IN PARIS, THE CLOTHES OFTEN FELT LIKE AN AFTERTHOUGHT

You could almost hear drum rolls on the outskirts of Paris Fashion Week. There was suspense in the air. After eight years at Gucci, Alessandro Michele would make his catwalk début as the artistic director of Valentino, another Italian fashion house, albeit a much smaller one. Would he write another success story? And more to the point, would he be able to reinvent himself? The room was decorated like an abandoned mansion, with a cracked mirror catwalk and pale dust sheets covering the antique furniture. The models looked as if they had flown in from a distant past, the 1970s maybe. It soon became clear that Michele had remained his maximalist magpie self, although he did add details from the Valentino archives.

Reactions were mixed. Established reviewers hailed Michele, with a few exceptions, while Instagram's amateur fashionologists, for the most part, stuck their fingers deep down their throats. The truth, as often, lay somewhere in the middle. What did Valentino Garavani himself make of it? The designer is 93 and has not appeared in public for some time. His partner, Giancarlo Giammetti, attended and seemed on board with Michele’s new direction. Ultimately, the only thing that matters will be the sales figures next spring. Of handbags, in particular. Valentino has been underperforming in that category. And Michele is supposed to excel at bags. 

Meanwhile, there was confusion in the air. Throughout fashion week, people kept saying Gucci when they really meant Valentino, and Valentino when they meant Gucci. Everything blended together. Nothing seemed to make sense. 

But then, the entire fashion week felt off, as if the entire industry suffered an identity crisis. For the first time in what feels like decades, fashion is having to cope with declining sales and profits. Consumers seem to have gotten bored with fashion. Nobody seems to know how to make things right again. 

You could almost feel the fear and the confusion and, more than anything else, the dreadfulness. It was not a happy fashion week. Dior had an Olympic archer on the catwalk, shooting arrows (nobody got hurt). Chanel constructed a bird cage under the glass dome of the recently renovated Grand Palais and reenacted a 1991 fragrance campaign starring Vanessa Paradis, without Paradis — the brand had Riley Keough singing from a swing instead. In both cases, the clothes mostly seemed like an afterthought.

Balmain’s entire collection felt like an ad for the brand’s new make-up line. There was refined cosplay at Saint Laurent, and a trip to Disneyland, with free access to some of the rides, courtesy of Coperni.

Fashion's identity crisis began in Milan, where major labels from Versace to Dolce & Gabbana to Prada no longer even bothered to bring anything new. They simply rehashed their own repertoire. Donatella Versace looked back at a 1997 collection from Versus, the label where she took her first steps when her brother Gianni was still alive. Dolce & Gabbana paid tribute to Madonna, circa 1991, in the vein of Jean Paul Gaultier (Identity Crisis Squared). At Cavalli, seven top models in seven archival pieces served as tributes to founder Roberto Cavalli, who died in April. At Prada, Miuccia Prada and Raf Simons had an interesting premise — what does the algorithm do to all of us — but in the end, they too opted for the grab bag of the past, with reprises of old successes. 

There was also some good news in Milan: the tenth-anniversary show of Sunnei, where the models were ‘old’ (no one was younger than 60), but not the clothes; the anarchic chic of Bally (designer Simone Bellotti is being mentioned here and there as a candidate for the post at Dries Van Noten); and Bottega Veneta, although people talked more about the set than about the clothes (a series of ‘Sacco’ beanbags from furniture brand Zanotta reinterpreted as animals, on sale from 6,000 euros. 

Glenn Martens transformed Diesel’s venue into an ocean of strips of recycled denim. Just before fashion week, Martens said goodbye to his other employer, Y/Project in Paris. He is probably preparing for a top job at a larger label. Perhaps Maison Margiela, where John Galliano is said to be leaving. The house shares an owner with Diesel, so that would make sense.

Business is dire, a lot of people seem to have given up on fashion, either because they can’t afford it anymore or are fed up with it. Or might they be hedging their bets. Who knows what’ll happen next year, when Sarah Burton, Haider Ackermann and Peter Copping will debut at Givenchy, Tom Ford and Lanvin, respectively? These brands were absent from the show calendar this season.

Both Chanel and Dries Van Noten showed collections from a team in transition. Would we have noticed anything if no one had informed us of the departure of Virginie Viard or Dries Van Noten? Perhaps not. We would have rated the Van Noten collection as not a highlight in the designer’s long career — it might have lacked some urgency — but still excellent. Just as the show began, Van Noten and his partner, Patrick Vangheluwe, discreetly took a seat at the far end of the front row. As the show ended, he seemed overcome by emotions, yet mostly happy. And while it had nothing to do with the clothes on the catwalk, it was a rare touching moment.

There were more graceful instants in Paris. At Rick Owens, for instance, where the skies cleared up ten minutes before his outdoor extravaganza, inspired by 1930s Hollywood, was scheduled to begin. Comme des Garçons never fails to impress. Titled ‘Uncertain Future’, it was mostly about hope. Or, in Rei Kawakubo’s words — paraphrased, as usual, by her husband, Adrian Joffe: ‘With the state of the world as it is, the future as uncertain as it is, if you put air and transparency into the mix of things, there could be a possibility of hope.’ With its many merengue-like shapes — or, possibly, clouds — it was an uplifting show. Yes, the future is uncertain, so we might as well be optimistic. 

Julie Kegels, the young Belgian designer, showed around the small pond of a 1950s apartment building in the chic 16th arrondissement. It was her début on the official calendar, and she managed to convincingly transform a drizzly, chilly autumn evening into a hot, sultry summer night around the pool of some far-flung resort.

Kegels stood out, as did fellow Belgian Marie Adam-Leenaerdt, the young Dutch designers Zomer and Duran Lantink, and London-based South Korean Rokh. Among the luxury houses, only Loewe and Balenciaga had truly convincing shows. At Loewe, Jonathan Anderson asked himself: “What happens when one takes all the noise away?” The show was about reduction — it was held in a spare space decorated by a tiny Tracey Emin bird sculpture on a perch — but the collection was not, strictly speaking, minimal printed feather t-shirts featuring Van Gogh or Mozart were a case in point. The highlights: a black leather cape, and beautiful boned floral dresses.

Balenciaga’s Demna had a 48-meter-long table-aka-catwalk built for its elite guests to sit at, while ordinary guests looked on from bleachers. The show was unexpectedly sexy. Britney Spears sang “Gimme More” on the soundtrack, while boys in low-slung jeans and ultra-short bombers with wide, rounded shoulders stepped across the table. For the girls, there was lingerie, trompe l'oeil or otherwise. The collection, said Demna, was “a tribute to fashion that has a point of view.”

Norwegian-American, Paris-based duo ALL-IN had an equally exciting show, in an abandoned office on the 40th floor of Tour Montparnasse, for their fifth collection of upcycled glamour, Uptown Girl. It was one of a very few that got our pulse beating faster. “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” echoed through the room, as the Eiffel Tower flickered in the distance. The casting, which was mostly gender-abstract — was flawless. The show was styled by Lotte Volkova, the fashion magician transforming the Miu Miu collection into gold — Prada’s second line might be the biggest hype of the moment and one of a few bright spots in the luxury industry’s current financial spreadsheets.

ALL-IN, like Balenciaga, brought energy to the fashion conversation, and lust. They were fun. For a moment, we felt alive again. Fashion would live on, and on, no matter what. Then one of the elevators in Tour Montparnasse took us 40 floors down. The Eiffel Tower went dark. And it started to rain again.

Text: Jesse Brouns