Paris Fashion Week, during the women’s ready-to-wear season, is a fucking beast. But as I overheard a standoffish critic in the FROW say: “All this hell is worth it when the fashions feed you.”
And lord, was I feeling peckish. The schedule was bursting at the seams—so much so that one recap simply wouldn’t do. Here’s Part One of the debuts, the déjà vus, and the front-row politics.
The Debuts
Fashion loves a debut. Nothing gets people talking—whether in Mercedes town cars, in queues outside show venues, or in the chain-smoking circles of after-parties—like a new creative director’s first collection. Sarah Burton, fresh from her post-McQueen breather, took the reins at Givenchy. The result? A respectful nod to Hubert’s heyday—structured tailoring, refined elegance, a safe start. As fab as it is to see a female creative director take the helm of a major luxury brand, will playing it safe—with a little bit of tulle drama—be enough to keep the house relevant? Let’s check in next season.
Julian Klausner’s debut at Dries Van Noten was reverent, intricate, and subtly daring—like a love letter to his predecessor with just enough of his own handwriting. The house’s DNA remained intact: exquisite fabric manipulations, a painterly eye for color, and tailoring that whispers instead of shouts.
Then came Haider Ackermann at Tom Ford. The anticipation was high. It was sharp, slinky, and oozing the kind of sexy minimalism that Ford himself made famous. If there was ever a question of whether Ackermann could make Tom Ford his own, he answered it with a purr. But did it veer into the too tasteful?
But the true shock of the season? Matières Fécales (yes, you read that right.) The underground label, close friends of Rick Owens and Michèle Lamy, gave us a hypnotic, post-apocalyptic fever dream. Christian Louboutin’s devastatingly cunty shoes stole the show, while Rick and Michèle held court on the front row, seated near Chappell Roan, Daphne Guinness, and Juergen Teller.
The Indie Darlings
While the big brands pull in the headlines, it’s the indie labels that often push fashion forward. Abra continued to build its underground cool-girl reputation with an ’80s collection that felt both delicate and dystopian. Vaquera was a more streamlined, almost all monochromatic collection that still managed to be head-jarringly chaotic in all the right ways—clock the giant bra among the lineup.
Zomer pulled another head-spinning move: an entire collection worn back to front. Tailored blazers buttoned behind, skirts flipped, trench coats turned into hospital gowns—unruly, surreal, and oddly clever. It’s something of a trend: Givenchy did the same. Marie Adam-Leenaerdt delivered crisp, clean, intelligent minimalism—garments with a sense of humor (sort of) but without the need for a punchline. Meanwhile, Caroline Hu’s romantic textures and dreamlike silhouettes felt like poetry in fabric form.
The Blockbusters: More Money, More Drama
Now onto the big guns.
The Row did what The Row does best: mystique. No photos (although, if you want, you can find the entire show on the Chinese social media app RedNote via an account ironically named @The.Row), models barefoot, a sensory experience that whispers rather than screams. Only the Olsens sisters could convincingly turn tights into scarves. If a fashion show happens in Paris but no one posts it, did it even exist? If it’s The Row, then yes.
Dior, inspired by Virginia Woolf’s Orlando, gave us Elizabethan buffs, Tudor doublets, and medieval suiting—think gender-fluid Shakespeare cosplay, made luxury. Also present: Galliano-era J’Adore Dior tees and Saddle bags, because nostalgia sells. With rumors swirling that this could be Maria Grazia Chiuri’s swansong, the mood was slightly down—which is a shame because the clothes really worked.
Stella McCartney was a scene unto itself. Kate Moss and Cameron Diaz side-eyed the cameras, Brigitte Macron cozied up to Anna Wintour, Ice Spice and Olivia Colman took notes. On the runway? Business girls being silly, pole dancing, and power suiting in equal measure.
And then there was Schiaparelli, proving yet again that ready-to-wear can rival couture. Gold hardware, surreal silhouettes, and craftsmanship so exquisite, it sent lesser brands into a quiet existential crisis. With a Texan twist, Daniel Roseberry put his heart on his gold-encrusted sleeve.
Chloé and Alaïa both leaned into their strengths this season. At Chloé, Chemena Kamali’s collection felt like a return to bohemian ease—big shoulders, micro-minis, and golden belt buckles. As Steff Yotka put it, “Everything here looks so easy. Everyone is so beautiful. It’s like a chamomile tea.”
Meanwhile, Alaïa, under Pieter Mulier, delivered the eccentric gorgeousness we all wanted— and then some. Fabrics were contorted, twisted, enveloping and revealing bodies in equal measure. The closing look? A hooded stretch mesh cocoon that struck the perfect balance between weird, cool, and glamorous. Not for the everyday, but who shops like that anyway?!
Rabanne, Isabel Marant, and Balmain each riffed on their brand DNA in fresh ways. Rabanne paid homage to its metallic heritage while introducing softer, fluid silhouettes—chainmail meets contemporary ease. And some larger-than-life faux fur moments for the daring. Isabel Marant stayed true to her Parisian-chic roots, balancing bohemian prints with tailored cool-girl pieces. And Balmain? Olivier Rousteing did what he does best: opulent drama, structured silhouettes, and embellishments so intricate, they could probably be seen from space.
Yohji, VB, & 11 Courses of Sushi
At Yohji Yamamoto, I was seated behind Chappell Roan—who, at this point, is basically Paris Fashion Week’s MVP. The show was beautiful, as Yohji always is, with patchworked corsets, 3D dresses shimmering with paillettes, and reversible long coats that models swapped mid-runway, turning black wool inside out to reveal quilted purple linings. Oh, and delicate little pineapple and garlic headpieces—because, of course. As Roan told i-D, “I love that he’s avant-garde—and I just feel so good in it.”
Victoria Beckham served eleganté on a silver platter. The tailoring was sharp, the draping was precise, and the entire collection exuded a luxury that didn’t feel forced. However, a few looks featured a rolled-up hem detail that—depending on the angle—skirted dangerously close to loo-roll chic But when you’re VB, even the specter of a toilet paper hem somehow screams expensive.
Somewhere in between all of this, I also found myself at dinner with the Saint Laurent team at their new restaurant collaboration with Sushi Park. Eleven courses of impeccable sushi, each one better than the last. But more on that later—because a meal that good (even if a little industry-stuffy) deserves its own review.
The Future is Tech-y
If you came for fashion, but make it technology, Anrealage had you covered. Known for its fabric innovations, this season was no exception—clothes (big shoulders, big ruffles) that transform under light, shifting colors and textures like magic.
Meanwhile, Undercover leaned into the eerie, futuristic, and slightly dystopian—think cyberpunk, but with an undercurrent of softness. For his anniversary show, Jun Takahashi revisited one of his favorite past collections—Fall 2004—reinterpreting its signature elements for today. The infamous bear dresses made a surreal comeback, a playful yet haunting nod to his archives, while the rest of the collection reaffirmed why he designs some of the best clothes for real women. The tension between technology and emotion has never looked so glorious.
The Spectacle: Because Paris Loves Drama
Some brands know that in today’s world, it’s not just about the clothes—it’s about the moment. Acne Studios knew exactly what it was doing, positioning The Dare, Doechii, and PinkPantheress front and center—because these days, a front row moment is the runway. The collection itself? Cuddly yet sleek with just enough grit to keep things interesting. Courrèges? A confetti explosion at 10:30 AM—too early, some might argue—alongside streamlined sexy, minimalist separates.
Rick Owens went full kink. No surprises there. Leather, harnesses, and sculptural silhouettes that looked straight out of a sci-fi BDSM fantasy. And then Hodakova—an indie favorite on the rise, and 2024’s LVMH Prize finalist, that took upcycling to new heights with a woman closing the show literally enveloped inside a life-sized cello.
Somewhere in the midst of all the high drama, I found myself being a Ganni girl—and, honestly? I loved it. The collection continued their Copenhagen-cool aesthetic but with a Parisian polish. The FROW was a who’s who of It Girls, and, naturally, I was among them.
Oh, and I went to one party. Yes, ONE—the Louvre after-party for Le Grand Dîner du Louvre, held, well, at the Louvre. I skipped the impossibly chic dinner with John Galliano and Gigi Hadid—invite lost in mail—but I made it in time for Doechii’s set (three very short songs, lol) and an awkward-ish gathering of misfits who didn’t make the dinner cut. Mostly corporate types, but at least I ran into Dilara Findikoglu, Vaquera’s Patric DiCaprio, and A Magazine’s Blake Abbie. The true highlight? Watching Anna Dello Russo exit after 20 minutes in a pink ballgown. Camp.
And with that, Part One of the madness concludes. More to come, because Paris never sleeps—and, apparently, neither do I.
Stay tuned for Part Two.