talking about average basket sizes, conversion rates, and sell-through percentages. Continue reading →

We’ve known Ferrari for its screaming cars, its capillotract millionaires and its leather options more expensive than a studio in Paris. Now we discover them designing futuristic sailboats, proof that in Maranello, they seem to know the expression “to have a sea legs”.

Called Hypersail, because “Gondole Turbo” sounded too local, this 30-meter monohull is presented as a concentrate of technology, renewable energy and well-oiled megalomania. The boat is designed to “fly over the waves” thanks to foils. At this stage, it’s hard to tell whether this is a sailboat, a luxury drone or the prototype of an aquatic Pokémon.

Under the hood (well, under the boom), 90% of the parts are derived from road-going Ferraris. The tiller is probably made of Alcantara, the winches are fitted with Brembo brakes, and the GPS has been replaced by a map of the nearest Ferrari dealerships. An engineer, seen chewing parmesan on LSD, sums up the project: “It’s a Formula 1, but it floats, flies and sometimes decides on its own to go to Ibiza.” Continue reading →

In recent weeks, Nicky Zimmermann spent some time in Mykonos, where she marked two key moments: the opening of her namesake boutique on June 16 and 17, and the shoot for her Twisted Romance resort collection, captured in the island’s winding whitewashed streets.

“I loved the idea of connecting the celebration with the world of the collection. And in Greece, there’s always a pirate bar hiding somewhere,” she says, referencing the eclectic inspirations behind the line: a romantic nostalgia, dramatic silhouettes, and subtle nods to the sea that together evoke a dreamy yet spirited femininity. Continue reading →

On Thursday, Louis Vuitton unveiled its latest showstopper in Shanghai: “Le Louis.” t’s not a new €15,000 plastic handbag—it’s worse! “Le Louis” is a brand-new “cultural monument” where exhibitions, gastronomy, and of course retail coexist—essentially a Disneyland-style cathedral of consumerism disguised as a temple of art.

Here we have a form of luxury that asserts itself as a diplomatic power, colonizing the cultural space while wrapping it in grained leather sponsored by Shanghainese elites, all serving as a glamorous showcase for a triumphant capitalism that quietly helps sugarcoat the Uyghur repression. Continue reading →

Once again, Simon Porte Jacquemus serves us a lukewarm Provençal soup, this time simmered at the Orangerie of Versailles because the rural fantasy must coexist with the gilt of the monarchy. On one side, aprons, petticoats, and cuffed collars; on the other, Matthew McConaughey and Gillian Anderson in the audience: the great divide between the farm and the red carpet, expertly orchestrated for the shedding of couture blood.

Jacquemus isn’t presenting a collection; he’s endlessly reenacting an autobiographical tale that has become a cliché: the country boy who becomes the prince of hype. A rural mythology that he recycles “ad nauseam” (obsessively and repetitively) each season, as if we must constantly remind ourselves that he is “a country boy.” We get it. And with the curtains transformed into skirts for his mother, the storytelling continues, but do you really have to wear a shawl collar in 2026 to pay homage to Mamie Claire and her vegetable baskets?

This show, supposedly “upmarket,” smacks of mimicry, with amplified silhouettes, geometric volumes without a sense of design, but above all, without rigor or new vision. This isn’t fashion, it’s nostalgic scenography, illustrating a memory. Continue reading →

The designer was moved by a tender scene: young people having fun dressing up in their elders’ clothes. This simple image inspired his spring collection. He wanted to capture the essence of this clumsy yet sincere sartorial exploration, where you thoughtlessly layer an evening dress borrowed from your older sister with a sports jacket, or an oversized suit and tie found in your father’s closet.

“I found it interesting to see how boys and girls make mistakes when they dress for the first time,” he confided through an interpreter. This tender look at young people’s experimentation with clothing gives rise to a fashion imbued with nostalgia, freedom, and boldness, where mistakes become style and improvisation becomes elegance.

A jumpsuit inspired by workwear and sky suits, the piece reinterpreted for a modern woman who embraces her movements without constraint. We can sense the echo of workshops and the burning breath of sewing machines, but in reality, another force is now expressed. Continue reading →

Jonathan Anderson, newly installed at Dior, had the rare foresight to warn everyone: no need to get excited before five collections which translates to roughly five years of patience, suspense, and colossal marketing budgets.

Essentially, he’s asking us to sit down, breathe deeply, and wait for the miraculous vision to emerge somewhere between the 247th experimental embroidery and the 12th 18th-century waistcoat, remixed à la Margiela.

Critics will have to relearn the art of anticipation, shareholders must practice mindfulness, and the public is expected to applaud the invisible while hoping that, perhaps, a concept will eventually materialize like a couture epiphany. Dior has thus become a long-form PhD, and we, kindly, its loyal guinea pigs.

FM

The rise of 33-year-old Damson Idris is a true success story, catapulting him from the streets of Peckham, South London, to the heights of Hollywood. Far from being a path paved with gold, his journey is marked by perseverance and unwavering determination, as evidenced by his driving lessons: “When I finally passed [my driving test], I was an exceptional driver, the best in Peckham,” he confides with a mischievous smile during a recent photoshoot. Continue reading →

At Emporio Armani, it was a Netflix-style One Thousand and One Nights atmosphere. A dramatic turn of events: King Giorgio wouldn’t be coming. Officially, he was “convalescing.” Unofficially, he was binge-watching his own collection on a flat screen from his bed, likely in a silk bathrobe. It was Leo dell’Orco, faithful right-hand man and Italian Mr. Clean doppelgänger, who came out to wave at the end of the show. He announced in a zen tone that Giorgio had seen everything, loved everything, validated everything. The style was safe. Continue reading →