It’s interesting to see this show, back on a runway for the first time since Daniel Roseberry took over during the pandemic, juxtaposed with Dior. What the collections have in common: adherence to black and white and metallic. Color is out for both, and so — with a couple exceptions — is volume, in favor of sleeker tailoring. (Roseberry claimed he was simplifying this season, and… maybe that’s technically true, but on the Schiaparelli scale that just means he’s dialed it back from gibberish mathematical proofs to 400-level collegiate Calculus.) But where Dior was about the details too discreet to be seen, Schiaparelli is about as subtle as a tennis racket to the face. I do not need to explain to you, for example, that sci-fi provided inspiration here. But whereas with, say, Loewe, the big ideas can step all over whatever is coming down the runway, Schiaparelli manages to make it all fuse. Oh, and also, there are a lot of nipples. Just be aware.
