There is something about Maximilian Davis that suggests he moves through the world convinced it cannot quite muster the strength to disturb his inner calm. Even the false fire alarm that drove the entire Ferragamo headquarters onto Milan’s freezing sidewalks only earned from him a gentle look, almost apologetic toward a fate that sometimes insists on making unnecessary noise. Everyone else shivered. He merely seemed to wait for reality to regain its composure.
His collection, however, was far from serene. You could feel in it a quiet determination to remind us that beauty, when it chooses to, knows how to put up a fight. There was a reversible shearling jacket, its deep burgundy the kind of secret one only confides after dusk, and a supple trench coat moving with the silent confidence of things made properly. A military-green suede safari jacket for men eager to pretend conquest, draped dresses in lightweight wool that stood upright through the sheer persuasion of their elegance, and crepe ensembles where knotted leather details murmured that small things still have the power to rescue a day.
The knits seemed intent on teaching the air how to become lighter, the pleated trousers recalled a time when ease did not mean surrender, and the low-waisted pencil skirts advanced with the fragile determination of silhouettes that insist on remaining free in a world that leans too heavily on them.
And then came the accessories. The throbbing heart of the house, but also, for Davis, a kind of intimate correspondence with everything he never quite says. He revisited his signature models the way one reopens a letter never sent. The Hug bag, the grosgrain Soft, the elongated double-flap Gancini. Not to mention the cavernous totes, large enough to carry the entire collection and, with a bit of nerve, the morning’s doubts as well.
In the end, his Pre-Fall carried the tone of those quiet victories that make no sound but leave behind a trail of meaning, like an artist who, without seeming to try, teaches you how to look again.
FM
