I love fashion. Deeply. Religiously. Couture especially, which is fashion with the audacity dial turned all the way up. But the celebrity industrial complex orbiting it? That part has been quietly grinding my soul into microplastics. And yet, the moment I see the clothes, everything clicks. Everything makes sense. It’s culture—crystallized in real time.
Before any of that, I had the pleasure of being chauffeured around Paris in a Mercedes by Martial—a saint disguised as a driver and my emotional support system on four wheels. Together we survived rain that felt personal, gridlock that tested our moral fiber, and Parisians crossing the road with the unshakeable confidence of people who do not fear death.
Now, the clothes.
This season was historic. We witnessed first couture outings for two of the most closely watched names in fashion: Jonathan Anderson at Dior and Matthieu Blazy at Chanel. Stakes were high, expectations feral, comment sections pre-loaded.
At Dior, I arrived early. This was strategic. Celebrities, as a rule, are never early. They arrive precisely when they mean to, which is always later than everyone else. Rihanna materializing seconds before the show begins sums it up perfectly. Remember when a fan told her she was late and she replied, “No shit”? Inside the mirrored box at the Musée Rodin, the walls and floor reflected endlessly, while above us the ceiling bloomed with fresh florals. It felt like standing inside a jewel box left open to the garden. The invitation had offered a clue all along: A single floral element, modest and cryptic, waiting to make sense later.
Anderson’s couture debut unfolded like a cabinet of curiosities. There were unmistakable nods to Dior’s New Look, refracted through a stranger, more playful lens. A gift of cyclamen from John Galliano became not just a sentimental footnote but a conceptual hinge, a baton passed forward. Introduced in the show invitation, the cyclamen later re-emerged as sculptural ear muffs and floral details across garments and bags, translating that gesture into something worn and carried. References flickered, too, to Raf Simons’ couture debut, marked by florals, but nothing felt nostalgic or reverential. This was motion, not memory.
The opening looks set the tone. Structural tulle dresses were carved into hourglass shapes, in colors that felt edible. Chiffon frocks fluttered with intent. Silk gowns were draped slightly off-kilter. Wool overcoats arrived in clever, unexpected proportions, grounded but mischievous. Knitwear, an Anderson signature, slipped into couture territory with an otherworldly tenderness. Even the models’ pink and lavender hair added a subversive youthfulness.
In short, Anderson ate down.
At Chanel, Blazy had something to prove, and he knew it. The prevailing skepticism was that his hand might be too heavy, his instincts too sculptural, his sensibility too grounded for the lightness Chanel demands. He answered that critique not with force, but with restraint. The Grand Palais was transformed into a gentle reverie, with plush pink carpets and towering mushrooms scattered throughout the space like something out of a dream you don’t want to psychoanalyze too deeply. The mushroom pendant invitation made perfect sense once inside. The room was packed with familiar faces, including Dua Lipa, A$AP Rocky, and Nicole Kidman, but the atmosphere felt unusually calm, expectant.
Beyond the famous faces, the collection itself was where Blazy’s point truly landed. Transparency and muslin led the way. The Chanel suit appeared as a second skin, revealing construction, care, and vulnerability all at once. It felt intimate rather than exposed. Then came the birds. Embroidered, sculpted, sometimes only implied. A recurring motif of movement and escape. There was flounce, yes, but it was intelligent flounce—engineered rather than ornamental. The clothes, and the chiffon bags stitched with personalized notes, floated. Nothing felt rigid; even structure seemed to breathe. We all gasped.
Couture doesn’t have to fossilise itself to be legitimate. It can evolve and experiment. It can flirt with joy. Both houses leaned into a sweetness, saccharine shades and soft-focus gorgeousness—sweet like candy without rotting the teeth. In a week built on spectacle, that kind of pleasure felt radical.
And then there was Armani Privé, where couture reminded us who it has always been for. For the debut collection overseen by Silvana Armani (the late, great Mr. Armani’s niece), jade-hued silk confections unfolded with the kind of elegance clients reliably adore. On the way up with my friend Poppy, one of the house’s top clients, we were ushered into a tiny VIP elevator and came face-to-face with Anna Wintour, whom I used to work for. A polite hello. Silence. Then the elevator stalled. Briefly, maybe a minute, but long enough to feel eternal. No one spoke. Everyone breathed. I was sweating. It was deliciously awkward.
While Alessandro Michele’s designs have been beloved since his seismic, culture-shifting time at Gucci, his tenure at Valentino has been quieter on the impact scale. This collection blew my expectations away. I arrived late due to traffic, missed the A-lister arrivals (YOLO). The scrum for talent inside was real. But the moment we sat down and the clothes came out, I immediately unclenched.
Valentino Garavani passed away just days before the show. The show space revolved around kaiserpanoramas—cylindrical pre-cinema viewing devices once used to transport audiences to distant places. A portal, essentially. That idea carried through the collection, which channeled 1920s Hollywood dreamscape: Cinematic gowns, languid draping, silhouettes that understood the power of pause, dramatic headpieces. In the car afterward, Vanity Fair’s José Criales-Unzueta nailed it, saying, “The concept was fabulous and felt like a genuinely new experience. The clothes were fantastic, and I’m glad they didn’t rush a tribute. Putting on a show this great under Valentino’s name was the best ode they could’ve given him.”
Daniel Roseberry’s Schiaparelli show has long been a highlight of couture week, particularly for clients. (Teyana Taylor was there, mogging everyone with her face alone.) Roseberry delivered on sensation, with razor-sharp tailoring mutated into venomous silhouettes: sculpted jackets bristling with feathers, spines, and surreal creature motifs. Neon tulle glowed beneath lace, accessories sprouted bird heads and talons, and everything felt engineered to provoke awe rather than comprehension. It nodded to classic Alexander McQueen, without tipping into pastiche. The finale sealed it: Jamie xx’s remix of Dopamine, perfectly calibrated our comedown.
As Poppy later put it, “Schiaparelli feels like the most artistic house right now. You can really see Daniel Roseberry’s passion for love and art in every piece. The level of detail shows just how extraordinary haute couture can be.” She pointed to Roseberry’s inspiration in Rome, from church paintings to Michelangelo, which helped explain the animal elements woven throughout the collection. “The horned dress was so bold and artistic,” she added, “and the pale pink gown, with that mermaid-like glow made from real feathers, was completely fascinating.”
While the mega maisons had their moment, younger couture brands did their bit too. Robert Wun doubled down on his silhouettes at the Théâtre du Lido, souped up for his fans, including RHOBH alum Lisa Rinna on the front row. Miss Sohee delivered her signature sweet, ultra-feminine take on haute couture, with looks fit for a well-travelled princess. Both played confidently to what they do best. Whether that comfort zone becomes a limitation, or a foundation for real evolution, is the more interesting question.
Ida Immendorff, a recent CSM grad and costume designer with big dreams and eyebrows that have lore, nailed her debut collection at the Village Reille chapel, staging a static presentation of models poised on plinths like living sculptures. Rendered entirely in white, the looks reimagined costume through sacred history and science fiction, with hand-sculpted forms suspended between faith and fantasy, stone and skin.
Then there was Charlie Le Mindu. Known as an avant-garde hair artist, Le Mindu offered a macabre glimpse into his world, where hair reigned supreme and proportions were as unnerving as they were arresting. Kevin Germanier closed the week, with Lisa Rinna opening the show. It was an elevated take on his signatures. Less rainbow, less Sanrio, more chic, more haute. Happy for him—he’s such a nice dude.
I’m a shell of a being, but I’m full from couture perfection. Over and out. Until the next one… which is sooner than you think. See you soon, besties.
I spent the week eating extremely well. Here are a few places I swear by if you find yourself in Paris during fashion week (sorry to vegetarians everywhere):
Abri Soba
My first love. I’ve been coming here practically every other day since I started attending shows in Paris. Do not sleep on the cold sesame gomadare soba. Yes, even in winter.
Kunitoraya
Put onto this Japanese spot by my friend Ben Lee, and I proceeded to go three days in a row. The freshest udon I’ve had outside of Japan. Addictive.
Tarántula
Mexican in Paris? Absolutely. Order the crispy pork belly taco and don’t overthink it.
Nouilles Ban Ban
Dan dan noodle fans, this is Meghan Thee Girl. No notes.
Le Cheval d’Or
One of the most creative and delicious tasting menus I’ve had in a long time. Ignore any hesitation you may have about “Asian fusion.” Just trust.
Nodaiwa
i-Daddy Thom took me here last season, and this was my third time back since. For the real unagi heads. If that’s not you, there’s not much else for you here, sucker.
Prunier
If a brand is taking you out to dinner, gently insist on caviar here. It’s only fair.
Le Petit Lutetia
Proper French food in a gorgeous, intimate setting. I had dinner next to Catherine Deneuve like it was completely normal.
Brigade du Tigre
Another Asian fusion moment worth your time. Order everything. I did.
Qianxi Hot Pot
Recommended to me by fashion’s Chinese mafia (IYKYK). Expect to leave extremely full from heroic amounts of spicy meat. Maybe go easy on the fresh garlic in the dipping sauce. I didn’t, and took that decision with me to shows the next day
All the transparent materials at Chanel make me feel like my mesh going out tops are basically couture
There is no fashion week without food popping up between show marathons. I think it's super cool joining and covering emerging designers and couture. But the big golden nugget is absolutely the personal fashion storytelling.