AKA sweaty fun in Paris.
Pedro: Before we begin, a warning. The following account of fashion week will be loosely based on reality, the fabric of which slipped from my grasp much like the sweat that dripped from my upper brow into my eye as I waited outside most venues, praying that there would be AC. Even during Pride month, my prayers were seldom answered. The best I could hope for is enough seat room to be able to fan myself comfortably. I was perhaps spoiled at Saint Laurent re-see, my first stop of the torrid week. In the maison’s headquarters, I was not only protected from the overwhelming heat, but I was exposed to a different, certainly more desirable warmth.
Starstruck! Meanwhile, PR maven David Siwicki is keeping it cool.
For Spring/Summer 2027, transparent shoes and leather briefs were sensual beyond belief. But whereas direct references to queerness have been present in the past couple of seasons, here, Anthony Vaccarello alludes covertly. Or rather, just not in latex thigh-high boots, and more so in bejewelled buttons. Corrado De Biase, design director of footwear at Saint Laurent (and a mainstay of my feed), created transparent derby shoes, as freaky as they are sexy. Despite my overwhelming desire to try them on, I’m on my best behaviour, so I simply drool over them.
This book looked promising, until…
Speaking of AC and desirability, Meryll Rogge held her SS27 presentation in the Belgian embassy, a beautiful building, only made more exquisite by the clothes extraordinarily placed inside it. Double-cuffed shirts and BDSM-looking belts — what more could a (gay) man want?
What a gorgeous little cocktail dress! By Meryll Rogge, bien sûr.
Martin: The opulent interior and fabulous display of Rogge’s see-now, buy-now collection weren’t the only delights. At circa 11 am, there he was. Dev Hynes aka Blood Orange. It makes sense that the musical genius is a fan of Rogge’s vision — after all, cool recognises cool. As for his look? The most perfect red long-sleeve top, tiny shorts and some very enviable sneakers.
Following this fabulous breakfast surprise, I rushed to the Opera Bastille to attend a mass, also known as a Lemaire show. This was my first invite to see the brand’s singular vision in person, and I was not going to be late. You can guess what happened next. I arrived at the venue dripping all over my new Rohe shirt. Thankfully, I was greeted at the door by a cart of dreams, serving watermelon-infused water and chic black fans. The collection was everything I hoped for and more! Nobody does it like Christophe and Sarah-Lihn. At one point, I even started tearing up, overwhelmed by the sophistication of the clothes and the emotional soundtrack — a truly religious experience.
I need this Lemaire jacket just as much as I need AC. (Martin)
Then, it was time to get over to the Amomento presentation — one of the most conceptual (and fun!) showings of the week. The brand staged a performance during which dancers from the famous group (LA)HORDE performed as mannequins that were brought to life to the sound of live experimental music. At one point, the guests were even given an impromptu sound bath — very soothing indeed. As for the clothes, the brand’s offering was just my cup of (iced) tea: an unfussy yet interesting wardrobe with intriguing cuts and a palette of grey, black and white, with hints of muted purple and brown.
Even the wigs at Amomento were making us swoon!
I thought these were filled with kombucha. They were, in fact, filled with wine, which made me beyond drunk on the metro back to the hotel. (Martin)
Pedro: Continuing on the procession of presentations, Givenchy was up the following day. After I (Pedro) was able to peel my sweat-ridden body off the couch, I had spent all morning writing naked (word to the wise, don’t buy a leather couch at this stage of global warming; skin on skin hits different when you get it from Facebook Marketplace). Thankfully, nothing would be able to soothe me quite like Sarah Burton’s first menswear outing at Givenchy. With a cold drink in hand, I perused a beautiful room in the ateliers, brimming with spectacular embroidery. Luckily, I was in the same time slot as a group of male influencers, none of whom I can name, but several of whom I surely follow. Standing behind them, I was able to get the tour from the PR accompanying them, Burton’s visions explained to me by proxy.
Dyson = LUXURY.
From one to the next, the presentations blurred together in the way they only can during fashion week, where the days melt into each other somewhere between coffee number four and fifteen. Dries Van Noten, however, snapped me back into reality. And, while I did have to run ever so slightly to make sure I made it on time, I was early. To award my rare due diligence, I was greeted by ice lollipops just as I walked into the venue. Unable to contain myself or resist their barely sweet cold, I had three, one of each flavour. Sugar can replace electrolytes, right? More importantly, there were some of the most beautiful clothes I've ever seen in real life. Embroidered silk shorts. Transparent silk tops that somehow managed to feel both impossibly delicate and entirely self-assured. And the shoes. God, the shoes. I could not stop staring at the models' feet, which feels like an admission best kept between me and Martin, who will edit this. Oops.
These DVN shoes made me blush! (Pedro)
Then came my hottest day, both literally and sartorially. It started out with a tea ceremony at Yearly Plan, a brand that took the making of tea as a metaphor for their latest collection. With eco-conscious materials (and fab oversized bags), I was quickly won over. I grabbed a slushy with a friend as I walked to Ernest W. Baker, where I slowly dissolved into a small, fashionable puddle. I genuinely cannot imagine what the models were going through, although my sympathy was repeatedly interrupted by the need to own the pair of leather cargo short shorts that walked down the runway. Suddenly, I was no longer in Paris but in a Tom of Finland illustration.
LGN only encouraged this fantasy. Inspired by Twin Peaks, Louis Gabriel Nouchi created an odd sensuality. The attendance at the designer’s shows is always impeccable. If you ever want to know the hottest gay men in town, they’re under the same roof twice a year. Back on the catwalk, the collection included incredibly strong shoulders and barely there bottoms, so much so that, by the end of it, I was convinced that, by next summer, trousers will be rendered entirely obsolete. Why bother, really? If this season has taught me anything, it's that the less fabric involved, the stronger the statement. Or perhaps that's just heatstroke talking.
Yes to briefs, no to trousers!
The following morning was surprisingly cooler. Kiko Kostadinov always feels like a gentle recalibration after the sensory overload of Paris. Inspired by the artist Agostino Bonalumi, the collection was minimalist in a way only Kostadinov is capable of. Protruding volumes and sharp silhouettes ruled the show, only frequently interrupted by flowing shirts. The crowd was lovely, filled with familiar faces, and thankfully, I was seated next to a friend who spent the wait reading a book whose title I was hyperfixated on: Priestdaddy. Imagine my disappointment upon discovering it's about straight people. I promptly lost interest.
Did you know? Celine water IS more hydrating.
It was Paris Pride that day, for which I had meticulously prepared. I went to the gym. I bought my rave ticket in advance. I had a schedule. Naturally, every single plan collapsed. The march was cancelled. So was the rave. Instead, my Pride ended up exactly where it probably should have: at August Barron's launch for their latest zine in the Marais, which spilled into an afterparty in the 20th arrondissement. We danced to Madonna, Gaga, Britney until well past the point where my feet stopped belonging to me.
Colour-blocking of dreams, courtesy of Celine.
It was probably for the best that the rave never happened. The next morning, I had the hottest ticket in town: Celine. For once, I had actually planned my outfit in advance. A slutty T-shirt and a funky belt, only for me to be absolutely mogged by the models distributing water and fans in white shirts and colourful caps. The show itself was breathtaking. I could spend another thousand words describing it (which I did in my show report), but I've already cornered anyone unfortunate enough to mention fashion week, Celine, or clothing in general with my unsolicited review. Spare yourself. Suffice it to say, it reminded me of why we willingly put ourselves through this exercise in dehydration and delusion.
A magic nectar of the gods helped us survive.
See ya in September, enjoy your gay summer!
Words and Images by Pedro Vasconcelos and Martin Onufrowicz
