We will get to the rest of the Dior front row in time, but the headline is Rihanna, whose confidence at this point is so impenetrable that the clones who built the Death Star could stand to learn a thing or two. This woman fears no stretch mark, no linea nigra, no pubic cleavage. Don’t worry, I have not released my tenuous hold on my senses, nor is there a substantial gas leak in my house, so I’m not arguing that this is a good outfit. It’s not an outfit. It’s elaborate, itchy lingerie. I feel like I’m at a pregnancy boudoir shoot, the results of which will be printed in soft-focus black-and-white and posterized and hung in the nursery.
But doesn’t this feel like SUCH a celebrity power move? She sauntered in and out of a fashion show in underpants as easily as yawning. To what end, I don’t entirely know, but I’m guessing… because she can. Because she is pregnant and feeling ripe and foxy, and because she knows how to cue the palpitations. In an age full of pretenders itching for this amount of lens attention — and at an event where they tend to flock like pigeons — here’s Rihanna reminding everyone that if she feels like it, on any given day, she can take it all. Whether or not she ever puts out another album. Because she’s the boss. She’s Rihanna.
That is not the eye contact of a woman who’s like, “I wore this because Dior really understands how to design for a woman’s body, and it’s beautiful!” That gaze says, “I know. I have eyes. And I know that you know that I know. But I’m doing it anyway, because it’s f*cking fun.”
