There is something about Paris Fashion Week that makes me feel like a dork. Perhaps it’s the social hierarchy, the cliques, the clout wars, the anxiety over where you’re sitting, or the fact that everyone appears to be having a much better time than you. (When do they find the time?) This season, I cracked my phone screen rushing to dinner; lost my glasses at the System x Gucci party; and tripped over a sideboard at REDACTED, practically landing chin-first on a critic in the front row. I may as well have been given a wedgie and shoved into a locker. Is this supposed to feel like Paris Humiliation Week?
But don’t feel sorry for me—I was, after all, having a fabulous time! I was being chauffeured in a Mercedes equipped with massage seats, screens with selfie functions (me asf), and a champagne fridge (also me). I had brought an unreasonable assortment of handbags, including Chanels and Delvauxs—among them the latter’s Cool Box bag, a surprisingly roomy little thing that became my new best friend. Luxury, it turns out, cannot buy you coordination.
Still, there was something reassuring about being a Loser in Paris this season. After years of creative-director musical chairs, a luxury slowdown, and endless hand-wringing over what people actually want to buy, the designers who excited me most were the ones doing exactly as they pleased—coolness or fitting in, be damned! Some were magnificently kooky, others almost aggressively down-to-earth. What united them was the conviction that there is no correct way to dress. If they could dress on their own terms, perhaps I could do fashion week on mine.
The Chanel gaggery.
Matthieu Blazy was in a league of his own at Chanel. A year into his tenure, the house feels fresh again without losing what makes it Chanel. For Spring 2027, he looked to Gabrielle Chanel, a woman who spent her life reinventing herself, imagining her past, present, and future. There were nods to Edwardian corsetry, liberated suits, and an ingenious smocked tweed that stretched with the body. Birds appeared throughout as symbols of freedom. And then Britney Spears’ “Gimme More” blasted through the Grand Palais. We gasped.
And the bags! I was particularly moved by Gabrielle’s own 2.55, brought out from the archives, alongside a birdcage minaudière that made the collection’s metaphor gorgeously literal. Then came the Classic Flaps in crazy combos. Red! Green! Cobalt! Tiger! Textures fighting for their lives! I clutched my Karl-era crimson 2.55 with pride.
i-D EIC Steff Yotka summed up the mood at the resee the next day: “It’s the season of more, baby. Interesting textures, interesting patterns, dressing like yourself. More is more is more is more is more, as epitomized here at Chanel.”
Dior lets its hair down
Across town, Jonathan Anderson was taking liberties with the history of Dior, loosening up some of its most recognizable silhouettes. “It’s like removing the heaviness of heritage from the brand,” he explained at a preview.
The Bar jacket, that great monument to postwar femininity, was reimagined in softer, more fluid forms. Chiffon, transparent fabrics, and delicate flowers brought a new romance to the house, while some pieces were so featherweight that Anderson joked they could practically fit into a shoebox. “There’s something about the compactness of that,” he said. A little less reverence, a lot more romance.
Just remember: Kooky is a state of mind.
At Miu Miu, Mrs. Prada was up to her usual (and brilliant) shenanigans, making clothes that looked simultaneously sensible and completely bonkers. There were jeweled sports bras worn over athletic long-sleeve tops, checked blazers with patterned mini shorts, and pleated skirts held together with crisscross lacing. “I think this is how they’d dress me if I went onto one of those extreme make-over shows,” remarked i-D associate editor Marley Wendt. The casting was equally eclectic, with actors Olivia Colman, Jamie Bell, and Noah Jupe walking alongside the models.
Glenn Martens made even flowers look freaky at Maison Margiela, sending out a dress that split open at the chest to reveal a bust of silver blooms. Duran Lantink got his hands on Jean Paul Gaultier’s iconic cone bra and tailoring, twisting both into strange shapes in a sea of white, creams, and clashing tartans.
The Japanese designers, meanwhile, seemed blissfully uninterested in what everyone else was doing. Junya Watanabe went full-on funky, sending models (including i-D bestie Paloma Elsesser) down the runway in sculptural bras, chains, and crystals, with a glowing, pregnant Ciara dressed as a human chandelier. Noir Kei Ninomiya took us down a twisted Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole, while Rei Kawakubo gave humble denim the royal treatment at Comme des Garçons, turning everyday workwear into enormous, crown-topped sculptures.
Nobody does their own thing quite like Rick Owens. This season, he flirted with girliness, sending out frothy tulle négligées(!) to an entrancing soundtrack by Sissy Misfit. His idea of pretty was still a little terrifying, especially with crystal-trimmed platforms.
Good taste is overrated.
Julian Klausner was having a ball at Dries Van Noten, piling on the pinks and embellishments with gleeful abandon. “I loved Dries Van Noten,” said i-D fashion director Clare Byrne. “The collection was textured, colorful, and layered, all at once, but never felt forced. Such playful displays of styling.”
Alessandro Michele at Valentino operates at an altogether different volume, throwing sequins, feathers, and clashing Alessandro colors into his wonderfully romantic universe. Oh, and my twin sister Clairo was FROW looking DIVINE. Daniel Roseberry brought some of Schiaparelli’s couture eccentricities down to earth, while Chemena Kamali indulged her love of broderie anglaise and enormous sleeves (and ginormous raincoats!) at Chloé. Even the Olsens got a little playful at The Row, introducing off-key crochet, fringe, and beading into their famously restrained wardrobe.
Michael Rider made delicious clothes you actually want to wear at Celine, including a chic, floor-length dress covered in a graphic sundial print fit for a gallerina. Pierpaolo Piccioli loosened up Balenciaga’s silhouettes, pairing corseted shirts with jeans and diaphanous, floor-grazing gowns with sneakers. At Louis Vuitton, Nicolas Ghesquière made the future look surprisingly breezy, sending sheer dresses and lightweight knits down the runway beneath a fleet of flying cars.
Knowing what you want is sexy.
Against the Eiffel Tower, Anthony Vaccarello presented a procession of gold that eventually gave way to black at Saint Laurent, a sequence of looks so assured in their sensuality that it was difficult to imagine anybody else making them. As i-D fashion editor Ch’lita put it, “Vaccarello sent back-to-back-to-back-to-back HITS down the runway.”
With news of his departure confirmed this morning, the show now stands as his final collection for the house—and what a way to go. After a decade at Saint Laurent, Vaccarello had nothing left to prove. He knew what he wanted the house to look like, and he stuck to it. The standing ovation as Charlotte Gainsbourg sang said it all.
Perhaps that is where Paris left me. Not with a definitive answer about whether fashion should be kooky or down-to-earth, but with the realization that it hardly matters. Luxury prices have become absurd, and everyone seems to be asking what, exactly, we’re paying for. Surely the answer isn’t to make the clothes less interesting? People don’t fall in love with clothes because they’re correct—they fall in love with them because they recognize something of themselves, or somebody they’d like to become.
For an industry so obsessed with belonging, fashion’s most interesting characters have always been the ones who never quite fit in. Perhaps being a loser isn’t such a terrible thing after all because at least you get to develop a personality.
And if somebody could please return my glasses, I’d quite like to see the clothes next season!
“The only standing I’m doing is you’re getting stood up.”
“I don’t have a problem with nepotism. I have a problem with ugly nepo babies.”
“She’s not on the pen, she’s on a Paris fashion week schedule.”
“I haven’t seen a single collection, but I’ve been photographed outside 7 shows.”
“Love emerging designers. Just wish their shows would stop emerging during my lunch break.”
This was excellentttt