After the euphoric haute couture season we had last time around, I had a feeling in my bones this one would be much more subdued. Turns out, I was right. The first day of couture left me wondering: what’s the point of all this? And, more importantly, does it still feel relevant? Jonathan Anderson‘s sophomore couture collection for Dior didn’t really answer either question. Which is a shame, especially considering how extraordinary his debut was just six months ago. Then again, maybe he simply didn’t have enough time to perfect it.

The biggest issue is that the collection feels unresolved. Anderson’s fascination with vintage garments is evident – everything is tweedy and blanket-y, the jewellery evokes more Paul Bert Serpette than Victoire de Castellane, and the hats look exactly like the sort of treasures you’d hope to discover in the most glamorous attic imaginable. But none of it seems meaningfully connected to the supposed Lynda Benglis narrative. The tropical glass-house venue doesn’t help either.

It’s as if Anderson wants to embrace full Galliano-esque fantasy – think the blue dress with the oversized fan bustier or the dramatically pleated red cape finished with a bow – but something keeps pulling him back to earth. Unfortunately, that tension doesn’t quite work in the collection’s favour. The metallic foil dresses end up looking closer to Ferrero Rocher wrappers than opulent eveningwear inspired by Benglis’ molten sculptures, and I’m fairly certain that wasn’t the goal.

At this point, I’d rather see a concise story from Jonathan than another gathering of fascinating characters. And imagine this collection on mature women instead of impossibly young models. The entire dynamic would shift. Suddenly it would feel more convincing, more lived-in, more chic. Because for all its ambition, this lineup was missing that elusive quality couture needs above all else: the confidence – and sophistication – that only advanced chicness can deliver.

Collage by Edward Kanarecki.
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