Fashion week again? Yes, but this time it’s the real one, the big one, the one that crosses four cities of the world, is full of parades of large and small houses, takes on board an army of models, stylists, screaming fans, exhausted journalists (mmh), looks sublime or completely failed, intense emotions and skipped meals (damn).
It started with New York. Its intense blue sky over Central Park still in bloom, City bike in the city, intense heat, the scent of Carrie Bradshaw that hovers everywhere. And for good reason. At the Ballroom, on 8 September, there is a race for kick-off. Fendi saw things big for the birthday of her baguette bag, the legendary purse that Carrie had stolen in a Manhattan alley. “It’s not a bag, it’s a baguette”…
That night, SJP, ringside, chatting with Naomi Watts on one side, Kim K on the other, Kate Moss a little further on, in front of the flashes of the fiery photographers, and the screens of the fashion people, enraptured by this improbable skewer. Black. Cheerful parade of chopsticks reinterpreted by Kim Jones and Marc Jacobs. Microphone version, necklace, socks, hoodie or pocket, the wand radiates. And Linda Evangelista closes the show in Tiffany blue. “Anyone want granola?” The next day, friendly Peggy Frey offers her cereal to the sleeping fashionistas. Ulla Johnson parades in Brooklyn in a whirlwind of lace, delicate embroidery, Katie Holmes he has high boots. It’s as beautiful as a spring awakening despite the rain drumming on the taxi window. In Manhattan, Gigi Hadid launches her own cashmere brand. It is said that she flirts with Leo DiCaprio. I hand you my iPhone to greet our readers. And I tell myself that if he touches my phone it’s a bit like touching Jack clinging to his raft.
Later, the whole fashion crew goes to the Tommy Factory. Hilfiger fits into the American calendar. This is the event. There’s Kris Jenner, with Kourtney and Travis Barker, carrying her jacket from which her little tattooed skull emerges. On drums, that’s something. Despite the rain, the runway explodes. End of the world fashion show and pop colors, ultra-modern on preppy.
The queen died on my journey. Or just before, no doubt. London suspends most of its fashion shows. Everything is suspended in the editorial office. We don’t bury the queen mum every day. Pause. Respect.
And resumed at Milan. La Dolce Vita in September is always a happy time when you never know if you’re keeping your sandals on or wearing your coat. We always look weird, like everyone else in September (right?). He starts again with Diesel, and Fendi again. Models have satiny dresses and soft knits, summer knit dresses, openwork bellies, platform mules and off-the-shoulder jackets. Leaving home Ferretti, Alessandra Ambrosio walks in front of me. Lunar silhouette in immaculate fute, the kind that add a ton just thinking about it. Morning at Massimo Mara. Silhouettes never disappoint. A Riviera without lack of taste. Huge capes, flowing materials, so chic. Camaïeu of beige, black, pearls of these elegant women who wear a turban without appearing to go out to redecorate the kitchen.
For Prada Foundationthe most stylish girls of the moment are chatting. Amina Muaddi, Paula Locatelli, Lena, in bi-material skirts and a bun (it’s sublime on them, if I did, they’d probably ask me if I get out of the shower). Giorgio Armani comes to say hello after the show Emporium. Applause. Strong emotion in front of one of the last masters in his home. Moschino parades balloon dresses, duck buoys, pop scarves on pool mattresses. Fashion still knows how to have fun! “You’re in love?” “Anything. Sex”. Laconic conversation behind me. At nightfall, Boss puts on his mega show in a large stadium. In the XXL balls, the stunt bikers spin like crazy. Naomi Campbell spins the ball. Tod’s will close tomorrow with Carla. The fashion no longer has an age, and this is fantastic. Or rather it has all of them, the one in which you flatten your hair while laughing carelessly, and the one in which you buy big bags to stuff your thousand lives in. And above all that of the mother Come on, it’s time for me to go home. Quick, it’s Paris.
Adèle Bréau, Instagram @adelle.fr
Photo credits: personal
