Did Fashion’s Season of Change Actually Change Anything? Yes and No

PARIS — Fashion’s big season of change came to a close on Tuesday night in Paris. It will likely be remembered as one of the most heavily debated, and divisive, moments in the history of the modern fashion industry. But amid the drama of designers swapping houses with each other, change itself was somewhat elusive.

Fashion brands across the land have long been shaped by the work of Phoebe Philo. Now, a kind of Miu Miu-fication is underway. But the fashion scene remains largely stale, in part due to the recirculation of the same creative directors. And, let’s face it, each designer has a signature language that can — or cannot — be adapted to fit a new label, so it’s easy to see remnants of what they did before.

Did Matthieu Blazy indulge in any of the material and formal experimentations that defined his Bottega Veneta, not to mention the notion of a collection spinning in as many different directions as the number of looks, when he made his grand debut at Chanel? He did, using the love story between Gabrielle Chanel and Boy Capel as a narrative thread as he deconstructed the house codes (and gloriously said goodbye to the tyranny of the interlocking Cs).

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Were there any of Jonathan Anderson’s playful abstractions from Loewe at Dior, where he unveiled his vision of womenswear this season? They were there, freshly and successfully Dior-ified, woven with intelligent forays into the archive to pillage brand signifiers and make them modern.

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Did Pierpaolo Piccioli bring his taste for purity vibrating through colour to Balenciaga? He did, in a collection that could bear the “Valenciaga” label and that picked up exactly where he left off a year and a half ago, while attempting to remake Balenciaga with a long-missing sense of elegance — in flip flops rather than pumps, however.

Did Duran Lantink luxuriate in his penchant for bulbous hypersexuality and provocative mock-nudity at Jean Paul Gaultier, so much so that, save for the odd sailor stripe and tattoo print, it looked like a legitimate continuation of his own label under a new name, in his debut for the house? He did, and all the better for that. It made for one daring, unrelenting, highly debated moment in an otherwise fearful season. (The Adam Curtis film Anderson screened before his Dior show was very timely on the topic of fear.)

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Fear is perhaps the feeling one felt most after this round of shows: fear, and a general unwillingness to take risks. Nowadays, collections rarely, if ever, opt for the conciseness of a single, unremitting fashion statement, one that calls for a gut response: Rather, they lukewarmly or devilishly delve into as many possibilities as a designer can dish. Is that the result of merchandising taking control of collections and the imperative to hit as many customer constituencies as possible? Most likely.

There were at least three or four different collections going on at Balenciaga. One — black, taut, hard — looked promising and worth exploring more. The others were a little deja-vu. The fragmentation of Anderson’s message was evident at Dior, where he explored a number of facets, going from hypernormality to panier shapes, with volumes, elongation and sculptural tailoring in between. There was certainly a lot going on, not all of it perfectly resolved, but what felt new was the tone: new, and much needed, at the house of Dior, which can be so pompous and self-absorbed. That, and a keen study on accessories and diversification, with a commercial savviness that felt jolly, not soulless. On top of this, the idea of brand identity as prismatic is integral to Anderson’s practice — and reflective of his multiple interests.

Matthieu Blazy fell nearby, and his Chanel debut made it clear. His signature as a designer does not lie in the way he tells a story through clothing, but in the way he lets materiality define shape, sometimes forced, sometimes translated into ineffable harmony, pushing the experimental urge as far as possible. His collections, as a result, look like clusters of particles not necessarily, or not evidently, linked one to the other, creating a sort of dizziness in onlookers as the eye rejoices. This first outing for Chanel wiped the slate clean, bringing a much-needed freshness to the brand but also quite a lot of neo-baroque complication. As much as it was new, it also looked familiar, in the Karl kind of way, and not just because of the Grand Palais: The out-of-control number of outfits fell there, as well as the not-always-flattering experiments around the contrast cap-toe on the shoes. For sure, it was a success: what the fashion crowd craved. Then again, famine can make the eyes hungry.

Miguel Castro Freitas’ Mugler debut was interesting in its rather strict, architectural take on archival tropes, but it came burdened with way too much 1990s referencing, from Margiela to Gaultier, which, given the unquestionable talent of this designer, should go.

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Speaking of Margiela, designer Glenn Martens took a different road with his ready-to-wear debut from the délabré grand guignol of his Artisanal collection, realigning the label with its original spirit — the same that, so far, has been kept alive by sister line MM6, with which conflicts may now arise. Working on a vertical silhouette with ingenious tailoring and just a touch of provocation (the stitched mouthpieces), Martens revealed a keen sensibility and a closeness in spirit to Martin that might make the label relevant again for real life beyond the wonderful catwalk cinematics.

Mark Thomas’ debut at Carven was somewhat humble, but light in spirit, pretty much in the Phoebe vein with remarkable effortlessness. Best of all were Lazaro Hernandez and Jack McCollough, whose take on Loewe was somewhat of a surprise. Instead of mimicking their predecessor’s unique antics — in this sense, the art at the entrance of the venue did not feel necessary — they opted for a brand of American, sports-inflected straightforwardness charged with a super-bright Mediterranean colour palette and some incredible craft in leathermaking. Was it more pre-collection than runway because of straight-out-the show wearability? For sure, and all the better for that.

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And if debuts were front and centre this season, so were sophomore outings, which is where a new vision really begins to take shape, coming across as convincing or crumbling. To be sure, there were highs and lows. Julian Klausner has a personal and commendable view of how Dries Van Noten might move forward. His take is somehow blunt, with sharper edges. And yet, compared to the effortless flow of men’s, this outing felt a bit unresolved, if still poetic and energetic, in particular in his use of prints, which lacked a certain finesse.

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After hinting in too many directions with her debut, Sarah Burton found her stride at Givenchy, delving into tailoring with a womanly sense of seduction, a willingness to show skin and the openness to different ages and body types making for a commanding statement. Over at Lanvin, Peter Coppings entered a fantasy of the 1920s that was as masterful as it was elegant, but also slightly detached from the moment, hence a tad costumey. Things went better in menswear, where probably the lack of archive references ensured a formal freedom that could do well at women’s too.

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At Celine, Michael Rider opted for a continuation of his July debut. His take on the brand is tellingly Phoebe — without the abstractions — with a hint of Hedi — without the chilly edge. But what makes it special is its American sense of effortlessness which feels pervasive and personal. That, and the use of the foulard. With his second outing at Tom Ford, Haider Ackermann delivered a terrific blow with the sharpest tailoring, the most liquid flou and a sensational palette. It was an ode to seduction that brought Ford’s antics to sultry but darker heights, and the sign of a true auteur.

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Truth be told, the show was charged with a heavy dose of nostalgia, streaks of which ran all over Paris, referencing a particularly grand fashion moment for the city: the 1980s. The risk of all of it looking like costume was high, just like the sheer beauty of it is high. It was evident at Saint Laurent, in a magnificent vision of a madame in chandelier earrings cruising through a hydrangea garden rather than the Tuileries, dressed either in black leather or flimsy nylon in Matisse colours. Designer Anthony Vaccarello has a singular ability to turn one idea into a whole show, finding power in lessness: quite a countercurrent in these everything-at-once times. Merchandisers will later translate all of this into a viable commercial proposition, but as a show it was a blast.

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Restraint is proving good for Olivier Rousteing, who keeps cleaning up his act at Balmain while delving into luxuriant remembrances of the ’80s. This season’s crocheted and draped extravaganza brought to mind Gianni Versace’s Callaghan in the best possible way, and felt desirable. After using several seasons to reset the foundations, at Chloé Chemena Kamali went out of her boho comfort zone. By working 1950s florals and couture shapes in humble cottons and draped forms, she delivered an assured outing.

Things were not as good at Louis Vuitton, where Nicolas Ghesquière left the sci-fi, boxy rigidities of the past behind to embrace a negligé or stay-at-home kind of fluidity, a behind closed doors sense of undone coziness. On paper, it sounded good, but on the catwalk it looked like another costumey extravaganza, in lighter fabrications. A nostalgic streak is forever embedded in the work of Alessandro Michele: He seeks beauty in images of the past, which are recontextualised into the present moment. Since his arrival at Valentino, Michele has resorted to the kind of hyper-styled pastiche that was his signature mode at Gucci, not always convincingly. This season something changed: The image was clean, pieces were glorified in their beauty of products and the message of beauty as resistance came through, no strings attached. At Ann Demeulemeester, Stefano Gallici’s nostalgia, meanwhile, is of a wholly different kind: Think 1970s romanticism tainted with streaks of rebellion. It’s certainly a personal interpretation, which does not resonate with the label’s long-time devotees, but it’s attracting a new and younger audience, and that’s an accomplishment.

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Sex, meanwhile, keeps on selling, and it was interesting to see how much a vision of sexiness changes if it is a woman or a man expressing it. Of late, Nadège Vanhee has been unafraid to explore a more carnal edge to Hermès, and convincingly so. This season was the peak of this path, with the equestrian heritage bringing on sultry Camargue lands and an interplay of skin and leather happening with the foulard as connector: a cunning way to play with codes, unexpectedly.

At Alaïa, Pieter Mulier keeps celebrating the beauty of the female body in a sculptural way through deeply emotional shows. The problem with his vision is that it is a blast to the eyes, a tour de force of invention and ingenious construction, but problems do arise when one looks for the translation into a real dressing proposition. It is entirely fine, of course, to work on something unattainable and distant, but the house of Alaïa was founded on Azzedine’s own ability to glorify any woman’s body through clothing and cut, dressing them for real. Mulier’s arm-concealing capes, fringed stockings and tops that lock the shoulders were wonderful, but impossible to envision in real life, and that’s a limit. The reductionist vision, however, resounded in the moment.

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If the season was largely devoid of fearless, confrontational fashion moments, Duran Lantink’s Jean Paul Gaultier was an exception, though the shock tactics were perhaps overdone. At Sacai, Chitose Abe upped her hybridisation ante, daring to go experimental in silhouette making whilst keeping the notion of beauty intact. At McQueen, the resurgence of “bumsters” and parachute dresses looked forced: another attempt to regain the label’s long-gone cool factor. Butch and femme clashed in captivating ways at Acne Studios, while Matieres Fecales got the kids pixilated with their celebration of weirdness in couture shapes which, upon closer inspection, looked like a clash of early Galliano and McQueen on a Rick Owens cast, and not always perfectly resolved.

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Speaking of Rick, the mix of ethereal and robotic was fascinating, but got completely swallowed by show theatrics that seemed unnecessary. At Comme des Garçons, it was lumps and bumps all over again, but in humble cottons and potato sack linens, and it felt joyous and naive instead of funereal. Over at Issey Miyake, trousers sprouted sleeves and T-shirts rose to the shoulders like they had agency, but it looked like Viktor & Rolf rather than Issey. Satoshi Kondo is on a mission to expand the brand’s vocabulary, which is great. What should stay, however, is the humanism that is a founding value of the house: the notion that even the strangest idea should have a meaning and a purpose, not look like an ego trip on the part of the designer.

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The idea of repurposing a working class item such as the apron within high fashion felt provocative, maybe a little gratuitous, and that’s what divided the audience at Miu Miu. In all honesty, it was a fantastic, slightly risqué look, which triggered reflection not so much about class struggle as a kind of more domestic, familiar femininity.

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Then, there was Yohji Yamamoto: a timeless master who always dares to be himself, never changing. His sublime take on fluidity in black, white and a hint of red felt anachronistic in its celebration of pure dressmaking — as well as a calming balm in a season of change where, in the grand scheme of things, not that much actually changed.

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