After a year of unfortunate creative decisions – or, more accurately, a lack of them – in ready-to-wear, Pierpaolo Piccioli’s debut haute couture collection for Balenciaga felt like a last chance. The final indication of whether this odyssey actually has a destination – or whether it should simply come to an end. Unfortunately, Piccioli failed that test. Or rather, the exam.
Remembering the thrill, radiant warmth, and emotional complexity of his now-legendary Valentino couture shows, it is shocking how predictable and devoid of depth this collection feels. The reliance on Cristóbal Balenciaga references is especially jarring, given how fresh in the memory Demna’s perception-shifting and often devastatingly beautiful couture collections remain. They challenged the eye, the body, and the very idea of elegance. Piccioli, by contrast, rarely moves beyond reverence.
And what is left once you strip away all the volume he packs his women into? Very little. The collection leans heavily on the vocabulary he established at Valentino – a colourful opera glove here, a floor-sweeping toga there – while simultaneously adopting an almost encyclopaedic approach to the house’s heritage. The result feels less like a dialogue with Balenciaga and more like an annotated bibliography. The outdoor setting, blasted by unforgiving sunlight, did the clothes few favours. Nor did the overwrought soundtrack, which seemed determined to manufacture emotion that the collection itself struggled to generate. This was a line-up that begged – screamed – for intimacy and sincerity.
And considering the extraordinary capabilities of Balenciaga’s haute couture ateliers, it is genuinely disturbing how unflattering some of the garments appeared, particularly those reliant on folding and draping. Also, do we really need another feathered sea urchin? Another parachute dress carrying little more than emptiness at its centre?
The last time Piccioli presented a couture collection was in 2024, during the final chapter of his Valentino tenure. Even then, there were signs – at least to me – of creative stagnation beginning to set in. Yet there was something about Valentino’s innate joyfulness and romantic optimism that allowed one to overlook it. Balenciaga is a different proposition altogether. It demands rigour. It demands reinvention. It is not a house that rewards business as usual.
Cristóbal Balenciaga was arguably the greatest couturier in history. We may never see another genius of his calibre, but the least we can expect is someone willing to think beyond established formulas and bring a genuinely new perspective to the house. It is one of the reasons I still miss Demna – and why his presence at Gucci continues to feel like a mismatch. I want Pierpaolo to succeed. I really do. But today’s show proved, once again, that his approach to Balenciaga is not moving the house forward.
Collage by Edward Kanarecki.
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