Paris Fashion Week: The New Cool
Latex, stairwell raves, croissant quests, and couture hallucinations—this season rewrote the rules.
Vaughan Ollier’s Paris Fashion Week adventure. Photo: Julian Ungano
Paris in July hums like a secret too good to keep. If you happen to be in the city this week—chasing couture shows, debating croissant quality, or just trying to get a table at Hotel Costes—you’re not alone. One of Anarchy Daily’s own (model, muse, chaos navigator) lets us peek into a day lived at fashion’s speed: a blur of martinis, photo exhibits, and outfits that scream “don’t look at me” while begging to be seen. Between gallery openings and whispered espresso orders, here’s how the insiders dress, drink, and disappear into the Paris summer.
Paris, 5:30 a.m.
Don’t you just love Paris in the rain?
Cliché, sure—but also wildly accurate. I’m writing this with my window open, listening to bar patrons below scream-laugh, dance, and smoke through the early dawn drizzle. Somehow, I’m not mad they woke me.
The city’s alive—electrified—for Men’s Fashion Week. Paris buzzes in that singular way only New York and Paris can: a cinematic hum where you want to know everyone’s name, and you want them to know yours.
You move through the city like you’re being filmed. People look, and you let them. It’s a week of strangers becoming lovers, best friends, or creative collaborators—depending on the hour, and most importantly, the wine.
How to Dress When It’s Too Hot to Think
It’s 90 degrees. You’re melting. But Paris demands your chicest look. So, the girls are wearing tiny shorts, stripper boots, and oversized men’s shirts—with a vintage Prada or Y2K Gucci bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. Apparently, that's the look of the summer-don’t quote me on this or maybe do… It’s giving a “hot hooker”. A kind of Miaou, Miu Miu way. This look only flies in two places without judgment: Paris and New York. One’s too artistic to care. The other, too expensive to ask.
Here are some recycled outfit ideas.
A Week of Faces, Flashbulbs, and Feels
In 48 hours:
Two photo exhibitions
A gallery opening
A birthday dinner for someone I barely know
Two showroom visits
Two brand launches
Rick Owens Turns the Palais de Tokyo into a Baptismal Rave
The most electrifying moment of the week? Rick Owens, obviously. His menswear show wasn’t just fashion, it was spectacle. Held at his concrete altar of choice, the Palais de Tokyo, the show felt less like a runway and more like a cinematic exorcism. Glorious models—glistening, impossibly angular—drenched themselves in water and emerged like post-apocalyptic deities. Each look? A masterclass in cut, chaos, and conviction.
Owens has always flirted with the edge, but this time, he pushed us in. It wasn’t about theatrics or showmanship, it was raw, soaked, sculptural power. Mythology in motion. And let’s be honest… it wouldn't be Fashion Week without attending or walking in a show, am I right?
Another standout? Jai O'Dell’s photo show—gritty, graceful, and real. Ballerinas, bruised light, no filters. Hosted by Trouble Management (Milan’s coolest photo agency), showing work that doesn’t feel like ad copy. Displaying amazing, fresh photographers with edge and style.
Photographer/director Robert Nethery showed up—his collabs with Mustafa Yanaz always hit. He captures the kind of elegance that never tries too hard. His work doesn’t show a model, it shows the cool girl. The kind you want to follow around all night.
Jai O'Dell’s photo show
Robert Nethery
Couture FOMO, Men’s Week Magic, and a New Fashion Order
As for this week’s Couture shows, I’m beside myself for missing Schiaparelli. A literal beating heart on the runway? Dreamlike. Surreal. The kind of fashion moment you remember forever... even if, heartbreakingly, I only experienced it through my phone screen. But even fashion girls need sleep, and after the delicious chaos of Men’s Week, I’m savoring a little R&R in London.
Paris felt different this time. Maybe it’s the sleepier, freakier energy of Men’s Week—but the vibe? Electric. What’s cool now isn’t about perfection or polish—it’s about play. People are mixing latex with taffeta, dollar-store makeup with Margiela, heartbreak with horny DMs. It’s chaotic, intimate, and deeply personal. Even the parties felt different. Less bottle service, more baggy denim, red wine in Solo cups, and spontaneous iPhone music videos in stairwells.
Craig Green
The hierarchy’s crumbling. No one’s trying to impress the industry, they’re building something better. Craig Green’s return. Kiko Kostadinov showed in a parking lot. Wooyoungmi, slick and soulful. This season wasn’t about legacy—it was about energy and momentum. A new generation shaping fashion in real time, not for approval but for expression. Making space for softness, experimentation, and self-invention.
Kiko Kostadinov
Tyrone Dylan - Rick Owens' SS26 “Temple“.
And if you weren’t there? Don’t worry. Fashion is no longer a closed room—it’s a moving party, and someone just slipped you the address.
Here are some of my favorite places.
Where the Beautiful Go to Be Seen (or Pretend Not To)
Aux Deux Protégés
Tucked in the 10th arrondissement, this effortlessly cool bar spills out onto the street with a crowd that looks like they were cast by a French New Wave fever dream. The eyebrow-pierced and chain-smoking chic gather here to talk about art, heartbreak, and Demna’s final collection for Balenciaga in the bathroom line. The martinis are stiff, the glances are sharp, and everyone is pretending not to care who’s watching.
Bar Nouveau
New, sexy, and cinematic. Hidden near Pigalle, with bartenders who look like extras from a Wong Kar-wai film and a Negroni that could undo you.
Bar Nouveau a new hot spot.
Hotel Costes
The OG. Lit by candlelight and dripping in excess, Costes never disappoints. No reservation? Good luck—unless you’re someone, or with someone who is. The courtyard hums with models, editors, and the occasional billionaire mid-breakdown.
Never gets old Hotel Costes.
Chez Janou
Marais magic. Duck confit, endless chocolate mousse, and a crowd that reads Artforum in public. You’ll stay longer than planned—possibly forever.
Le Mary Celeste
Natural wine, oysters, and curated cool. A bar full of people who say they “don’t care about fashion” but are dressed better than you.
For Croissants, Coffee, and Something to Whisper Over
Ble Sucré – Possibly the flakiest croissants in the city. Bakers start before sunrise. Worth the pilgrimage.
Coutume Café – Understated and sleek. Great flat whites, better people-watching.
Fragments – For the espresso snobs. Quiet, stylish, always someone editing a screenplay in the corner.
Café de Flore is where Paris writes itself—espresso-fueled, cigarette-kissed, and forever buzzing with the ghosts of Sartre, Chanel, and every chic rebel since.
Le Baron Rouge – Legendary wine bar. No-frills, all vibe. Order the cheese plate and post up.
Septime La Cave – A natural wine gem. Stand outside with a glass of orange wine and pretend you’re in a French film.
