They say you learn something new everyday and I’m willing to believe that, but when it comes to street style, it appears to be more appropriate to say that you learn something new every look.
This embryonic theory could have only been propelled by the photos that came out of the recent Couture Week in Paris, where the outfits were perhaps vaguely quieter than they are during the ready-to-wear weeks and the sun beams down on The Tuileries like the hand of God at a bar crawl. What?
There was plenty of black, notably made interesting by either a series of cascading gold chains and charms complementing a plunging neckline on sun-kissed skin or a scant walk captured optimally through the lens of one Tommy Ton. There was lots of color, too. There were turtleneck sweater cape-vest things, which I think will give the side boob we’ve all come to know a run for its cupping, and a handful of handbags that looked more like inanimate objects than belonging-carriers. Karl Lagerfeld posed with the fur version of himself and Giambattista Valli’s off-duty models won the coolest hair trick award.
Friends giggled in trench coats and leather jackets alike — the latter begging the worth of garments less prosaic than they are. There were rubber earrings that looked like lips, hard shell, embellished clutches featuring human facial features, at least six nods to Philo’s Céline that never, ever get old, and lime green shin-length socks that drove this point home.
There was the now near-ubiquitous Chanel backpack and a variety of basket-bearing bikes. There were sneakers. And overalls. And ballet flats that made me think. A handbag that looked like a blue violet and sleeves so long yet strategically fallen, I wondered about the true value of an operating hand. There was fringe, sometimes squared, and this one pair of satin booties with three rows of pearls across the front and an embellished cap toe that made me question every personal belonging I have heretofore known.
There were kids.
There was Anna dello Russo in looks 1-50 and interestingly enough, there were far fewer exposed legs than I would have guesstimated to be in attendance.
Arguably most impressively, though, there was the kind of energy that rejuvenates — not depletes — an onlooker’s relationship with fashion. The kind of smiles that can’t be made up and this overarching sense that when all was said and done and these people were ready to pack up and go home, they kind of, sort of, maybe didn’t want to. It’s like I always say, you know, fashion doesn’t have to be serious to be really, really good.