What is haute couture? To claim this strictly Parisian label, a house must, according to regulations established in 1945 by the Ministry of Industry, have two ateliers – one for tailoring, the other for so-called “flou” (soft, unstructured) pieces; create original, made-to-measure, hand-crafted designs; and employ at least 12 people. These requirements have tended to make haute couture a formal and sometimes stilted exercise. For the spring-summer 2026 season, which was held from January 26 to 29, some designers sought to break free from convention with surprising staging.
The undisputed master of this approach was Alessandro Michele, who has been the artistic director of Valentino since 2024. The Italian designer, whose collections are marked by a strong taste for costume and a certain disregard for moderation, avoided clichés by choosing settings designed to unsettle his audience – such as giant public toilets for his ready-to-wear show in March 2025. This time, he drew inspiration from the Kaiserpanorama, a collective optical device patented in the late 19th century around which viewers would sit and look through small openings to see moving stereoscopic images.
For the runway show, Michele had 26 circular kiosks constructed and around which guests sat, each facing a square opening about the size of a CD case. Through this aperture, they discovered the models, who passed by one at a time, posing for about 10 seconds before moving on to the next Kaiserpanorama.
“In a present dominated by (…) unrestrained consumption, haute couture aims to offer a vision shaped by a different sense of time, one of slowness,” explained Michele in his statement of intent, describing the show’s setting as a “contemporary altar, a place of symbolic concentration that directs the gaze and regulates access.”
The outfits, inspired by vintage Hollywood, were reinterpreted by Michele, who added bows, fringe, ruffles and feathers, bridal trains and hypnotic embroidery, regal collars and sparkling tiaras. From airy silk chiffon to soft velvet, from teal blue to yellow gold, from sequins to pearls to Lurex, the viewer witnessed a joyous fashion whirlwind through their small window, lending this collection its full grandeur.
Socialites in strapless gowns
Robert Wun staged his show at the Théâtre du Lido. The London-based designer has gradually made a name for himself by mythologizing a certain type – a woman of tortured glamour, somewhere between a Wagnerian heroine and a Hitchcockian victim. In the theater, three large screens showed footage of stormy skies or sunrises, setting the scene for a parade of sculpted queens adorned with embroidered jewels (lab-grown diamonds, mined sapphires), daring figures with trompe-l’œil sculpted abs or cape coats reminiscent of wicked stepmothers.
“For this show, I delved back into my student inspirations,” Wun explained, referencing religious garments and the extravagance of Thierry Mugler. “What is expected of a designer today? To be commercial, visible… But for me, couture must be the artisanal world of dreams.” Puff sleeves or trains, bustiers with pointed breasts, sharply defined hats, razor-edged shoulders, rounded trousers, dresses with nearly spherical draping: In his hands, exaggerated shapes worked perfectly with theatrical staging.
Some designers did not hesitate to participate in their shows in person. At the Astre photo studio, which opened in 1968 in the heart of Paris, Ronald van der Kemp greeted his guests himself. He grabbed a camera and began photographing the baroque silhouettes of his collection, crafted from vintage gauze, brocade, velvet, silk or crystals. “Wow!” “Show me your rage!” “Beautiful!”
The Dutch designer directed his socialites dressed in strapless gowns slit at the leg, extravagant matador-embroidered jackets, lace sheaths and pirate hats, snapping their photos in a cascade of flashes. “It was my tribute to the old days of couture, a sentimental 60s era that I idealize,” he explained. It was an entertaining show, though too blinding and repetitive to fully take off.
Since their debut in 1993, Viktor & Rolf have made performance a relevant format: The duo consistently hit the mark both for audiences in the room and on social media. This time, at the Grand Palais Immersif, they took the stage with a model in a white dress. Then, one by one, 16 other women advanced in enveloping black dresses – either voluminous or straight – made from satin, crepe or brocade, looking part Victorian widow, part Morticia Addams.
Each wore a detail “in the tangy shades of children’s crayons,” as Viktor Horsting and Rolf Snoeren described it: an ochre ruff, Barbie-pink basques, an apple-green tulle overcoat, red or cerulean sticks, canary-yellow bows and so on. “Being on stage isn’t what we prefer, but this project allows us to be with our models and to share a childlike sense of fun,” the duo said with a smile, receiving enthusiastic applause. With each entrance, one or the other took the colorful element and attached it to the first young woman – around her neck, over her head, around her hips. At the end of this delightful back-and-forth, she was lifted into the air, allowing the audience to see that the multicolored ensemble formed a 17th silhouette shaped like a kite.
