To, that is to say, the trussed-up, fringed, woven, crystal-strewn, peekaboo, more-is-more aesthetic that Olivier Rousteing has made his own. Even the dress-down section, in his hands, had a bit of shine: a white V-neck over black jeans, both covered in sequins; a pair of overalls, crystal-strewn.
Think of it as an effort to answer the existential question: “How much bling can fit on the head of a pin” (or one minidress)?
A lot, apparently. In a letter to his younger self, handed to attendees, Mr. Rousteing noted he was having his show at the Opéra because it was there, in all its gilt and gilded glory, that he first began to dream his fashion dream. He had “come full circle,” which, along with the unexpected (in a good way) graphic moment at the beginning, suggests that maybe he’s reached the end of one stage and is about to embark on another.
If so, perhaps he can leave behind the long dresses that harnessed the body, played peekaboo, and then exploded in a rosette of ruffles at the ankle so tightly that the models could not walk. There is nothing happy about a hobble skirt. Here’s hoping this is the last we see of it. Now let’s move this party on.
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