Fashion Week

Feeling FOMO? What Paris Fashion Week Was Like for Vogue Runway’s Local Reporter

Here is where I share that I have not once left Paris—not even a day trip to the countryside, despite some lovely and generous invitations—since December 2019. While I can’t fully explain such self-imposed confinement within the confinements, it’s made me especially sensitive to the city’s adaptations, people’s shifting behaviors and moods, and the passage of time when subject to circumstances often beyond our control. It’s made me, in the quotidian aspects of life, consider the line from Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who died last month, “I am awaiting, perpetually and forever, a renaissance of wonder.”

At their best, Fashion Weeks serve up some solid wonder. But with no shows, no gatherings, and none of the precious in-between moments, those of us here spent the week trying to find it elsewhere. Like in the abundant sprays of magnolia, forsythia, and camellia blossoms arriving early around town. Or in the newly reopened Hermès store on the Left Bank, an architectural oasis that occupies a former swimming pool. Or in something as simple as an Iné vegetarian bento prepared by Sarah Ueta, who as of this season pivoted from her fashion-P.R. gig to hosting Fashion Week’s tastiest pop-up at the Broken Arm. Or in the intimate showroom visits, which felt like an enormous privilege and sheer pleasure. There was the moment that Guillaume Henry of Patou told me how his team gets excited anytime they spot someone dressed in a more eccentric way. “With our view to Saint-Michel, we see an incalculable number of people, so anytime you see someone more fantastical, you just want to open the window and applaud them.” Or the moments ogling the surrealist bijoux circa 2021 at Schiaparelli, where Daniel Roseberry said, “You should be stopped on the street every five minutes in these pieces,” rightly adding, “but it’s not campy, it’s not a joke.”