I’ve been an Abra fan for years, but somehow, I had never made it to their show before—a personal failure I can no longer ignore. Founded by Abraham Ortūno Perez, Abra has a knack for creating pieces that straddle the line between playful and subversive. With a design ethos rooted in his Spanish heritage, Ortūno Perez infuses his work with brazen craftsmanship, vibrant textures, and an irreverent approach to luxury. Their heels shaped like designer shoppers? Genius. Their spiky ballet flats—made for boys, like me, who enjoy a little danger with their dainty? Perfection. But its ready-to-wear? A mystery I was ready to unravel.
Arriving at the show venue at 6:30 p.m.—a quick 15-minute stroll from my hotel près du Louvre—it was absolute mayhem. PR flitted about, looking equal parts chic and stressed, before emerging to deliver the news we all feared: “This won’t start any earlier than 7 p.m.” Gasps in English, French, and Spanish filled the air. Tension rose. The only rational response? Coffee.
I slipped into a nearby café, where my colleague and friend Steff materialised like a well-dressed apparition. A blessing. Our friend Rachel Tashjian of The Washing Post joined us. Well after 7 p.m., we made it to Abra, where—surprise!—the chaos had simply migrated indoors, but I had a feeling it was going to be worth it.
Cue the overblown faux-fur rose motifs, sculpted into mini dresses—one in romantic shades of red and pink, the other in dramatic all-black. A strong start. Then came an explosion of textures and colours. Ruffled zip-up shirts with elaborate trimmings. Pleated skirts covered in floral illustrations. A mini-skirt featuring a hand-drawn bikini-clad woman, with an extended train for maximum drama—instant obsession. And the faux fur! Halter tops, swinging dresses, and pencil skirts in sumptuously fluffy textures. It was the kind of decadence that makes you reconsider your entire closet.
“Oh!” gasped my seat mate as I adjusted my iPhone. “Can you move your camera a little further back? You’re ruining my shot.” A valid request (albeit she was a little rude). But how does one contain excitement when thigh-high footwear with pom-pom details are involved?
Then came the ’80s power dressing—trench coats and blazers with shoulder padding that could double as armor, styled with white stirrup leggings (audacious) and knee-high boots that screamed Let’s Get Physical. There was a flurry of newspaper print: a voluminous, avant garde skirt suit, a peplum midi dress (yes, peplums can be sexy—stay with me). And a series of tracksuits with cinched necklines that gave weird more than athleisure (in a good way).
The finale? An all-out ’80s fever dream. Hair and makeup took a hard left into Souxsie Sioux territory—choppy black wigs, white blush, the works. Bubble dresses in loud florals. Leather jackets straight out of Heathers—sharp, slightly sinister, endlessly cool. And finally, lamé. Silver, turquoise, fuchsia—cut into party dresses that were part prom, part Alber Elbaz-era Lanvin. I was living.
Post-show debrief: “They were just reheating their own nachos,” quipped an editor from an indie magazine. “Nice, but not mind-blowing,” shrugged a fashion director from an equally niche publication. But as I walked away, replaying the show in my head, I felt differently. It was fun. It was frenzied. It was a little bit magic.
Sure, the show ran late. Sure, the critics had their jabs. And sure, the bedlam was real. But Abra didn’t just pull a rabbit out of a hat—it conjured a spectacle. The kind of delicious fashion sorcery that lingers, that leaves you wanting more.
Abra? Consider me spellbound.