Chanel made me rebrand
A cruise show can be your entire personality
The first time I went to a Chanel show, I remember sitting there thinking: this is who I want to be. It was the last couture outing shaped by the atelier (Fall 2025), that slightly surreal, held-breath moment before Matthieu Blazy formally took the reins. And now, with the new era fully in motion, I’m ready to legally change my name to Chanel Biarritz Kessler.
Arriving in Biarritz for Blazy’s first-ever cruise show felt like picking up the thread—with sea air in your lungs and salt on your skin. Cruise usually gets filed under “nice, commercial, quietly profitable,” but this had a different charge from the start. Biarritz, in the early 20th century was the spot to escape the throes of WW1—a sunlit collision of aristocrats, artists, and intellectuals. Gabrielle Chanel arrived in 1915 and moved with total conviction, opening a boutique, assembling a team of seamstresses, and turning out full collections at a pace that feels contemporary.
And she wasn’t alone in clocking the energy of Biarritz. Igor Stravinsky passed through and found focus here, Man Ray turned it into one of his surrealist playgrounds, and the whole town became a seismic meeting point. Dali, Picasso, Churchill… you name ‘em, they came for a carefree swim in the height of summer. Even today, there’s a lack of pretension that somehow coexists with the fact that, yes, it’s still fabulously wealthy. Wholesome in flashes, decadent in others, and all the more interesting for holding both at once.
A fancy hotel hates to see me coming. We stayed at the Hôtel du Palais—a grand, slightly theatrical reminder that glamour used to be taken very seriously and, in certain corners, still is. Built for Empress Eugénie, it faces the Atlantic with an unshakeable confidence that only comes from having hosted generations of people who understood the value of a well-timed entrance. The chic 16th century portraits lining the gilded walls had me in a chokehold.
My room didn’t have a bathtub (gasp), which I processed with admirable composure, but it did have a walk-in wardrobe! There’s something about being able to properly hang your clothes that rearranges your entire sense of self.
Dinner at the Halles de Biarritz—a picturesque fresh produce market in the middle of town—felt like stepping onto a film set. The whole market turned into a Chanel culinary dream come true (especially for a hungry boy like me). Biarritz sits just a short drive from San Sebastián, and you can taste that proximity immediately. Basque influence steeped through French technique, pinxtos reimagined with a little more gloss. I was obsessed with the jamón croquettes, each one perfectly crisp and molten—I had 6! Truffled egg mayonnaise so creamy and tender. Foie gras that deserved a moment of silence.
At one point I was eating Bayonne ham next to the gorgeous Nicole Kidman, who was mid-conversation with Bruno Pavlovsky, while Tilda Swinton swished through on the other side, as otherworldly as ever. It should have felt absurd, but it didn’t. It was oddly chill—just people nibbling, chattering, dazzled in head-to-toe Chanel. There were bags from every era of the house (shoutout Dallas Paris fringed Classic Flap. Need her real bad!). The fact I was so unfazed had me thinking: maybe… I’m a star too?
The show took place the following day atop a casino on the seafront, the Atlantic providing a suitably dramatic backdrop without ever stealing focus. Chanel has perfected that balance—nothing feels forced which is why everything lands (the boutiques have been raided and empty by fashion fans and editors alike). And then the clothes, which quietly dismantled any lingering cynicism about cruise. There was structure, yes, but also movement, a sense of looseness that felt very Biarritz. It was legitimately cool. A gargantuan seashell earring here, a towelling chanel suit there. Beach umbrella-inspired A-line raffia skirts gave us classic Blazy. The mermaid looks were immediate faves. One in a saturated turquoise that seemed to hold light, another in a smouldering red-orange that flickered like embers. Fishtail skirts paired with tailored jackets (and matching bags!), fantasy anchored just enough to function.
And then the shoes—or not quite shoes, something we called a “non-shoe shoe” back in my Vogue days—the soleless situation that sent the internet into immediate meltdown. But also fab for those who love feet, I guess.
The casting sharpened the point: real characters, a spectrum of ages, women with mysteries and secrets—there was even a model 6 months pregnant. It gave the whole thing a kind of grounded glamour. I was enamoured.
When Blazy took his bow, A$AP Rocky, Nicole Kidman, Tilda Swinton, Michaela Coel, and the rest of the room rose in a standing ovation that felt genuinely heartfelt. Afterwards, every model I spoke to, including i-D cover star Bhavitha Mandava, said the same thing in different ways: Matthieu cares. He cares about the clothes, about the team, about them. He told them to have fun. Which, in fashion, is not always a given.
Post-show, I had a chat with Rocky. He was in a brown jacket, red button-up shirt, brown high-waisted pants situation, but the real gag was the bag: a large pink denim Chanel purse with mini ballet flats attached—a gift for his 7-month-old daughter Rocki Irish. “Man, in order to make [that many] shows in a year… I don’t know how Matthieu does it,” he said, genuinely baffled. “This is genius. I’m witnessing it. I’m just lucky and blessed to be privy to all of this, like iconic amazingness.”
On what caught his eye: “I like the croc bag. I like the jackets. The rubber rain boots… that was just for me.” And then, when I asked if Chanel was for the boys, he said: “Chanel’s for Flacko.” He also, almost offhand, said something that stuck: being a girl dad has made him “more vulnerable… even more kind.” Which, somehow, felt completely in line with the softness of that tiny pair of ballet flats hanging off his bag.
That evening, back at the Hôtel du Palais, we knocked back some champers in style. The restaurant and terrace opened out onto the sea, the light dipping just enough to make everything glow. Everyone was in Chanel H2T, myself included (sort of), which created a kind of shared illusion, like we’d all been cast in the same indie flick. Or perhaps an Agatha Christie murder mystery.
Rocky appeared again, this time as a surprise performer, and suddenly the night tipped from elegant to electric. Not me throwing it back next to Tilda and Blazy himself. I lived.
We were lucky enough to go to the re-see the next morning, champagne headache and all. These are all the things I didn’t clock at the show:
The charming little chilli motifs—on handbags, on collars.
A trompe l’oile ribbon print on a silk shirt and skirt set that also had real ribbons added to its hem—clever, very lovely, meta.
Jacket linings that refuse to be an afterthought. Some in a chic newsprint, which immediately calls to mind Elsa Schiaparelli. Coco’s old rival. A little historical side-eye, maybe.
“Chanel Utility” stitched inside separates. Low-key, high impact.
Starfish-embroidered tweeds and fish-scale paillettes are even more INSANE irl.
A gargantuan beach bag that suggests a lifestyle where you are carrying nothing but magnums of Côtes de Provence rosé and absolutely no responsibilities.
I need the barefoot shoe this summer as a flex.
And then, of course, the slow comedown. The return. Back to London, back through arrivals, back into the version of yourself that answers emails and pretends this is all normal. From Chanel boy to just Alex again. Briefly.
