The Paris (Fashion Week) Review: Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Miu Miu
I forgot Marc Jacobs was making timeliness happen: apparently, his last two NY shows have begun promptly, and today I nearly missed his Louis Vuitton spectacular because I decided to walk over from Colette Dinnigan. Funny thing: when you ask someone at Paris Fashion Week how long it takes to get somewhere, they give you two times: “weeth heels” and “without.”
I should’ve gone without. But I did skitter in right as the show began, and how lucky I did! Because this show was fun--girlish, giddy fun--which is something I’d no idea I was missing, til 2:30 p.m. (sharp) today. There’s lots of drama in Paris (did you watch McQueen live? I’m still amazed), and there’s beige restraint, and there’s beauty, of course--but not a lot of fun. And what else could you call this bonbon assortment of plaid and prints, pinafores and pockets, and--wholly amazing--poodle hair? The girls looked like Marie Antoinettes on acid. Tassels swung wildly from messenger bags and trussed up shoes--sometimes they were white fur, like funny moustaches.
Later, outside Hermès, we spied a pair on the feet of major stylist Francesca Burns--“From Katie!" she said, as in Grand. “She’s good like that.” Very good indeed--Marc can make the clothes, but Katie knows how to pile them on. As the adorable Susie Bubble told me over tea and sweets chez Angelina, “It’s everything I want to wear in spring! All at once!"
Miu Miu had some of the same whimsy, in much primmer ways. A bit sexy--all those bra tops and bedhead braids--but in the awkward, schoolgirlish way Ms. Prada loves. The recurring swallow prints felt pretty and new. Are lighthearted motifs growing on me, I wonder? Maybe those bizarre strawberry adornments at YSL weren’t so bad?
There were no such surprises at Hermès--all very Anglaise, leisurely, and refined--but there was play too. Of the literal sort, that is. Turf covered the bleachers of La Halle Freyssinet; on the runway, misses Caroline Trentini and Catherine McNeil attempted a match of tennis. (Trust me: there was no winner.) Jean-Paul Gaultier knows what the Hermès women wants, and after sending out some jaunty pleats and preppy cashmeres--all in creamy and rusty shades, or navy--he delivered lovely silky-sheer gowns. Fluttering away from belted waists, they seemed light enough to wear for day. I like that idea. But not with the glam platforms (aren’t show stylists over those yet?) that came with nearly every look; instead, a single pair of flat, python-print ankle boots were coolest.
Or maybe that’s just me, craving relief from my five-inch fatigue. Sometimes if I wonder if heels aren’t just the fashion girl’s unconscious self-punishment: shouldn’t we have to suffer a little to live such privileged lives? When I return to reality, it’ll be in grey sweat-sneakers, cheap A.P.C. knock-offs, I found off Rue de Temple.