At this point in Fashion Month, my grip on reality has dissolved. Days aren’t measured in hours but in increasingly surreal locations—one moment, I’m in a gilded salon; the next, I’m in a dimly lit public restroom set, contemplating existence as models in floor-sweeping silk dresses swish past cubicles.
We watched a pigeon open the Chanel show—a star! We’ve seen prosthetic breasts bounce down a runway. We’ve endured more avant-garde manifestos than an entire art school cohort. We’ve even perched on a dirt-covered floor at Hermès, where refined outdoor luxury imagined a woman trekking through the wilderness—wool-paneled Birkin in tow. And after all of that, one truth remains: the way we judge a fashion show has to change.
For the past few years, fashion’s biggest export has been CONTENT (capitalized to exclaim its importance). Since 2020, we’ve lived through a Hunger Games of virality, where the best collections aren’t necessarily the best collections—they’re just the most clickable. A dress sprayed onto Bella Hadid in real-time. A runway flooded with ankle-deep sludge. The ultra-realistic lion head gown that had the world debating artistry vs. taxidermy. We get it. Fashion isn’t just competing with itself; it’s competing with the entire internet.
But this season, something shifted. The most riveting shows weren’t the ones with the loudest gimmicks—though some still played that game—they were the ones with the best clothes.
Take Duran Lantink: Yes, the prosthetics and bare derrières were divisive, but underneath the provocation was something sharper—an interrogation of body politics and the sculptural potential of clothing. And if all that theory was too much, there were also killer animal prints. Kiko Kostadinov, under Laura and Deanna Fanning, found the sweet spot between cerebral and desirable, proving fashion can be forward-thinking and wearable. Comme des Garçons, ever the contrarian, explored “smallness” in every possible way—philosophically stripping silhouettes to their essence until what remained was something pure, powerful, and somewhat grotesque.
Meanwhile, Miu Miu perfected a warped take on ’50s glamour, turning irreverent bullet-bra sweaters and fragile little slips into the ultimate act of rebellion. Róisín Pierce treated delicate lacework as raw material rather than relic, transforming traditional craftsmanship into something spectral and modern. Saint Laurent, all high-shouldered precision, proved that when the clothes are good enough, spectacle becomes unnecessary (though a supermodel cameo never hurts).
Then there was Louis Vuitton, which granted entry only to a select few EICs at its L’Étoile du Nord show, leaving the rest of us squinting at our phone screens. What was visible? Grand silhouettes, impeccable yet offbeat tailoring—the usual power moves. Loewe, staging its collection inside Karl Lagerfeld’s former home, leaned into surreal opulence (an ode to Jonathan Anderson’s legacy, perhaps)—though notably, the show featured mannequins, not models, while K-pop stars and their entourages floated through the space. Anderson (conspicuously absent) did little to quell the persistent rumors that he’s heading to Dior.
And then there was McQueen, presenting its third runway show under Seán McGirr—a moment primed for scrutiny, from seasoned critics to TikTok’s self-appointed fashion arbiters. The result? A surprisingly poetic take on dandyism—not a seismic rebrand, but a slow, deliberate pivot.
These collections reminded us that runway shows aren’t just spectacle—they’re a platform for ideas, craftsmanship, and actual clothes. Which made others—the ones still clinging to provocation—feel a little… forced.
Valentino staged its show in a bathroom. Was it meant to democratize luxury? Comment on fashion’s disposability? Who’s to say. What was clear: Alessandro Michele’s beautifully made, hyper-embellished romantic garments had nothing to do with the venue. The concept felt half-baked. The room was fully boiling. But a club remix of Lana Del Rey’s “Gods & Monsters” kept us energized.
Balenciaga’s show was a disorienting labyrinth—an allegory for capitalism’s inescapable churn? A really expensive way to make people feel lost and vaguely panicked? Either way, the real takeaway wasn’t the set but the collection itself: cleverly disheveled yet distinctly corporate. Days later, Demna was announced as Gucci’s next creative director. Maybe that was the gag all along.
Coperni’s LAN-party runway was fun—the kind of fun designed to go viral. But did the clothes match the moment? Or was it just another reminder that spectacle often overshadows substance? The Tamagotchi Swipe bag, at least, was a clever touch.
Here’s the thing: fashion has spent the past few years chasing “the moment.” But the real revolution isn’t another performance—it’s making the clothes fantastic. And this season, the designers who focused on fabric and silhouette—who let the work speak—felt the most vital.
Marine Serre, relentless in her commitment to upcycling, leaned into her love for found materials, transforming the discarded into something deeply considered—though some looks felt a little too familiar. Meryll Rogge, on the other hand, embraced bold, color-drenched vintage references, bringing a sense of joy to a week that often bordered on self-serious.
So no, this wasn’t a season of headline-grabbing, meme-ready theatrics. It wasn’t a blockbuster. But it was a shift—one that suggests we might finally be entering an era where craft outweighs gimmickry, where a perfectly designed jacket holds more power than a PR stunt.
And with that, all the pieces are in place. The hype machine is slowing down. The real work is just beginning. See you next season.