An American in Paris
Some notes and pictures from the City of Lights.
A few weeks back, I had the immense pleasure of dropping into Paris for the last leg of men’s Fashion Week. What a funny ritual it all is! It seemed especially comical in light of the historic heatwave, with everyone running around in their designer goods, wilting like a week-old bouquet and desperately fanning their sweaty faces, clinging to old habits as the world shifts beneath their feet. But the fashion world is ridiculous by nature, beholden to its own set of rules and traditions. We must fiddle as Rome burns, it seems. Parisians, of course, get grumpy about any old thing, so imagine their grouchy demeanors in the face of an all-time scorcher. Everywhere I turned, I heard disgruntled mutters/sighs/grumbles ultimately amounting to: “Ah! La Canicule!”
I gave up early and came to terms with the fact that the week would be uncomfortable and that I would be drenched in sweat by the end of each day (multiple showers a day and hotel air conditioning helped). I mostly got around by Lime e-bike, pedaling (yes, in the heat!) from show to appointment to show and back again, my t-shirt soaked and clinging to my torso as I traversed the City of Lights in search of a glimpse of something beautiful, arresting, challenging, or even, dare I say it, life-affirming. Results varied.
Still, to start at the end, the high point came on the last day, during Michael Rider’s stellar first standalone men’s runway show at Celine. What a rousing finale to a relatively ho-hum week. The best compliment I can give to that show is that, a few weeks on, I’m still at a loss on how exactly to describe it. It didn’t leave me speechless, per se, but it did defy conventional fashion-speak.
I suppose, now that the dust has settled, the big takeaway was the elusive, expansive quality it left behind. Hard to pin down, wily, shape-shifting but ultimately optimistic, energetic and—well, yes!—life-affirming. The sheer breadth of what Rider offered up was impressive, from skinny jeans to ballooning genie pants; neat little school boy blazers or droopy, oversized tops; kicky little flares and skimmy sleeveless tees. And those flowing, airy jackets that fluttered by like capes! Rich purples, army green, and stop-you-in-your-track crimson. It was the opposite of prescriptive or formulaic, and perhaps the most renegade act of all: hard to easily quantify, thus hard to market. Who is the Celine man? Anyone! Maybe you! Be whoever you want to be, it whispered. The world is burning, dress however the hell you want to. How goddamn freeing.
