The Paris (Fashion Week) Review: Fresh Chanel and the return of Philo
These dove-grey, gently storming mornings in Paris feel softened by the rain. Trench coats replace leathers, standoffish editors lend umbrella cover, and when I get out of the damp and into a show, the place feels tingly with shared relief. I liked it–til I woke up today and found I had fallen way down the weather. Okay, a confession: the causes might not be all natural. I could be blamed, too, for living on macaroons & menthol lights in between vegetable-free meals. In a word, I feel ick. And if it were any other day, I’d have stayed under the covers and ordered in curry.
But today was Chanel day, and maybe I’m sick in more ways than one, but I genuinely felt I didn’t have a choice. Had to gloss over my head cold, put on major heels and a little gilt, and cab out to Le Grand Palais by 10:30 in the morning. Worth it? Beyond. The show was something of a barn-burner: Karl Lagerfeld’s minions had trussed up the stunning palace in the style of a Swiss farm. Embroidered flowers, crayoned onto the invitation, provided a little leitmotif: the show seemed to convey a girl’s newly-plucked sensuality, with models playing coy milkmaids and flouncing about in coquettish crochet. (Spring’s knits are fresher and less fussy than years past, though was the usual abundance of overabundance of decorative edging in lieu of…edge). A rooster crowed to open the show; to close it, really, Lily Allen should have sung “Edelweiss.” But the Lagerfeld favourite, rising out of the floor with a boy band and lip-synching, shimmying models, gave a rousing performance of “Not Fair.” The crowd, naturally, went haywire.
I hoped the excitement, followed by cafe creme at a rustic little cafe, would sustain me. No such luck. At this very moment, I am heating up some kind of soupe de poissons and searching “Chloé” on Twitter.
Bit sad, but I don’t feel I missed much there–my affection for the brand has everything to do with the years 2001 to 2006. Yes, I’m firmly among the Phoebephiles. The beloved Ms. Philo’s comeback at Celine yesterday, to which seats were so hotly coveted that each one bore the ticketholder’s name, was a smash. The room tingled in wait, flipping nervously through mood books compiled by Philo: soft, lo-fi photos of pearls, flesh, showgirls and birds.
And then bang: the show came fast, soft, hot. It was full of delicious familiar Chloé colours (biscuit, glazed peach, warm brown sugar) and newer ones, too (emerald, lake blue). Panels were cut away from the shoulders and hips, fluttering scarves; a trench was left bare under the back-flap, and reverse-tied into a dress. Sex appeal doesn’t get more Parisian. Most amazingly of all, leather was used in a soft new way: as black piping with nude twill, or neatly cropped into tops and jackets over slippy silk layers. On the side were itty bags, not It-bags (leave those to Chloé, I guess). Details were a bit militant–epaulets on a little black dress, sturdy lace-ups on toppers–but in a way that says French lieutenant’s wife, not GI Jane.
It was all such a rush of relief: she’s back. And then delight: she’s back! Tomorrow, I’ll visit the showroom to see the dream in real life. Unless, of course, death by pastry comes first.
