The Parisian fashion week that closed on Sunday alternated surprises – few – with yawns – quite a few. Lastly, merchandising has outclassed design, so that fashion shows, instead of stories in the form of clothes, seem to be samples pitted on the catwalk without thinking too much. It is certainly so from Kenzowhere the second rehearsal of the new creative director, good luck, little deviates from the debut and completely lacks energy and cohesion. Apart from the now trite coexistence of east and west, of Japan and Paris, a defining trait since its foundation, it is difficult to find a line of thought. From drunken regimentals to marine details, passing through post-punk shoes, there is no shortage of desirable pieces, but they are things, stuff without aura, assembled with little verve. The problem is the same one that has been encountered elsewhere recently: a brand project is missing, because the appointment of a creative director with a cool resonance is not enough in today’s landscape, especially for a brand that in the past has had such a defined identity. and playful.
And Namacheko, Dilan Lurr opts for the clean slate, and completely resets the identity of the young project, moving from territories of aphasic dryness to a richness of layers that pays homage, in an abstract and rarefied way, to its Kurdish and Iraqi origins. The change of course is a happy turn and a moment of welcome surprise.
It is also surprising Doubletmore for the humorous vein of the tranche de vie presentation than for the design of the clothes, while Kiko Kostadinov confirms an abstract and at times cold but fascinating design approach. He starts from uniforms, intended as combat clothes, and from their only partial loss of meaning in the civil context, and from there he slices, cuts and remixes, creating a composite and intriguing iconography.
After the long absence due to Covid, Thom Browne returns to the Ville Lumière, energized as never before (photo above). The show is a parody of couture fashion shows – numbers in hand, breathless customers, respectable tweed and pastel bon ton – conducted in the Thom Browne manner, that is, with dry humor and a taste for the absurd. As seen elsewhere this week, the center of attention is the male body, bared and revealed with the contempt of Jurassic modesty. The legs are revealed, but also the lower back, which peeks out from the low-waisted pants, framed by the jockstrap. It is precisely this accessory, a trait d’union between the world of sport and fetishistic underwear, that withstands the entire test and gives it a masculine character despite the entire wardrobe touching feminine territories. The game of contrasts convinces and above all entertains, and gets the message across with a smile and a laugh. True eroticism is missing, but a certain coldness is part of the idiom here.
The idiom of Hedi Slimane it’s dry, angular, repetitive and androgynous, and whatever brand it touches is the same. You love it or hate it, but it sure is cohesive and coherent. In the incarnation of the season, from Celine, accelerates on androgyny and glitters. The platoon of replicants, at this turn, is skeletal as expected, with fringe and helmet, with skirts, hot pants and cleats, and then again with dancing fringes, sequins, crystals and all the paraphernalia by clubbing new wave. For generations following Slimane, this early 1980s fantasy isn’t even nostalgic, so much so that it’s remote. It knows again, it is fluid, it has rhythm, it suggests great fun and gleefully dodges all the somewhat hypocritical rhetoric that for now is going crazy. Is making fashion like this anachronistic or progressive? The question remains open.