PARIS — In the era of the Ozempic body, the waist is making a comeback and corsetry, or abstractions of it, were front and centre on the fourth day of Paris Fashion Week.
Corsets were the only tie to the past that Miguel Castro Freitas kept as he made his debut at the house of Mugler: no camp, no humour, very little in the way of glamour and pas de soubrettes. Rather, what we got was a sense of womanly rigour (with some marabou on top), a taste for the covered up (give or take some transparencies and one flimsy dress held up by nipple piercings, which was a direct reference to the archive), an appetite for construction and the notion that clothing can resculpt the body — this last element totally Mugler.
The proposition was both visually interesting and a head-scratcher. Castro Freitas is a capable designer with an impressive resume — most recently, he made an indelible mark at Sportmax. His idea of a strict, severe Mugler is contrarian but entirely viable. It will be interesting to see whether it resonates with the audience built by his predecessor Casey Cadwallader, however.
Whereas fashion at the L’Oréal-owned Mugler is mostly a marketing exercise for selling perfume (and Cadwallader delivered plenty of engagement), Castro Freitas’ work is for fashion literates. It may find a following, though the creative director would be wise to leave his research in a drawer once the design process starts: From Mugler himself to Gaultier, McQueen and Margiela, the heavy referencing was a burden on his personal code.
Pared back opulence was still front and centre at The Row, but something changed. The Saturday morning ease of recent collections gave way to something a bit more uptight: think hair scraped back in a bun, to-the-calf pencil skirts, slim jackets nipped at the waist, full skirts and high heels, all of it in a restricted palette of white, black and beige. It was quite a departure from the Yohji-inflected, well-to-do vernacular that has made Ashley and Mary-Kate Olsen darlings of the fashion intelligentsia and a mainstay on the selling floor.
The relation between clothing and body felt different this time: The dance and flow of fabric were replaced by a closer, more sculpted encounter. And yet, the frisson of the undone, so typical of The Row, remained in place in a jumper thrown on a ballgown, a hem left raw. The overall effect was that of grandma’s fabulous couture wardrobe casually reassembled.
Rick Owens seemed to chart new waters with his latest women’s collection, despite it being a continuation of his men’s show in June, which, too, saw models walking in the fountains of the Palais de Tokyo (and took place in conjunction with a retrospective of the designer’s work across the street at the Musee Galliera). Whereas the men’s outing had a sleazy charge, this one felt ethereal, even gracious. The gauzy tunics hanging from robotic shoulder pieces had a brand of blunt elegance that was a new take on Owens’ original “glunge” code, which over the years has given way to more angular, and at times costume-y, shapes. There were a lot of those today, too. But overall the show worked. And if the performance at times overpowered the fragile beauty of the pieces, it was also drenched in meaning: The waters of the fountain were less Styx and more Dante’s “Eunoe,” from which souls drink to remember their good deeds.
Shapes were form fitting — and that included the waist — over at Rabanne, where Julien Dossena went sunny side up, crafting clothes inspired by swim and surf, mixing the athletic and the decorative. The effect was jolly and energetic if a little chaotic and jumbled together: a smorgasbord of colour, glitz and prints that seemed to lack Dossena’s trademark precision.
Daniel Roseberry took over the top floor of the Centre Pompidou — the same rooms that last year hosted a magnificent Brancusi exhibition — to present his latest take on Schiaparelli’s ready to wear, which, truth be told, is a far cry from the label’s couture, and all the better for that. Roseberry is not the most progressive designer, but restraint does him good, very good, in fact. Impeccably executed, appropriately glamorous, strict with concessions… this was a viable proposition for today’s Schiaparelli woman — who, bien sur, has a chauffeur.