Cast your mind back to Maria Grazia Chiuri’s debut for the house of Christian Dior, her Spring 2017 ready-to-wear collection. Stomping along the catwalk, right in the middle of an army of fencers and ballerinas, incipient feminists and would-be revolutionaries, was a black funnel-neck coat, possibly made of double-face cashmere, with a narrow rounded shoulder, no obvious hardware, and nothing to say for itself except an exquisite proportion. For some of us in attendance that day, it was the piece that spoke most confidently of Chiuri’s sartorial skills and her rightful place at the helm of a magical yet weighty legacy.
Her haute couture outing for Dior today was entirely devoted to the precious dignity of such beautiful but quiet clothes, pieces sculpted and pleated and constructed (mostly sans corsets) in such a way that they could literally never exist in prêt-à-porter . . . or at least with any notion of proper fit. The palette was blush, navy, celery, rose, tea, and every interpretation of nude one might imagine. There was a deliberate dryness to the proceedings—literally, in the choice of fabrics (matte duchesse, double-face, crepe) and handwork (macramé, wood bead embroidery, ribbon embroidery), and figuratively, in the references to the atelier (the room was covered floor-to-ceiling in cotton toiles of the looks from the show) and the elevation of the client-studio relationship. These are serious clothes, Chiuri seemed to be saying, made by the finest hands and meant to be appreciated by women who are beyond the flimflam and easy glam of our times.
“Couture is about something hidden,” Chiuri said. “If you go to the atelier, you want to take care of yourself and know that someone will take care of you.” Her clothes reflect a private relationship, in other words, and one set apart from the world of social media and speediness for its own sake. “We have this big opportunity to work with a different definition of time,” says Chiuri. “Craftsmanship is long; it is a dream for a future.”
So what will her clients be dreaming of? Cashmere suiting of an unusual three-piece stripe: bolero, sleeveless jacket, and slim tuxedo pant. Strapless dresses that hover just over the ankle in satin, organza flowers, or a Gobelins tapestry jacquard (with “velour” of cut monkeys and stags). Sunray pleats on skirts, down backs, and framing décolletage, in luscious hues of rose and jade and sand—just loveliness in a dress, nothing else required. And there’s a long-sleeved gown—hello demure gals!—of midnight blue and rose embroidered with glass and dull silver bugle beads that’s pure heaven. Too subtle for the red carpet? Perhaps . . .
Or perhaps the red carpet is a-changin’, and therein the rationale for this client-centric, flash-defiant outing. Define it differently if you must, but there is something very timely about discreet chic at this cultural moment. This was, after all, the year of the all-black, no fuss red carpets at the Globes and Oscars, and surely we are not going to return to the multi-spangled cantilevered cleavage fests of yore anytime soon. This was also the year of a royal wedding, not to mention a royal engagement, christenings, global tours, and the breathless scrutiny of duchess style the world over. (It is a monarchic moment, at least in fashion land.) Chiuri’s offerings are for people who make noise in the world by wearing clothes that murmur elegantly. And when these clothes do speak, they do so only to their wearer. That’s true intimacy in a nutshell . . . or a dusty rose, sculpted-bodice gown with a fin of pleats down the back.
