Here we go, here we go, another Paris Fashion Week, another February looking ahead to another fall, but will there be another 2024?

The last show I saw was Margiela by John Galliano under a bridge, people cried, I wonder what that will trigger for the next ones. Still the same crappy weather, the fashion wheel turns fast.

Vaquera. A little spark of New York might inspire, in a dark basement, a white door framed by white curtains. Sexy, rough looks walk fast and zig-zaggy, nets on legs, nets on faces, chaps, body bits out, hair pink new-wave or crimped seaweed style. I like the fake-fur-framed faces.

Tube to Le Marais. First social gathering. Fragile from ex-girlfriend treachery, I wonder how smiley I will be, mingling at the LEMAIRE photo opening, Osma Harvilahti’s show from Vietnam, “a sense of place, a sense of time, a sense of tune.” Two margaritas later, social skills are defo back and I love girls on bikes. Plenty of them on the walls.

Osma Harvilahti for LEMAIRE

Vaquera

Vaquera

Osma Harvilahti for LEMAIRE

Tuesday, Saint Laurent day. Not invited, freelancers usually being at the bottom of the list, no power (no desire) to push a handbag on paper. Rushing to Lafayette Anticipations for the opening of “Coming Soon,” where friends have pieces. Three floors done fast, I want to congratulate Clovis Bataille for his insulin needles! Mimosa Echard’s I’m raining (2023) is made of anti-radiation canvas and aluminum foil, the beauty of old, dangerous mercury mirrors, but protecting against waves. Looking fragile, feeling strong.

Tube to Pigalle. Gabrielle Greiss is showing her debut jewelry line, “Fables Etcetera,” Camille Vivier shot my son and Eva wearing them. Love the monkeys!!! I nepo-parent in a red-walled dive bar, let’s celebrate fast, I have to go to the Harper’s Bazaar dinner on the Left Bank.

Courrèges. A huge, old marketplace and we are sitting all around a huge, white powdery square. Hello, hello, hello to the usual fashion flashmob, the soft daylight is calming, it’s only 10:30am. Girls walk around the square, skinny heels, sunglasses, second skin, slits, nervous sexiness, the center of the room starts moving, the floor is breathing with the music, up and down, slow and deep. Am I in an app? I feel physical.

Camille Vivier for Gabrielle Greiss

Clovis Bataille, Untitled (Fakir), 2020–, used needles, paint, and blood on wood panel, 62 × 180 cm. © Clovis Bataille. Courtesy: Lafayette Anticipations, Paris

Mimosa Echard, I'm raining, 2023, canvas on aluminium frame, anti-radiation fabric, aluminium foil, clear acrylic varnish, 180 × 110 × 3 cm. © Aurélien Mole, Lafayette Anticipations and ADAGP, Paris, 2024. Courtesy: Lafayette Anticipations, Paris

Rushing to The Row. A courtyard of fashion and the art scene, very refined, very deep, very plush, I wonder if my post-punk old jeans and my post-punk zippy jumper are not a sign of fashion laziness. Big stone staircase, Greek frieze around the ceiling, maroon, woven-silk panels, a Japanese notebook on the bench with your name penciled on if you fancy sketching. I take photos. A beldam is sat across the room, I missed part of the show staring at her face. In a cafe, I post a story on Instagram, the phone rings, PR ask me to remove the photos, oops, I forgot the memo saying no social media, I erase them feeling very rude. Too loud for the deep-carpet world, maybe?

Acne Studios. Villu Jaanisoo’s tire sculptures in the middle of the Observatory. I look at the cute lesbian it-girls posing nearby. The show starts, the models turn into bags, a few looks remind me of young Kylie Rose Carroll’s folded leathers. She made those sculpted pieces. Very arousing nipple effect from those frozen, aroused nipples.

Quick jump to Dan Thawley’s curation of MATTER and SHAPE, I wanted to see the Grace Atkinson piece about liquifying flowers. I kiss some friends and go to bed.

Acne Studios

The Row, Winter 2024. Photo: Jamie Hawksworth

Chloé. It’s a five-minute walk from my flat. Curious to see what’s happening in the house of flou. The front row is the same as it was a few years ago, am I back in time? Lots of sunglasses, lots of Gremlins headbands, lots of frills, lots of 70s babes walking. I still see a West London girl that moved to LA.

I meet a young photographer later in a café to discuss a dyke story. She says, “Cool! Things are moving at Chloé!” I realize not every girl is a lesbian.

Givenchy. It’s in their salons. While the models walk, I have the feeling I can hear the conversations in the studio while they were doing the looks. Why that hair, why that navy and black, why that shoe … I manage to bore myself with invented predictions.

Rabanne. I like the girl, the Rabanne muse is real. Julien Dossena dug into the Amy Arbus book On The Street (2006), street style from 80s in NYC is one of my favorites. Cool clothes for cool girls, like what we used to do at Marc by Marc Jacobs. I am not so much into quiet luxury, and maybe not into luxury at all.

Chloé dinner in an old church. Red wine with Tiffany Godoy. Moved my seating two spots away, discussed motherhood and work with Chemena Kamali.

Another day. Quick moment at the LVMH Prize, so important to check in on the new guard. Paolo Carzana is going plant-dying and seaweed layered shapes. Elena Velez digs Americana gone steampunk in linen. Marie Adam-Leenaerdt is all about the skirt. Karoline Vitto is into sexy metal ladders on curvy hot bodies. Jacques Agbobly rethinks his Togolese culture in bright, genderless silhouettes. Hodakova is patching and twisting leather and shirts. Duran Lantink is already a magazine star. I shot his pieces three times last season, and I am not the only one! Looking forward to his show in two days.

Rushing to Loewe via the Tube. Once again, as in every season, I manage to go to the wrong side of the Château de Vincennes. It’s raining, it’s muddy. I cross paths with sheep by the castle walls, then arrive in the middle of a crazy influencer world. Green set, eighteen paintings by the reclusive Albert York. The looks are weird and elegant, not quiet, not bonkers. I have a little stomach cramp. I want to be young, I want to be rich, I want to take photos of them, the colors are anti-Pantone, the florals are embroidered, I don’t like florals, I don’t like embroidery, but I am drooling over these. Three girls arrive with double bangs. Guido Palau layered black and blue, the back of the head a tiny braid. Who are those sci-fi samurai girls wearing woolly, studded tank tops, those elephant-ears trousers and extra-long tail-coats? I want to date them. I want to be them.

Loewe

Modeling afternoon, I can’t say no to Y/Project. A look from the ten-year-anniversary collection shooting with Arnaud Lajeunie. Glen thinks I am too romantic in my mouse-gray suit. I obey, he knows. I never thought I looked too romantic with the short hair, but slightly happy to hear I was not the pointy, angry-looking bitch I am convinced I look like! I end up in a black, sculpted denim outfit with a half-sideboob showing. Mel Ottenberg is wrapped in blue, Charlie XCX is a cool tomboy.

Another morning, another rain at La Garde Républicaine for Hermès. I sit between a friend who started studying to become a therapist and reads my shrink books (I never understood them) and a journalist, an ex of an ex-girlfriend. It starts pouring in the middle of the runway, Edie Campbell opens, the girls are stomping tough and sexy beside the water drops. Their hair is wet and slicked back, The Stranglers’ “La Folie” (1982) starts playing, piercing lyrics, black leather, studs, shorts, and cool boots. Another desire attack. What’s happening?

Hermès

Alexander McQueen is in the deep deep south of Paris. I jump in the Tube feeling very smarty-pants not to be in a taxi. Half an hour later, the train is stopped for technical reasons and the coach is packed with students. On Instagram, I see the show is late, a friend who films over there tells me she is frozen cold, another friend explains the designer thought it was cool to create drama and be hard-access, like Lee used to do in London. I get very annoyed by that very presumptuous idea, I loved his shows at the time, but Lee was Lee! From Maison Blanche I take the Tube the opposite way, right in time for the Hermès diner. I see Nadège Vanhée-Cybulski outside with her friend Mimi, congratulate her for the fab show she did and I ask her if she would marry me, Mimi wants to get married to Nadège too, we agree to polygamy. Phew!

Little interlude at the emergency room of l’Hôpital Lariboisière, my son the rocker got drugged at Ann Demeulemeester’s after-show party. A few nocturnal bicycle rides later, all good.

Balenciaga, Les Invalides, it’s a sunny morning. Avenue de Breteuil reminds me of my grandparents’ flat, as usual, the set is incredible, walls and floors lit from behind with a blond, wood-panelled projection, it feels a bit zen. Action! While the girls walk, we move through space, one landscape after another. Minimally shaped masks and beanies to the nostrils blindfold the cast, Demna’s boyfriend’s music paces it deep, fast, heavy. The cities morphed, the dresses collaged, the tailored suits flopped, the jeans shrunk, the realities melted, what a beautiful morning!

Balenciaga

Evening at PrograM/Me for the launch of the M/M (Paris) world issue, the art issue, I styled a long story with Julien Leclerc Martinez, mixing fashion with all their strong pieces. Lots of friends, lots of Chinese influencers, prosecco and strange conversations about my behavior on set. Nightmares all night. No sleep.

I miss Chanel, nearly miss Miu Miu too, I got the time wrong. Cecil B Evans’s multi-video installation, downloaded memory, digital apocalypse, brown carpet and blue world onscreen. Incredible, androgynous casting, different ages, different stages of bourgeoisie, a very Italian-cinema atmosphere. Gremlins are back again, such a furry season! Conservative ladies disturb fluro-knitted girls, a lime-green suit reminds me of one I bought at fourteen, mine had a leopard collar, my father stopped giving me money for clothes straight after. Lol.

Miu Miu

Louis Vuitton. 4000 guests? Will it be a nightmare? Ten years of Nicolas Ghesquière at LV. I enter the Louvre like a knife in butter, very quiet inside. Philippe Parreno’s mineral garden and satellites flicker through sunset. Here we go, it’s pale, sparkly, never seen, déjà-vu. The game is to spot clues of the past collections in the looks of the future. It feels light and photogenic.

I hear about a surprise YSL menswear show later. Only for the happy few. I go home.

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