MILAN AND PARIS DIARY: WOMENSWEAR FW26

AKA a tale of two gays, two cities, and two chaotic fashion weeks.

MARTIN IN MILAN

Ciao! What does every proper fashion gay do when arriving in Milan for the first time? Well, the moment I put my luggage down in my hotel room, there was only one answer: Villa Necchi. Ever since I was a teenager, I have been in love with Luca Guadagnino’s I Am Love, a film starring Tilda Swinton strutting around the city in some very fabulous costumes by Raf Simons (and cheating on her rich husband). And guess where her character’s family lived! Villa Necchi, certo. The visit completely matched my expectations – the historical house is a residential masterpiece and an oasis of sophistication. Also, a great selfie background. Sorry, I’m only human!

One of the twenty selfies I took at Villa Necchi.

The next morning, I woke up at about 4:45 am – excitement about fashion will do that to you! My first event of the day was the BOSS show, about six hours later. So after two baths (my room had a free-standing bathtub, the dream) and a breakfast in the middle, I was ready to be picked up by the driver (Hugo Boss is fancy like that!) to go to the venue. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the grand industrial space that was the show’s location. It may have only been something like 11:30 am, but the champagne was flowing. Before even entering the runway space, I already spotted one major star – Sir David Beckham! Well, he was behind a golden rope taking step-and-repeat pics, but still. As for the collection, the show opened with Parker Van Noord (crush alert!) in a roomy wool coat with wide lapels. For the past few seasons, BOSS has been excelling at making tailoring exciting again – this time around, by re-contextualising classic fits from the 1980s and 1990s (a bit American Psycho, a bit cunt) and styling them with loose officer’s boots, leather flowers and silk ties. Gorgeus!

There was a two-hour break between BOSS and the next show of the day, Prada. That said, there was no chance I was going to miss my first Prada show, so I decided to take one very, very overpriced Uber over to the Fondazione Prada area. With over an hour to spare, I looked for a nearby café, finding one that was filled with what I’m certain were Prada employees on a lunch break (I will recognise those runway pieces in the dark) – they were casually having espressos before the show! So chill.

Despite my best efforts to appear equally cool and nonchalant, as I was getting up from my table, I managed to somehow fall off the bench I was sitting on and make a loud noise doing so. The commotion this mishap caused still haunts me to this day. One of the Prada groups looked at me and asked, “Va bene?” Well, the answer was, “I think I’m good, but also mortified.”

After hiding in the bathroom for a few minutes, I reemerged and went straight to the main entrance of the foundation. The crowds were unparalleled, courtesy of the Asian stars’ fans, who came to see a glimpse of… I have to be honest, I have no idea who they were waiting for, but I was impressed with the level of love the fans were giving – they rented vans with banners, y’all!

After walking inside (next to Chloe Malle, may I add), I entered the temple that is Fondazione Prada. The space was already crowded, and there was a massive commotion in front of me. It took me a second (I had to take off my sunglasses) to realise it was caused by THE Sarah Pidgeon, AKA the reincarnation of Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. I have been obsessed with Ryan Murphy’s Love Story, and seeing this diva in person made me audibly gasp. She’s my K-pop star!

Then, the lights dimmed, and the hard techno started playing. I have to be honest: it took me a while to realise the show’s concept, as I was sitting in the fourth row. That said, once I saw Bella Hadid strutting the runway for the third time, I got it – Miuccia and Raf created a collection based on the removal of layers, using only fifteen models to present sixty looks. This duo knows how to get adrenaline pumping! After the show, I sat at the scene of the crime (that same café) and got to decompress about what I just witnessed – a religious experience of sorts! Now let’s take one more bath to calm down (very Tom Ford of me).

Yes, I took my first Prada seat tag with me.

The next day, another early morning to make it to the Tod’s show. After someone took my seat, I was placed in a different section where Tonne Goodman was in my direct line of sight. And if you know me, you know I worship at the altar of Goodman and her singular sense of style (she never takes off her white jeans, and if I looked as good in them, I wouldn’t either).

Queen of Poland, Małgosia Bela, in Tod’s fineries. Tonne Goodman behind her!

Matteo Tamburini’s vision for the house is one of unabashed elegance with ingenious textural explorations. Also, what a casting! Małgosia Bela, Mariacarla Boscono, Lulu Tenney, Awar Odhiang, to name just a few. As for the favourite pieces, I still can’t stop thinking about those pony-skin ponchos – you can’t go more luxe than that.

That’s the back of Fai Khadra’s head. You’re very welcome.

While leaving the show’s venue, I ended up walking out behind Fai Khadra and let me just say: that’s a tall drink of water! After a brief drive-by the hotel (yes, I took another bath), I made my way to the Marni showroom to see Meryll Rogge’s first collection for the house up close. And let me just say – it was TASTY. Rogge and Marni make so much sense – the clothes are clever, fresh, and a little bit naughty, too! As for the highlight, the leather pants in all their iterations are going straight to the top of my list.

The only photo I’m allowed to share from the Marni showroom. Also, hi David!

PEDRO IN PARIS

It’s a Monday morning, and I’m feeling optimistic. It’s not often those two are tied together, but today marks the beginning of Paris Fashion Week. It’s only been three weeks since the previous one – menswear, followed immediately by Haute Couture – but it was enough time to recuperate. Famously, I moved to the French capital in late January, which was perfect for matching the chaos of my professional life with that of my personal one. Now, I’m a lot more secure in the city than last time, which, by that I mean, I have a couch and a bed and pans to cook in (you’d never guess I live 15 minutes from an Ikea, for how long it took to get everything). Aside from the material comfort, my unwavering positivity comes from the fact that I actually meal-prepped for the week, got my gym membership, and even booked workout classes to go to during the mornings so as not to interfere with my schedule (spoiler: I didn’t make it to even one). My proactivity is such that, for the first time, I actually wrote down all the shows I had received invites to and their addresses in a calendar. Of course, it was still in my Notes app – I would sooner tattoo it on me than use Excel – but I’d still call it a win for someone who’s just been doing it from memory.

My first show of the week is Hodakova. It’s a strong way to start. Not only am I a huge fan of the brand, but it’s also a guarantee that I will run into some friends. And indeed I do. It feels like a reunion of sorts, reconnecting with people that I see every day for 10 days and then need to wait months until we speak IRL again. Plus, because my friend Gaby of David Siwicki PR organises the event, I know for a fact she will seat me next to friends, which is the biggest gift you can be given during a show. You get to snicker at the latest gossip, fawn over the collection, and, in this case, have my nipple pockets zipped constantly. Some context: I’m wearing a tight leather jacket that I was told was a real biker garment, but that, by the nipple-level tassel-like zippers, is more appropriate for the darkroom than the open road. It was kind of on theme for what was Hodakova’s sexiest collection to date.

Fall/Winter felt like an adaptation of her typical codes, but in clothes that one would wear rather than display as artwork. I mean, you still had chair garments, where models resembled me on any given Saturday coming back from Saint-Ouen, but the majority were interesting clothes. Interesting and sexy. Open jackets with nothing underneath and apron pants that revealed tight shorts as they walked by were objectively sensual.

Lust didn’t hold me back for long, as I had to speed-run out of the venue – the Louvre, by the way – to go to Vaquera. In what might have been a first, I was actually early for a show. Not because I wanted to, but because I noted down the wrong time in the same schedule I was so proud of two paragraphs ago. In any case, eventually we’re let inside the church where the show will take place. It was a thematic choice of venue: for Fall/Winter 2026, the duo behind the brand stages a wedding, an extremely cunty one at that, with deconstructed leather daddy attire in the mix. If my special day doesn't include some too, I’m not interested.

The next day, I actually managed to live a semi-normal life, only going to the August Barron book launch at Dover Street Market. It’s honestly amazing what Benjamin Barron and Bror August Vestbø manage to do – and all in heels too. This latest zine focuses on the collection they showed last October, which was absolutely brilliant. I quickly get overwhelmed by the sheer number of people that fill the Rose Bakery. Not surprisingly, they always attract a (very well-dressed) crowd. Before I leave, I manage to take a picture of the duo talking with the legendary Suzy Menkes, and the contrast between the designers’ glittery heels and leather boots and the writer’s sneakers. Still, not the best picture of Menkes of the season – the picture of her at the Labubu event takes the cake.

My next morning starts right: I’m going to see Fidan Novruzova’s showroom. Her latest collection is a ’20s-meets-’80s, analysing our idea of old glamour from a chronologically biased angle. If it sounds complicated, it’s not. Novruzova has the ability to translate these wider concepts into clothes that are so desirable – David Siwicki was wearing a fab leather jacket that confirmed the theory. I’m still thinking about a zip-up jacket that gave me the guts to actually ask for the line-sheet. That very bold move was only made more embarrassing when I saw someone bring her flowers and discovered it was the designer’s birthday. I didn’t have much time to revel in the cringe shockwaves resonating through my body – I had to run to another show.

If I were a lady, I would be a Fidan Novruzova lady.

Well, really, I gleefully skipped there. Not only because it was sunny for the first time in forever and the sheer amount of endorphins put me in a euphoric state, but also because I was headed to Dries Van Noten. My happy place. As the self-appointed president of the Julian Klausner fan club, his shows are always among my favourites of any given fashion week. This season was no different. Held at Lycée Carnot, in the 17th arrondissement, the collection was inspired by the universal search for oneself that awaits most of the usual occupants of the building we were in. I was sitting right behind Alexander Fury. The last time we were so close to each other is transcribed in the latest issue of Shadowplay. I can’t say for certain if he’d buy any of these pieces for his archive, but I can speak to the general feeling in the room: absolute adoration for the legacy Klausner is building for himself.

My next time outside of the house, where I had been furiously writing about everything I had been looking at, was for a packed day. This was the mother lode. The day started off solid at Mugler, for my compatriot Miguel Castro Freitas’ second collection. This season, the Portuguese designer leaned into the 1980s look Thierry Mugler helped create. Think strong shoulders and a stronger palette.

Right after, I walked through the Bois de Vincennes to get to another sophomore show, this time, Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez's Fall/Winter 2026 collection for Loewe. Even though I have a natural proclivity for getting lost, there was no missing the gingham cube sitting inside the Château de Vincennes’ courtyard. Inside the patterned walls were bright yellow lacquered floors, where animal plushies by the artist Cosima von Bonin took up some seats. Thankfully, I wasn’t made to sit next to a deep blue octopus and got to chat with both people I was seated next to. The first of which was a great bouncing board for my frequent “ohs” and “ahs” that latex jumpers and bulbous fur jackets made me vocalise. The second one joined me on my (long) way home, where we sat next to the models that had just walked the show, replaying the livestream to see themselves. The first thing I would do, too, if I had just walked one of the biggest shows of the season.

After managing to have lunch at home (not all of my meal prep went to waste, only most of it), I sprinted to Givenchy. There was no way I was going to miss Sarah Burton’s latest collection on the first anniversary of her debut. With each collection, she’s been edifying her vision for the maison, and here the picture was crystal clear: feminine but masculine, elegant but powerful. Reworking the shark boots into thigh-high and silk iterations was beyond genius; the selection of artists among models on the runway was equally brilliant. As a witness to my experience, I have an editor friend of mine, the kind that I unfortunately only manage to see during fashion weeks. We’re doing the most instinctual thing one can do when sitting and waiting to see a show: reciting our schedules. I tell him I’m going to Yohji Yamamoto next; he immediately asks me if I’ve ever been to one of his shows, to which I reply “no.” He lets me know that they’re great, but that I shouldn’t go if I’m in a rush to get somewhere. I don’t quite understand him at first. No show starts on time; everyone takes forever to enter and leave venues – it’s part of the gig. It only takes for a Yohji Yamamoto show to start for me to get what he was saying. It’s a slow-burning show. The music is soft, models walk gently, and there are never more than two models on the runway. It’s a very specific vibe, but one that I’m a big fan of. Maybe it was the soundtrack or the beautiful clothes on the runway, or maybe even slight exhaustion from what, at that point, was already a 12-hour day, but I was extremely emotional by the time the designer came out and took his hat off to bow.

The next day, I woke up stressed out. I spent the majority of the night writing and made the mistake of trusting my internal clock to wake me up in time for Celine. The show is at 12; I wake up at 11. Not horrible, but it’s my first Celine show, and my body can’t differentiate between that excitement and that of my ancestors being chased by a bear. The fight or flight makes me take some stupid decisions, like Ubering on a Saturday morning for a venue right in front of the Seine. Of course, at some point, I just leave the car and start power walking.

Officially announcing the applications for a sugar daddy who will buy me this exact Celine look are now open!

Even if sweaty, I make the show, too flustered to clock that I almost stepped on Naomi Watts and Sarah Paulson’s feet on the way to my seat. Even with what is a gay man’s dream of a front row, the collection was the star of the show. Michael Rider’s Celine gets better by the collection, which is saying a lot when he had such a brilliant start. Here, everything is either impeccably tailored or beautifully draped, managing to be both classic and fun simultaneously. Just incredible. I don’t recover until the next day, when I’m invited to the re-see. I think the thing that snapped me out of that haze must have been a Celine-branded cookie on my way out, as I was still nonverbal from the euphoria of seeing it firsthand.

Whenever I feel like I’m gonna pass out, I eat a Celine cookie, and I’m all good.

Speaking of astonishment, as I leave that venue, I have to go straight to an interview that I will likely remember on my deathbed. It’s the kind of legend that journalists like myself don’t even dream of speaking to. If it sounds like I’m being vague, it’s because I am. Unfortunately, the article won’t come out for a few months, and I’m sworn to secrecy. But what I can say is that I had to rush home right after because I got a very special call letting me know that I would be receiving my Chanel (!!!) invite. Talk about a dream. I remember being 14, watching Karl Lagerfeld’s collections on YouTube as soon as they came out, and here I was unpacking a Chanel-branded envelope with my name on it. I take about three hundred photos for stories, of which I post a single blurry one. Those photographic evidences took up most of the time I had back home before I needed to leave for the McQueen show. It takes me an hour to get to the venue, which, if you’re from London, might seem reasonable, but in Paris, is geographically extortionate. It’s well worth it, though. Sean McGirr seems to feel more comfortable with the legacy of the house, utilising some of its characteristic drama to build an eerie show.

Finally, my carefully planned schedule saved the best for last: Chanel. I can’t quite put into words how excited I was for it. I arrive as soon as the venue’s doors open, one hour before the show, to absorb the set. This season, it was made into a colourful construction zone with twinkling cranes to match. I am in such awe that I think I blacked out. At one point, I started collecting pictures of the rarest bags I saw. As one would imagine, it’s a candy shop for any Chanel lover. Lagerfeld rarities, like the rocket and the slot machine bags, are found among Matthieu Blazy’s recently released debut accessories. Eventually, as I see everyone sit down, I follow suit. The show opens with a wandering spotlight and a song in Portuguese. My self-centred ego immediately makes it about myself. “This is the universe, it was meant to be.”

What it was, though, was a spectacular collection. Mind-blowing, elegant, brilliant, never the same, not afraid to reference or not reference. The next day, I go to the re-see with Martin, our Features Editor, in town to taste the chaos of the week, and we collectively drool over sequin-threaded knits. We even join a Chanel representative as she explains the details in each look. After, I stayed for hours in the Grand Palais, in awe. What a way to end the week, with pure perfection. And even if a part of me is sad the week is over and the starvation of beauty that will soon start, at least now I can sleep.

Now look at this chainmal! Chanel re-see is a whole other level of fashion porn.

Words and Images by Martin Onufrowicz and Pedro Vasconcelos

ARchive

LATEST