The creation, production, and distribution of perfumes follow an industrial model radically different from that of fashion or leather goods. It requires global logistical infrastructures, laboratories, a massive distribution network, and marketing capabilities suited to the luxury mass market. L’Oréal, the world leader in beauty, has mastered this model to perfection, whereas Kering—historically focused on fashion does not possess such executional strength. Selling or licensing to L’Oréal means relying on a more competent player to accelerate the growth of its brands.
By selling Creed and granting its beauty licenses for €4 billion, Kering immediately recovers substantial liquidity. These funds allow it to reinvest in its fashion houses—particularly Gucci and Balenciaga, which have faced recent challenges—and to finance their creative and commercial repositioning. In other words, rather than waiting for gradual revenues from fragrance, Kering prefers to reallocate capital toward its strategic priorities. Continue reading
Chronicle of a breathless “Hyères” festival! Sun, subsidies, egos and forty years already that Villa Noailles has fancied itself the Mecca of creativity, a kind of sanctuary where fabric becomes concept and good taste drowns beneath meters of “conceptual” latex. This year’s motto was clear: “The show must go on” in other words, it doesn’t matter if the house is burning, as long as we can still strut across the ashes.
The Giorgio Armani Group has a new Chief Executive Officer: Giuseppe Marsocci. He succeeds Giorgio Armani, who also served as Chairman of the group he founded fifty years ago.
Thom Browne celebrates the tenth birthday of Hector, his handbag hound, and proves that canine fashion rhymes perfectly with “supermarket jewel.” Ten years already since a dachshund wrapped in luxury leather started turning heads and emptying wallets proof that we’re always betrayed by our “Dogs.” Back in 2016, it was a joke, a canine wink at vanity. In 2026, it’s become a symbol of loyalty that of the customers who keep barking with delight at every new version. A capital “I” for “Iconic” luxury and when I see dogs greeting each other by sniffing each other’s rear ends, one has to wonder if the designer wasn’t an expert on the matter.
Her name was Gabriella Hanoka, but the fashion world would come to know her as Gaby Aghion. Born in Alexandria on a March morning in 1921, in the golden light of cosmopolitan Egypt, she already carried within her that blend of Eastern grace and French audacity that would one day revolutionize couture.
It had to happen eventually: poor Paris, stuck in its traffic jams and strikes, now sees its great rival rising on the horizon Riyadh. Yes, Riyadh, where fashionistas arrive not in overcrowded Ubers, but in limousines and private jets with massaging seats and perfectly chilled air at 19°C, as palm trees politely applaud their arrival.
There are beings whose clothing becomes the reflection of their soul, and Diane Keaton was one of them. Each fabric she wore seemed to gather a fragment of her thought; each accessory, a tremor of her free spirit. It was a style all her own a wide-brimmed hat worn like a diadem of defiance, glasses that filtered the world’s light, vests or turtlenecks embracing the discreet grace of a woman’s neck, ties or scarves chosen not to seduce but to signify independence. Pleated trousers, as ample as a breath, harmonized with jackets sometimes tweed, sometimes velvet and in that blend of daring and restraint, she found her truth.
Once the sacred territory of dusty flea markets and grandma’s handbags retrieved from the attic, this market now represents a tidy sum of $320 to $360 billion by 2030. Yes, you read that correctly: your antique leather totes and forgotten heels now have a global market value. Who would have thought that Grandma, with her slightly old-fashioned sense of style, was actually sitting on a goldmine under her bed?
Paris, usually so vibrant during fashion week, seemed drowsy this time as if the city itself had lost touch with its own magic. Buyers from around the world had hoped for the rebirth of a creative spark, yet they found themselves facing an unexpected dullness.
They say that one day, in a house on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, the dresses began to breathe. It was the breath of Chemena Kamali, new guardian of the Chloé temple, whispering to the fabrics of oblivion and rebirth. For two years, she has been summoning the spirits of lightness and sun, searching through the archives as one would search for relics in a perfumed crypt.
It’s true that after turning Gucci into a Venetian bazaar for children of the moon, Alessandro Michele wasn’t suddenly going to embrace minimalism at Valentino. But was it really necessary to repaint Rome in the colors of Saint-Germain-des-Prés after a bad trip to San Francisco?
Sarah Burton’s first runway for Givenchy had already betrayed signs of an over-manufactured sensibility, and her second confirms the slope: a couture of loud affirmation in the Chiuri vein, believing itself feminist simply because it exhibits. The clients, living trophies of this supposedly liberating fashion, paraded that evening in a pale yellow duchesse satin pea coat, cinched in black, as if to proclaim loudly and clearly their right to ostentation.
Fendi has made its choice sorry, the Lord has spoken and it is Maria Grazia Chiuri who takes over the artistic direction of the Roman house. This appointment comes in the midst of a chaotic reshuffle: Kim Jones’s departure, once expected to embody the creative breath of both haute couture and ready-to-wear, has left a void that Fendi is now scrambling to fill. Silvia Venturini Fendi, meanwhile, has been asked to step back, relegated to the more symbolic role of honorary president but given her last collection, this hardly comes as a surprise.
Big bows and old lace that’s about as faithful a summary as you can get of Nicolas Guesquière’s latest show for Vuitton. The staging is as stable as a Windows 98 system on life support, swinging between awkward hybrids and copy-pastes from Milan Fashion Week. You can tell the inspiration made a pit stop at Malpensa before taking off.
This collection was born from a secret oath between the splendor of yesterday and the vigor of today (says the designer). From the magnificence of the French court, she borrowed grandeur, brocades, solemn braids, and radiant crosses; but instead of letting them slumber in the dust of palaces, she set them against the wild momentum of our century, so that they might clash and fertilize one another in a dazzling embrace.