Flitting in and out of conversations with stylists and journalists here in Paris, it’s nearly impossible to avoid a certain hive mind. It takes shape in breathless texts that declare a collection still making its way down the runway a “stone-cold classic” and in whispers on the way out.
Everyone in fashion craves something new, but what this world really loves is consensus.
What does it say now? That Matthieu Blazy still reigns at Chanel (we’ll hear from him tomorrow); that Dario Vitale still has everyone’s attention after his one-season wonder at Versace (his take on Emporio Armani is expected to land next year); and that, more than anyone else, the Celine designer Michael Rider is the guy. The chosen one, who’s really reorienting fashion.
That thinking was amplified again yesterday after Rider’s latest for Celine. I was guilty, too. “Michael Rider has it,” I texted my editors before I was even out of the National Archives. In her review, Vanessa Friedman called it the “best show of the Paris season thus far (even, possibly, the whole fashion season).”
Fashion is caught between two poles at the moment. At one end, risk-shy labels stuff shows with milquetoast, box-checking merch. At the other, brands endeavor so hard to offer something new, something shocking, that they seem to forget that people should actually want to wear these clothes.
Rider is somewhere in the middle. It’s the place to be. His clothes are odd but have many entry points. He’s a surrealist who craves acceptance. He shows us how to contort without looking overbaked.
It was refreshing after Loewe, where every garment felt fussed with to feel special. That runway was a circus troupe of stripes, metallic collars and shirts that just had to have both zippers and buttons.
More than one person has pointed out to me that Rider has not yet defined a silhouette, perhaps making it more difficult for people to latch onto Celine’s identity under him.
But looking at the show again hours later, I was amazed at how stark those Rider-isms were: the push-pull of his proportions; the dash of “Annie Hall” accessories; the looks that appeared monotone but that were actually composed of pieces each a smidge nonpareil in hue and texture.
What Rider’s doing is not really that novel. He’s bridging the tastes of his predecessors, combining the approachable intellectualism of Phoebe Philo with Hedi Slimane’s bourgeoisie dame with a rocker past.
A cold eye could break off each piece of a Rider outfit and say: It’s, what, a blue jacket? Paired with khakis of the sort that were everywhere in East Coast America, where Rider grew up? The familiarity is the draw, but the bright blink of those natural colors and the gathered waist of the trousers are what keep you looking.
The standout look of the show could also be described prosaically as a tan shirt and brown trousers. Yet it also contained clashing greens, a tidal wave of creases in the pants, a gigundo silhouette restrained by a reedy belt. Pick it apart and you might want those turquoise boots. Look at it holistically, and it’s got a lot more worth stealing.
Other things worth knowing about:
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The styling of that Loewe show reminded me of “Messengers Style,” Philippe Bialobos’s photo book from 2000. If you ever find a copy for less than $100, buy it.
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What is it about “Goodbye Horses”? I’ve heard that Q Lazzarus song at more fashion shows than I can count. Lanvin is the latest culprit.
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What are people really coveting here in Paris? Vintage Hermès jackets. Virtually every store I’ve gone into has a bounty of them, but they don’t come cheap. The one I tried on yesterday was nearly $450: buttons up the front, leather pull tabs, a smart just-past-the-belt cut. Writing about it now, I wonder if maybe it was worth the price. …
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The face-printed pumps and skirts of Vitale’s sole Versace collection have been all over front rows. That bodes well for his arrival at Emporio Armani.
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Back at the New York Times office, the belt mania on the runway and outside shows spurred a discussion about great belts available now. This one from Emme Parsons is long enough to wrap around a coat, a la Courrèges. Rachel Comey’s slim but statement-y Cole belt is the sort that could sling low. This bonded satin bag at Attersee does double duty. And why not try a belt with studs the shape of almonds?
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In the last newsletter send, my editor hastily pulled a quote from Vanessa Friedman’s Tom Ford review from his runway show in March, instead of the one from last week. Here’s her full take on the latest collection, and while you’re at it: Watch her video, too.
What we’re reading and watching:
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This is the perhaps the strangest outfit I’ve ever seen in a political ad.
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A window into the domestic life of the artist couple Lee Krasner and Jackson Pollock (who have an exhibition opening today at the Met): “They grew tomatoes, radishes, lettuce, eggplant and okra. Krasner cooked for friends, Pollock baked. Summers after supper, they sat silent on the back porch, looking out over the day lilies to Accabonac Creek.”
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Virginie Viard opens up about her terse ousting from Chanel two years ago. She said it took place over lunch with the executive Alain Wertheimer, whom she recalls telling her: “We’re going to end it here.”
“I feel like she stole stuff from my closet and made it better.”
— A friend talking about the work of Karen Brown, the senior creative director of women’s Polo Ralph Lauren, after that brand’s presentation on Friday.
Style Outside
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