At first, you couldnât tell it from ground level, but the banks of white hydrangeas we were all admiringâwhile the Eiffel Tower was busy doing its twinkling thing somewhere to our leftâwere actually laid out to spell YSL. (Drone footage revealed this on our phones, while we were simultaneously spectating on the arrivals of Hailey Bieber, ZoĂŤ Kravitz, Central Cee, Jean-Paul Gaultier and, eventually, Madonna and her daughter Lourdes.)
It was a spectacular cinematic outdoor setting for a show laden with Saint Laurent codes; an event which draws hundreds more spectators beyond those with a seat on the inside. The message? Well, to start with, Paris at night is synonymous with Yves Saint Laurent, and under cover of darkness all manner of libertine behaviors may be savored and condoned. Or thatâs how it used to seem in the mythology of the 1970s and 1980s, when Saint Laurent was at his height and sex and glamour and âpermissivenessâ were owned and glorified as quintessentially French in the pages of Vogueâs Paris edition, celebrated in the photography of Helmut Newton.
A far-off age indeed, in these times of the rise of the Trad Wife. âLouche aristocratâ is how Anthony Vaccarello typified the throwback look of the women who began to stalk in their shiny, pointy slingback stilettos around those gravel paths. At first, they were wearing power-shouldered black leather biker-jacketed pencil-skirted suits, with crisp, outstanding white p*ssy-bow blouses exaggerated almost to the point of going rogue. Definitely not sweet, domesticated little p*ssies, anyhow. Vaccarello had first used them this way in his hit menswear collection of fall â23, he reminded us backstage.
But what were these mesdames up to, treading around this beautiful formal garden at night? One of them, in full leatherâa matching corset, skirt and jacketâwas wearing a black leather military cap. Vaccarello mentioned Robert Mapplethorpe in his show notes. âI wanted to start with, like, the idea of cruising from the gay scene in the Tuileries [gardens],â he said. âI wanted to redo it [here] in front of the Trocadero, having these women in leather cruising round a big YSL.â
How far can you go to be subversive and sexually charged in fashion in days like ours when women, even on film festival red carpets, have been ordered to cover up? Vaccarelloâhimself much involved with the movie world these days, of courseâseemed to be pushing this point with the next passage of his show. Voila: the Saint Laurent raincoat and day dress, classics of the house which once turned bourgeois, now redone in multiple shades of thin, slippery-looking body-clinging nylon, covered from neck to knee with quite obviously nothing-much if anything underneath. âYes, because itâs still about nudity,â Vaccarello shrugged. âA confrontation?â a journalist in the room suggested. âYes. Câest Saint Laurentâ he concurred, smiling.
The third passage was very Saint Laurent, tooâin full-blown romantic historical mode. These billowing dressesâmemories, perhaps, of Yves Saint Laurentâs landmark haute couture showsâwere also made of nylon. Voluminous of skirt and sleeve, ruffled furiously in front, they formed a long parade of gorgeous colors, flowing in the night breeze. Vaccarello pointed out that the material means that a woman can just scrunch her evening gown up in a ball. Still, through all the voluminousness, there were still glimpses of the female form. âShe goes from radical leather, a kind of hard woman that goes softly, softly, softly into these dresses,â he concluded with a glint in his eye. âBut sheâs the same woman. Sheâs not as soft as we think.â
