At Paris couture week, something deeper ran beneath the spectacle—an insistence on care, emotion, and the kind of clarity only slowness can yield. It started with Michael Rider’s debut at Celine, not a couture moment per se, but a sharp-edged introduction defined by tension and reference. Still, it was couture that gave the week its true pulse. In an industry increasingly shaped by algorithms and acceleration, couture offered resistance. It chose poetry over noise. And somehow, that whisper carried further.
At Balenciaga, Demna’s final collection for the house struck an unmistakably elegiac tone. No theatrics, no viral tricks, just clothes that spoke for themselves. The silhouettes were strict, sculptural, almost monastic. Gloves melted into sleeves. Eveningwear moved like thunder. A greatest-hits retrospective of his decade-long tenure, the collection felt both minimalist and monumental. In a moment usually reserved for reinvention, Demna chose farewell. A full stop—elegant, inevitable. But not for long. Fans have until March to see his next act. Gucci!
Then, the opposite—a beginning. Maison Margiela, newly helmed by Glenn Martens (who continues to juggle Diesel), opened a fresh chapter in its Artisanal line following John Galliano’s exit. Known for distortion and tension, Martens brought his own language—warped silhouettes, sculpted denim, decomposed elegance—infused with Margiela’s legacy of anonymity and deconstruction. What gave the show its emotional charge, however, was the soundtrack featuring a custom score by Billy Corgan of The Smashing Pumpkins.
Meanwhile at Armani Privé, serenity prevailed. Fluid silhouettes nodded to the 1920s, with a cool palette anchored by black—Armani’s enduring signature for after-dark sophistication. Embellishment was restrained, almost meditative. But something, or someone, was missing: Mr. Armani himself, absent from the final bow. Daniel Roseberry’s Schiaparelli turned cerebral this season. The surrealist hallmarks remained—anatomical flourishes, exaggerated hips—but were rendered with greater discipline. Less provocation, more precision. There was, however, one dress with a built-in saddle that had everyone craning their necks.
Chanel, by contrast, stayed firmly within its own orbit. The collection delivered on expectations, featuring exceptional craftsmanship, voluminous shapes, stomp-ready boots, and a front row of fashion aristocracy—Sofia Coppola and TikTok queen Romy Mars among them. Yet, the clothes felt like a placeholder, caught between legacy and transition. With Matthieu Blazy taking the reins, anticipation is building for a new kind of energy. Chanel excels at gravitas. Will it rediscover its sense of fun?
Some major players sat the season out. Dior, Valentino, and Jean Paul Gaultier were all notably absent. Dior appears to be giving Jonathan Anderson room to prepare his womenswear debut following a well-received menswear launch. Valentino’s decision to sit out has stirred quiet anticipation. And Gaultier, now in transition mode, is poised for a disruptive pivot under Duran Lantink.
Among emerging voices, Robert Wun delivered one of the week’s most poignant shows that was dramatic, deeply personal, and entirely his own. Oh, and cut to perfection—not a seam in sight. Kevin Germanier closed the week with his signature sparkle, proving that fantasy and sustainability are not mutually exclusive. With cameos by Hello Kitty and Kuromi, there was conscience—and charm.
And that’s what this week reinforced. In an industry addicted to spectacle, couture still refuses to compromise. It doesn’t chase content or reach. It clings instead to fundamentals—craft, time, feeling. Yes, it’s exclusive. Yes, it’s expensive. But it’s also fashion at its most honest. Ready-to-wear may one day recapture that spirit. But for now, couture’s heart remains unmistakable. Still intact. Still beating.