PARIS — Deep in the bowels of the Palais de Tokyo, a building dedicated to modern art, down a back stairway strafed with graffiti and through many a wandering hall, Rick Owens was leaning against a wall on Thursday afternoon, considering doom.
“It’s a doomy moment,” he said, “in a doomy era. We’ve all been thinking the system got so oversaturated, it had to go bust at some point. This is it.”
Then he smiled.
Because his consideration of doom had gotten him thinking about his doomy adolescence in Porterville, Calif., where he had felt stifled by conservatism and found relief in the music of the English singer Gary Numan. So this winter he had emailed Mr. Numan out of the blue, and asked if he could use some of his original tracks — something deeply personal — for a show, and Mr. Numan had said “sure,” dug them up out of his manager’s basement, and sent them over.
Sometimes even the blackest clouds have a silver lining. Not a bad reminder, right about now. After all, said Mr. Owens, these days “I’m in Paris, and I get to be as exotic as I want.” He broke free!
He’s not the only one.
There’s a push-pull of dire prophesying and optimism in the air. A lot of dark, dungeonlike settings, that still, at the end, let the light in. Virgil Abloh set his Off-White show around upended cars, sawed in half to create an automotive graveyard — or maybe a visual quote of Cadillac Ranch in Texas — cast in an eerie red light. Julien Dossena held his Paco Rabanne show in the vaulted netherland of the Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette was held prisoner. We keep going down, down, down, and then up.
For Mr. Owens — who had a Marie Antoinette-ish moment of his own when his wife, Michèle Lamy, appeared at his show clutching a handbag that was a facsimile of his (severed) head — this meant long, slithery, one-sleeved (sometimes one-breasted) cashmere knit gowns cut almost to the hip on one side and tangling around the ankle on the other, worn over bodysuits and thigh-high platform boots. Smart little jackets with shoulders that dusted the earlobes, and sleeves that dangled to mid-thigh. Also recycled-plastic slickers, chartreuse snakeskin separates and cerulean blue satin. Plus sweeping king-size puffer capes, a trickle-down result of his recent collaboration with Moncler, and Art Deco lines.
In the Owens canon, they almost all qualified as wearable; they were, despite the extreme geometry, notably balanced.
At Off-White, it meant Hadids of all ages (Bella and Gigi and mother Yolanda) plus other famous models (Karlie Kloss and Alek Wek and Carolyn Murphy) in a bit of this, a bit of that: slick sapphire-and-white cow-print pencil skirts and trench coats; hallucinogenic houndstooth-check suiting; mint green leather jumpsuits and amethyst knits; billowing tulle ball gowns spliced on top with Arc’teryx technical jackets, the taffeta of the outdoor rec world. (Then, at the end, a shower of spangled confetti, like a graduation party for the segue out of streetwear.)
At Paco Rabanne, it meant shedding the 1960s sci-fi futurism that has become a cliché of the brand to connect its chain mail to Joan of Arc, and the idea of an avenging angel. Hooded silver and gold gowns had the drape of vestments and the commitment of the true believer. Between them came austere black and gray suiting with the ruff of a clerical collar peeking out; lacy chemise dresses and tapestry brocades. In looking back, Mr. Dossena took a great leap forward.
And at Loewe, it meant Jonathan Anderson slip-sliding through centuries and details into some unknown, but very attractive, future. Infanta elements — bell sleeves, abstracted pannier hips, corsets — met Chrysler Building curves met craft (met cumulus feather hoods). Gold and emerald fabric bubbled and draped around a ceramic breastplate by the Japanese artist Takuro Kuwata, there was some Three Musketeers-reminiscent suiting, and a Maid Marian cream knit sweater dress that sported sleeves in three fluted tiers spilled with watery blue beads.
Afterward Mr. Anderson talked about the English painter Bridget Riley and Kyoto and the 1940s, but the lingering impression left was one of royalty lost — and, perhaps, regained. Albeit in a different, more melting pot form. One that relies less on a mandate of the heavens or bloodline, and more on sheer invention.
“The act of creativity is an act of hope in itself,” Mr. Owens had said before his show. On with their heads.
