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.

The seventh day of the Paris Fashion Week was drawing to a close, and in the room lingered that particular tension that precedes revelations. The audience almost held its breath. Among them, Chappell Roan, Tokischa, and the band The Last Dinner Party watched as one watches an apparition, with the quiet curiosity reserved for things that might transform before our eyes.

Then the rituals of the runway, those well-oiled clocks of fashion, began to stumble in the most delightful way. Lace dresses, once accomplices of bedrooms and whispered secrets, stepped boldly into the night. They had become evening gowns, escorted by spherical bags like portable moons. Velvet blazers, studded with buttons like a sky of constellations, suddenly forgot their vocation as jackets and turned into sculptural mini-dresses, insolent and upright like statues that had learned to walk.

Even the walls seemed to dream. Three-dimensional floral wallpapers transformed into living textures, glimpsed beneath lustrous satin ensembles, as though secret gardens were growing beneath the garments. The heavy chainmail of lost knights softened, becoming poplin shirts and cable-knit sweaters, as if metal itself had remembered that it was once a cloud.

Then came the familiar signs, the house’s talismans. The skull-print scarf and the iconic clutch of Alexander McQueen reappeared, polished by time and transformed by new finishes, like magical objects rediscovered at the bottom of a forgotten pocket.

The finale carried the solemnity of a wedding with the unseen. An extravagant headdress crowned an asymmetrical gown blooming with flowers. They crossed the runway like a bouquet thrown into the wind, a theatrical and luminous gesture that reminded everyone that the spirit of McQueen never truly leaves the stage. It still walks somewhere between dream and fabric.

FM