from ny times
ERE is a cliché about as subtle as a safe pushed off a rooftop: Paris is the new capital of fashion. That at least was the resounding consensus among retailers, editors, photographers and all of those glossy migrants who join the fashion caravan on its twice yearly trek from New York to London and Milan and finally to the City of Light.
"The plates have shifted, and Paris is the place right now, no question," said Robert Burke, the fashion director of Bergdorf Goodman, as he joined the crowd filing out into a moody winter evening just after Alber Elbaz's superb fall 2005 show for Lanvin, held a week ago at the École Nationale Supérieur des Beaux-Arts.
Any number of adjectives could be used to characterize the latest collection from this seasoned designer, now enjoying one of those overnight successes that take 20 years to achieve. Critics termed Mr. Elbaz's clothes serene, feminine and polished. They were called thoughtful, which mostly meant they lacked gimmickry. More than anything else, though, viewers responded to the Lanvin clothes as being unquestionably representative of their city of origin.
"It's a very French collection," said Kal Ruttenstein, the fashion director of Bloomingdale's, referring to the subtle jewel-like colors, the actual clusters of costume jewels and the hyperfeminine tailoring. "The feeling of it reminds me of Saint Laurent when he was at his peak and Paris was the only city anyone wanted to see."
Paris is once again that city. It is not merely that the most influential collections of the fall 2005 season were shown there. It is not just that its retail scene continues to set a creative pace no other place, except perhaps Tokyo, seems capable of emulating. It is also because the populace itself shows signs of having been liberated from the tyranny of stultifying bourgeois chic.
In place of the famous and overrated French knack for clever scarf tying techniques, a new style seems to characterize fashionable Paris, one that plays the game of high-low dressing with assurance, that takes couture clothes and treats them as carelessly as Haines T-shirts while elevating street clothes to the status of couture. The best place to witness this is at Colette, the original concept store.
Logic and the fickleness of fashion should dictate that, eight years after opening on a Right Bank street that was then mostly populated by crockery shops and dry cleaners, Colette should have enjoyed its moment in the sun and faded. Yet to visit it on a Saturday afternoon is still to feel as if one had received the nod from the doorman at the coolest club around.
On a recent Saturday the ground floor was jammed with shoppers like Rianne Ten Haken, a 17-year-old Dutch model who rubbed shoulders with a group of aggressively hip Japanese tourists, a small posse of artists from London and Mohamed al-Fayed, one of Britain's richest men, and his matched pair of bodyguards.
Ms. Ten Haken was looking at manga and art books. The Japanese tourists were buying the latest CD compilations from D.J. Michel Gaubert. The English artists had come searching for Libertine tank tops silk-screened with skulls. With the genial assurance of a person who defines having it all, Mr. Fayed indicated that he was not looking for any particular thing.
Why would one, when the catholic collection at Colette is so rich in the unexpected, from novelties (a $10 Be@rbrick figurine) to the fashion catnip of the season (Rei Kawakubo's whipstitched Frankenstein jackets) and the gaudiest of luxury products (a Mark Newson-designed tourbillon watch priced at $58,000), all laid out in a kind of bracing cross-frontier democracy of brands.
"What I love more than anything is mixing historical labels with contemporary brands," said Sarah Lerfel, a principal partner in Colette.
Her store is a laboratory for the study of an evolving consumer society that is coming to treat connoisseurship as a means of self-identification and self-worth. But wait. Wasn't that what Émile Zola was getting at in 1883 when he wrote "The Ladies' Delight," a hectic novel whose armature is the arrival in Paris of an innovation called the department store.
Parisians of Zola's era were obsessed with fashion, image and gratification. Only a fool would suggest they are less so today. An argument could be made that the French preoccupation with perfected surface goes back a good deal further than the 19th century. Ms. Lerfel is just the latest in a line of superlative merchants with deep roots in French history.
Among other merchants who could be found in no other city are Mona on the Left Bank and the four Maria Luisa stores on the Right. There is Erotokritos in the Marais, not far from the flagship of L'Éclaireur, a small chain of boutiques founded by Martine and Armand Hadida 25 years ago. L'Éclaireur not only hand-picks experimental designers but presents their wares in settings of ostentatious theatricality. One branch is in an unmarked space near the Palais Royale.
Once inside, shoppers are asked to shut off their cellphones in order to amplify the feeling of performing in an impromptu retail playlet, one in which the fantastical costumes are primarily handmade (by the British cobbler Paul Harnden, say, or the American collective Project Alabama) and where the backdrop is provided by Stéphane Olivier, an antiquarian known for his eclectic taste and for the tiny house adjacent to the flea market in Clignancourt where he holds court.
"In the States you have such nice department stores, and you have great stores like Maxfield in L.A.," said Nathalie Blanchet, the manager of the fugitive L'Éclaireur boutique (10 Rue Herold). "But here maybe there is more of a market for underground designers, for handcrafted work and a little more generosity to give understanding to these clothes."
There is also, as Anne Slowey, the fashion news director for Elle, explained, "the backdrop of this beautiful city, where you can wear things you could never get away with in New York."
Whenever she is in Paris, she said, she indulges her appetite for asymmetrical hobo jackets from Undercover or challenging voluminous rags from Comme des Garçons. "But I never wear them in New York," said Ms. Slowey, who happened to be wearing a tiered Rei Kawakubo skirt that gave her the aspect of a stylish crow.
"The uniform in New York is this uptight Uptown chic," Ms. Slowey said. "But here nothing looks weird or outrageous. There is more room for expression in how people dress."
Having for decades hewed to the stiff aesthetic and social value of suitable dressing (owning an Hermès bag was not half as important as knowing which was the appropriate model for one's station and age), Parisians have suddenly loosened up. Now they wear dreadlocks with their Rochas coats. Now they are not too snooty to ape the Japanese tourists who costume themselves, Harajuku-style, with trousers worn under their skirts.
"Paris historically provided the stage set for the emergence of a fashion system," said Valerie Steele, the director of the museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York.
In the Paris of the moment, that system hums along with a zippy efficiency that leaves the inhabitants of other world capitals looking like bumpkins waiting for a trolley ride to town.
"So many diverse design ideas are alive now in Paris," said George Cortina, a sought-after fashion stylist. "You look around, and you have everything from Chloé to the industrial Japanese designers like Rei to the hyperfeminine stuff from Rochas."
It is not incidental to Mr. Cortina's observation that a diverse array of nationalities is in play. "Paris is, first of all, Europe," said Didier Grumbach, the president of the Chambre Syndicale, French fashion's governing body. "And you have to say it is also the world if an Issey Miyake can show here and a Rick Owens, too," Mr. Grumbach added, referring to the Japanese designer and the American designer who took his filmy jerseys and decamped from L.A. to Paris a few seasons back.
"Our own market is much too small to survive without export," he said. "If we don't export, we die."
From this need perhaps derives the openness of French fashion to outsiders. "Each time we add names, each time fashion evolves, we enter new territories," Mr. Grumbach said.
Throughout the four week lead-up to French Fashion Week, after runway shows in New York, London and Milan, the tastemakers and early adapters who constitute the cognoscenti made no secret of their eagerness to arrive at Charles de Gaulle. "We are all looking forward to Paris," Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue, said with a stoic smile as the Milanese fashion week dragged on. There was good reason for Ms. Wintour's ennui.
New York's season, with its roster of cookie-cutter tyros, had already been judged flat, a dud, to put it generously. The London season had dwindled to a smattering of vaguely interesting bijou collections by people who may never actually produce the clothes they present. With the exception of two reliably strong showings by Prada and Marni, the Milanese season foundered badly on self-doubt and overall lack of direction.
Why was that? The dictators at the top of the Italian powerhouses that not long ago dominated fashion globally now seem caught in their own game, playing personnel chess when they ought to be revitalizating their industry. Italian fashion has taken on a glazed look of desperation, a frozen mask of the sort one sees in cosmetic surgery compulsives, people who refuse to cede their position to the young or else yield gracefully to the inevitability of age.
Centered in the window of a multibrand shop on the Rue de Rivoli in Paris is displayed a hilarious T-shirt from Dolce & Gabbana that bears the legend "I {sheart} Botulinum" spelled out in glitter. Paris, as it happens, has no need of Botox when it has Nicolas Ghesquiere for Balenciaga, Marc Jacobs for Louis Vuitton, Ms. Kawakubo for Comme des Garçons, Olivier Theyskens for Rochas and Mr. Elbaz for Lanvin.
Oddly enough it may be French designers who are underrepresented in a scene whose contestants represent more countries than are featured in a Miss Universe pageant. True, France continues to field its own formidable talents. But even the gifts and the cartoon Gallicism of Jean Paul Gaultier are not enough to hold off the talents from Japan or Turkey or Britain or Russia or Italy or former French colonies like Algeria and Senegal. And some designers, like Bernhard Wilhelm, have even begun openly expressing the city's age-old design debt to the immigrant cultures - West African and Chinese and South Asian and Arab - that have enriched Paris street life, in an uncredited way of course.
Few with even a faint awareness of politics would hail France for opening its arms to strangers or for becoming what Mayor David Dinkins of New York once termed an ethnic "salad bowl." Yet it is worth pointing out that the most "French" collections during the fashion week just ended were created by an expatriate Israeli and a gifted guy from the Upper West Side.
"Mark's show was a little bit misunderstood because he was predicting Paris before we got to Paris," Mr. Burke of Bergdorf Goodman said, referring to the frosty reception that greeted Marc Jacobs's New York show and that morphed into wild acclaim when he presented his Louis Vuitton show in Paris a week ago. To a certain extent, Mr. Burke added, Mr. Jacobs's controversial earlier presentation for his own label, with its queer dollhouse volumes and Edward Gorey inspirations, was too Gallic for New Yorkers grown lazily accustomed to jeans and sweats.
"It was a French show, basically," Mr. Burke said. "It just happened to take place in New York."