AKA looking for thongs and saying our goodbyes.
Pedro: For the last two weeks, I’ve been in prep mode. For fourteen days straight, it’s been New York, London, Milan and meal prep. Is this amount of preparation necessary? Objectively no. However, I like to feel like I can cushion my fall into fashion week mania. There are not enough pillows in the world. Evidence A: it’s the first day, my first commitment is at 5 o´clock, and I’m somehow already stressed. Nothing is happening. I am just buzzing with anticipation. Don’t be fooled by my bitching, this is my Christmas. For how much “fashion people” like to complain, this month—and Paris week specifically—is what we wait around all year for. I’m making my whole building vibrate with excitement as I wait for Martin to get to mine from the airport. A small delay aside, he finally makes it, and he changes in record time. I’m locking the door while he goes down the stairs, still adjusting his jacket.
Gown, purse, pocket mirror - Fidan essentials!
We hop in a car and head to Fidan Novruzova’s presentation. Compared to last season, when the designer hosted small groups in her studio, this is a proper event. A whole building in the 6th arrondissement is occupied by Novruzova’s SS27 collection. Accordion bags and cunty shoulders galore. We barely have time for a cigarette, dropping off our half-drunk spritz at the bar. We’re running to Hodakova and the uber is already outside. Gabrielle, objectively the most fab PR in Paris, jumps in with us. In French, she parlays the urgency.
Fidan has some of the best mood boards in the industry!
We’re ten minutes late, which just means we’re 15 minutes early. The show is taking place in the garden of one of those small palaces in the city—of which I’ve only seen the gates, wondering what’s behind them. In this case, beautifully manicured bushes and a sticky white floor. The latter is event-exclusive, an integral part of the vision Ellen Hodakova Larsson projects for her new collection. Now, I love creative freedom. I am artistic expression’s number one fan. What I’m not so fanatic about is having my brand-new Stefan Cooke slashed loafers covered in white goo. And I’m amongst the luckiest. Across from me, a beautiful woman wore new season Gucci suede boots. And while I can’t speak for her, to me, it was worth the damage to my footwear. This season, Hodakova presented a more concise, edited collection while managing to not sacrifice its idiosyncratic conceptual integrity. As soon as the show wraps, I jump from my seat: it’s reunion time!
At Hodakova, even the eyes have eyes.
All my friends in the industry, the same ones that I DM daily and attempt to make plans with weekly, are all in the same place. It’s a who’s who of my Instagram close friends. As I navigate cheek kisses—à la française— and try to maintain the sticky debris on my soles, I make my way backstage. We huddle up in front of Larsson, trying to get our question heard and her response recorded.
Besties Ellen and Pedro :)
Martin: I started the next day with the happiest designer in Paris, Burc Akyol, who staged his latest show in a space in Le Marais. A master of nighttime dressing, Burc delivered once again. My favourite looks included a black smoking jacket-and-leggings hybrid cinched with a white belt and a sleeveless yellow satin gown in the loveliest shade of yellow.
Strutting at Burc Akyol.
Next up was my first-ever Maison Margiela show, and the excitement was pumping through my veins. You might not know this, but there’s an unwritten fashion week rule: you either arrive ridiculously early or too late and miss the whole thing. Having opted for the former, I had time to grab a little drink across the street – paid for with a five-euro note I’d found on the staircase while leaving the metro station. Happy days!
Wine pit stop.
After a glass of white, it was time to head to the venue, which proved a challenge in itself, thanks to the crowds clamouring to catch a glimpse of the celebrities arriving. Inside, I spotted someone sprawled across the stairs, posing for an impromptu photoshoot. Sadly, I have no idea who they were, as they were sporting one of Margiela’s signature masks.
A Margiela pile.
The venue itself was a truly immersive experience, with every section of the space covered in flowers. But this being Margiela, these weren’t exactly fresh bouquets: some were decomposing in their plastic wrapping, others lay in messy piles in the corners, while a few peeked out of their dishevelled packaging. As the show began, Courtney Love’s instantly recognisable voice filled the space, with Hole’s Violet blasting through the speakers. As for my standouts? I’m giving my flowers to the tailoring with folded-over lapels and the looks merging printed dresses with lightweight coats. The hot pink and red combination made me gay gasp with severity.
Matchy-matchy à la Margiela.
Pedro: It’s almost too painful to discuss Saint Laurent, but I’ll power through. Yes, I am gay and overinvested, but I did cry looking at the livestream sitting on my couch. Rumours had been swirling for months, and reliable sources confirmed it to me weeks before the show. So, just the intro music was enough to catapult my tear ducts. It was, however, interesting to read everyone writing around the fact we all knew but hadn’t been officially announced. Vaccarello included. He effectively paid homage to his decade-long tenure at the maison. By the end, when the procession of gold looks ended, a similar one with black gowns only accelerated the grief cycle—even if I remain in denial.
Looking for the missing chair at Courrèges.
The next morning was appropriately rainy. As I entered the Palais Tokyo for Courrèges, already slightly soaked, tragedy hit. My seat, it turned out, did not exist. Now, I would love to say that I handled this with the grace and composure of a seasoned industry professional, but there is only so much dignity one can maintain while trying to convince a room full of people that they have, in fact, invited you to their show. Whatever small humiliation ritual I was subjected to, however, was worth it. Fashion is, after all, about sacrifice. Sometimes that sacrifice is your self-respect before 10 a.m. And even though my monologue might disprove it, I am not complaining. Drew Henry’s debut was more than worth it. Womenswear was exploratory, establishing a dialogue between the archives and a modern sense of joy, while menswear was brilliant. Men in structured, colourful short dresses were inspiring, the kind of queerness only 1960s optimism could breed. I left feeling vindicated. My imaginary seat had been worth the trouble.
Found the seat AND a gorgeous Courrèges dress!
After a short pit stop home, I proceeded to Dries Van Noten. The rain hadn’t slowed down, and yet, I decided to bike to the venue. It started pouring. Naturally. I arrived soaked, but whatever pool concentrated on my seat was none of my concern; I was being kept warm by Julian Klausner’s sunny visual language. For Spring/Summer 2027, the Belgian designer took on Hollywood glamour, using it as a metaphor for the positivity that we need to imagine to enjoy our daily lives. In my line of sight, the founder of the brand sat; his smile was wide by the end. My reaction was the same. That same grin disappeared, however, on my way home, when I somehow forgot how soaked I had been not even 45 minutes prior. Of course, this time, I didn’t just wet my Olly Shinder shirt; I managed to bloody it. A dramatic fall from the bike stopped traffic around me on Boulevard Beaumarchais. One minute, you're attending one of the most anticipated shows of the season; the next, you're lying on the pavement, wondering whether your outfit is still salvageable. It wasn’t, but I didn’t have time to change.
The shirt before the massacre.
I arrived at August Barron with a bloody shirt. But there is not a lot I wouldn’t do for their show. The duo only shows once a year, and each time it’s bigger and better than the last—which is saying a lot because, in the most traditional definition of show, theirs is the best every season. Spring/Summer 2027 was an interpretation of Hollywood iconography. With their characteristic deconstructive style, the idea was dissected; the idea of stardom translated into oversized cups that fell into models’ waists. Backstage, I found myself thoroughly confused for one of the designers by a legend of French fashion media—in front of the person he was mistaking me for. I smiled, nodded and directed him towards the actual designers. Did I avoid embarrassing him? I am choosing to believe I did.
Cinematic glam at August Barron.
The next morning, Tom Ford for the re-see. A beautiful, civilised way to begin the day, especially after the previous evening's cycling-related injuries. I was particularly looking forward to seeing the pink thong in person. It wasn't out. Devastating, really. I had mentally prepared myself for this moment.
Okay, but where is the pink one :(
Loewe followed the next morning, and I wore white trousers for the first time in my life. This is a bigger deal than it sounds. White pants require a certain degree of confidence, a willingness to accept that every surface, every coffee cup and every mysterious stain in Paris is conspiring against you. I put them on anyway. Growth, I suppose. Somewhere between the shows, one of my friends bought a house. An actual house. With walls and a roof and presumably a mortgage. I was thrilled for them, obviously, but also slightly offended by the sheer scale of the achievement. I had managed to get myself to Loewe in white trousers, and they had acquired property. We are clearly operating on very different standards of success. Still, congratulations are in order. Buying a house is huge. I can only hope that one day I will be able to afford a flat and a pair of trousers that don't terrify me.
Battling fears one pair of white trousers at a time. Also, hello to the Loewe whistle!
Yohji Yamamoto was the same day. It was a pleasure to reunite with the master after our interview earlier in the year. There are certain designers whose work makes you feel as though fashion might still be capable of saying something beyond the obvious. Yamamoto is one of them. The collection had that unmistakable poetry of proportion and movement, the beautiful tension between concealment and revelation that he has spent decades perfecting. There is an intimacy to his work that I find difficult to articulate without sounding unbearably earnest, so I will simply say that it was beautiful, and that I was very happy to be there.
Celine fuchsia porn.
By this point, my social battery was running on fumes, my body had apparently begun filing formal complaints, and I was surviving largely on caffeine, cigarettes and the occasional canapé. Which meant it was time for Christére’s breakfast. My friend, the designer Romain Kremer, and I sat down and did what any two reasonable people would do during an ongoing fashion week: talk shit. Everything was discussed. The shows, the clothes, the casting, the rumours, the people, the people who were talking about the people. Fashion week is, at its core, a very elaborate group chat with better clothes and significantly worse sleep. After a reinvigorating gossip session, I trailed to the Celine re-see. To see and touch beautiful clothes, who can ask for more?
Chanel said, “Watch my back.”
The last two days were relatively slow; I attended DePino and Kiko Kostadinov. Both impeccable, the first continuing their language of minimal glamorous experimentation, while the latter saw the summer dress code reinterpreted through the brand’s odd ethos. But the season only ends after Chanel—the only way to return me to the world of the living after the prolonged state of mania I had been in for days. Unbridled beauty. Fascinating details. A textural wonderland. After staying one hour in the re-see in the Grand Palais, every button carefully observed, every lining considered, I ended a season that felt like it started seventeen years ago. One last show, one last collection to discuss, one last round of seeing everyone before we all disappeared back into our respective lives. I left feeling that familiar combination of complete exhaustion and genuine gratitude, already nostalgic for a week that I had spent most of my time complaining about.
Mic drop!
Diary by Pedro Vasconcelos and Martin Onufrowicz
