Living in Brooklyn hasn’t made her lose her Britishness. “I’ve worked with brands that, at a certain point, decided to change direction. At first they gave me a great deal of creative freedom, then they started asking me to make my work ‘more sophisticated’,” she says. “But I kept wondering whether being sophisticated really meant giving up the playful element of my work and of fashion itself. It seemed to me, rather, that at the root of too many decisions, the fear of straying from clichés was taking over. These days, people almost always opt for the safest solutions: the same faces, the same creators, the same styles. I think this is a short-sighted attitude, because in the end everything ends up looking the same. It seems that the more corporate side of the system continues to view irony and refinement as opposites, when in fact they can coexist perfectly.” Her approach is never vulgar or disparaging; rather, it is imbued with that intelligent cheekiness that once made the fortune of groups like Monty Python and which today seems to have disappeared, because the hypocrisy of political correctness deems it offensive. Angelica Hicks launched her account by chance, as is often the case with subversive ideas: “First came the illustrations; the videos followed later. I’ve always tried to portray fashion with a light touch, to make it more accessible. I’ve never liked the idea that it’s an exclusive world where people take themselves too seriously; for me, it’s always been something fun that everyone, in their own way, should be able to enjoy. It’s precisely this obsession with desirability that made me realise that value doesn’t lie in the object itself, but in what it represents and how it’s interpreted. When a video goes viral, there’s always someone who sees malice in it, but I never fuel that controversy because my work is, first and foremost, a tribute to design. I like to think of them as an alternative recipe: it’s like when a great pastry chef creates an extraordinary cake without revealing the recipe – I try to recreate it using different ingredients. Perhaps the result resembles the original, but there’s a risk it might collapse as soon as you touch it or turn out to be incomplete underneath. And that’s precisely the beauty of it,” she says, unaware that one of the greatest costume designers of all time, Danilo Donati – creator of the famous ecclesiastical procession in Federico Fellini’s Roma (1970), a fashion legend of the last half-century, made almost entirely from cardboard, electrician’s light bulbs and scrap materials, and of a legendary early RAI ballet that sought to imitate Busby Berkeley’s sumptuous choreography in "The Girls of the Follies" (1941) but, due to budget constraints, was made of crepe paper and glitter. Angelica follows the same principle: the playfulness of childhood, with adult awareness. “What I do is also a commentary on the way clothes are worn, rather than the clothes themselves. You could even wear a bin bag, but if you wear it with elegance, it becomes cool,” she explains. “I like to think that people can be inspired and feel more creative, because today everything has become so uniform; I’m saddened, however, to see the loss of personal expression, and as a result, my relationship with clothes has changed too: I used to look to the big fashion houses for outfits for events, but now I prefer to create something of my own. For example, for a friend’s wedding, I made a dress using a children’s play tunnel and two boob-tube dresses. It was a huge hit – everyone was asking me where I’d got it from.”

His spirit turns the absurd into inspiration for others who replicate his ideas. “It’s hugely satisfying: I prefer to think of it as stimulating creativity rather than promoting a product,” he points out. “That’s also why I started writing on Substack: my videos work thanks to illusion and magic, but I also enjoy recounting the creative process behind them. By now, it’s second nature: when I see a look on the catwalk, my first thought is no longer the dress itself, but which household object could be transformed into that same silhouette.” Her enthusiasm is infectious, so I ask her why fashion has become so boring: “I think it’s become too corporate; people are mainly concerned with the bottom line, at the expense of the human element, and so what makes a brand truly recognisable also fades away,” she reflects. “That’s the aspect I find most depressing; the loss of irony stems precisely from this. Working with companies, I’ve seen just how increasingly cautious they’ve become. You get the feeling that nobody wants to take risks anymore and that every decision is made by taking the safest route: I hope that Gen Z and this new DIY trend can change things. I recently read an article suggesting that the model on which the sector has based its communication in recent years no longer works. People aren’t satisfied with perfect, aspirational images; they’re looking for something authentic, which is why I’m becoming increasingly convinced that chic is never at odds with fun. A sense of humour doesn’t make a brand any less sophisticated; it simply makes it different. After all, that’s what I do: I recreate fashion using recycled materials and everyday objects. Hardly any of my creations are actually wearable, but that’s not the point; the truth is, you’ve got to have fun. Finally, I believe that the disproportionate rise in prices is also contributing to the growing gap between fashion and the public: I’m only thirty-three, but I remember very well when a pair of designer shoes cost 250 pounds, whereas today they cost a thousand. Just think, I recently saw a cardigan on sale for 60,000 dollars.” “Perhaps that’s also why nobody feels like having a laugh anymore,” I say to her. And we burst out laughing together.

The tallest building in North Africa does not merely dominate the landscape in terms of height; rather, it ends up interpreting it in its own way and absorbing it, becoming one with it. Within that vertical structure, which houses flats, offices and the new Waldorf Astoria Rabat Salé, luxury eschews ostentation to become a narrative, taking centre stage in a place where over seven thousand works of art (yes, you read that correctly) accompany visitors as they make their way through the hotel, following a storyline that weaves together Moroccan craftsmanship, memory, nature and contemporary art. From a distance, it reflects the sky with an almost ethereal surface, whilst at sunset it takes on that cinematic quality reminiscent of certain architectural scenes from the film "Arrival". Even the storks, a familiar sight in the capital’s skies, reappear in Achraf Touloub’s large metal installation, suspended between solid and void like an ethereal alphabet. Pierre-Yves Rochon, the most influential luxury hotel designer of the last forty years, observes them with the attention of someone who seeks, in every project, a meeting point between place and imagination.

In "Il Foglio della Moda", he describes them as creatures ‘suspended between the tangibility of nature and the enchantment of myth’, and in this remark, made almost in passing during our breakfast, lies the essence of his approach to hospitality. A Frenchman, born in 1946, he has been designing some of the world’s most famous hotels for over forty years, from the Four Seasons George V in Paris to the Savoy in London, right up to the new Danieli in Venice, which is due to open during the upcoming Venice International Film Festival, as well as the Peninsula, Shangri-La and Waldorf Astoria hotels, starting with the very first one in New York. His work consists of “striking a difficult balance”, that is, making “a hotel international without erasing its local character. Every hotel”, he explains, “exists within a very delicate balance. On the one hand, it must belong to an international tradition of hospitality; on the other, it must preserve the identity of the place that hosts it. Each time, the challenge starts all over again. No formula can be replicated, because every city has its own light, its own history and its own idea of elegance. I think a hotel should be reassuring,” he adds. “When you travel, especially for work, you feel more vulnerable because you’re away from home. Sometimes you go to another place or another country and find yourself, on your own, facing customs that aren’t your own. I’m thinking in particular of the room and the night. A hotel must be reassuring and protective in this sense, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be innovative or surprising.” For him, elegance is neither surprise nor recognition, but something else, something much more subtle. “I prefer concrete images, such as a rose that truly smells of roses, because it represents a luxury infinitely more authentic than many expensive objects. Quality remains recognisable without needing to be proclaimed, just as is the case with certain materials that age well and acquire depth over time.” Always wearing bespoke suits and shirts and Chanel perfume, Rochon continually returns to the theme of space. “Volume,” he maintains, “accounts for half of luxury. Even before the furnishings come the proportions, the relationship between solid and void, the way light enters a room at different times of the day. Architecture produces a physical sensation even before an aesthetic one. The same applies to the body, which perceives spaces with an immediacy that precedes any rational judgement.” In his view, interior design thus resembles a subtle form of psychology. “Colours, symmetries, perspectives and light alter the way people inhabit a space. Geometric balance conveys calm. Light influences moods far more than decorations do, and even a colour considered challenging can produce unexpected effects, because every culture forms a different relationship with colour.” A skilled architect, then, is like a fashion designer: they become an observer of human behaviour as well as a creator of spaces. The design and layout of a room can influence the way people live or move within it, depending on how it is designed. “If a room is designed around axes, balance and symmetry, people subconsciously feel at ease and serene – I have proof of this. Whether I design a red room, a white room or a sky-blue one, different categories of clients from different countries already have a particular sensitivity to colour in their subconscious. Then there are colours that are more stimulating than others; for example, I find it very difficult to get people to accept red rooms. Everyone thinks it’s stimulating, that it isn’t relaxing, whereas that isn’t necessarily true.” Technology, and light in particular, “are creative tools that are constantly evolving to enhance the quality of a night’s stay in a hotel”. It’s wonderful to sleep, and above all to try to do so as well as possible and in the best possible place, because for Pierre-Yves Rochon, “the best ideas come from dreams”.

Had he been to draw inspiration from fashion designers, Rochon would probably have chosen Yohji Yamamoto and Rick Owens. His artistic lineage reveals a great deal about his sensibility, and this is confirmed shortly afterwards when he reminds us that ‘the ability to evoke a perception always comes before aesthetics’. He also prefers to imagine beauty as “a form of freedom. If it were a form of order, we would be prisoners of beauty and would have only one form of it. Freedom, on the other hand, is everything. Beauty constrained by immutable rules would eventually lose its vitality. Every place, every era and every person, on the other hand, adds a different nuance to this quest’. Perhaps it is precisely this openness to change that makes his interiors so difficult to pigeonhole into a specific trend, because they traverse the years without chasing after them. “Hotels preserve an important part of contemporary history. They host encounters destined to change individual destinies, celebrations, separations, moments of waiting and reconciliations. There are hotels that become symbols of a city, others that remain linked to the private memories of those who spent a decisive night there. Architecture thus ends up engaging in a dialogue with literature, because every room holds the potential for a story.” The materials used to create them can obviously be many and varied, but not all are easy to shape. The most difficult of these is education, which encompasses time, memory, the relationship with the guest, and the ability to listen and understand. Hospitality arises long before any physical objects, because it begins with the look with which one welcomes someone.” 

Today’s creatives can rely on widely used platforms such as Instagram and other social networks, but judging by their holiday posts – which are, after all, curated and, at times, carefully crafted by their communications teams – they seem incapable of even having a bit of fun: gigantic yachts of cringe-inducing tackiness, parties that one hopes are less cringe-worthy than they appear in photos, uncoordinated dancing at yet another Apulian farmhouse, and crowds of aimless guests who look like a botched episode of a summer reality TV show.

All that remains for us is to take refuge in memories of holidays past, and in those of the masters of style who organised those summer getaways, planned them down to the last detail, and lived them with carefree abandon and high spirits.

Just like the one that inspired, in the early 1970s, the crew that set off from Milan bound for Corfu. At the helm were Giorgio Armani and Gian Paolo Barbieri: for a few weeks, they would not be the high priest of minimalism and rigorous fluidity, nor the bard of the solemn, unapproachable femininity that reigned supreme in the pages of "Vogue", but two young men interested solely in having fun and getting a tan. In their wake, of course, was Sergio Galeotti, Armani’s partner in life and business, who, with his quintessentially Tuscan verve, added no small amount of spice to those sun-drenched days. Amongst others, there was Mrs Toppo of the Gioielli&Fantasia brand, which was all the rage at the time (today, the Coppola and Toppo costume jewellery label is owned by the young Sicilian designer Pietro Paolo Longhitano, who designed the jewellery for the sequel to "The Devil Wears Prada"). It was one long running gag. They would whizz around the island in the designer’s open-top Volkswagen. To anyone who asked, ‘Are you Italians?’, they’d reply, ‘No, we’re queers!’, cheekily. The neighbours at the villa they’d rented in Palaiokastritsa were a group of young Romans who partied all night long. Galeotti and Barbieri went to the trouble of having a row with them – and even exchanged a flurry of punches. Giorgio stayed in bed – and thus unscathed – pretending to be fast asleep. Using Gian Paolo’s dinghy, they set off on a constant search for deserted beaches where they could sunbathe in blissful nudity. In the centre of a tiny island – little more than a rocky outcrop with no beach – stood a scrawny little donkey. Everything in the group’s cool bag is offered to the animal. They decide to rescue it by loading it onto the dinghy. Once ashore, some farmers recognise it and explain that it was their custom to leave them there in the summer, as it was cheaper to keep them that way, and that they would collect it again in September. “Someone will report you for this.” And they, with unfathomable nonchalance: “But we’re friends with Anna Maria of Greece; she’ll help us.” It was true that they had a friend called Anna Maria, but she had nothing to do with the Queen Consort of the Hellenes. As his international success grew, Armani’s holidays certainly became less boisterous but no less iconic. Whether he was in Pantelleria, or on his yacht Mariù – so named in memory of his mother – in Saint-Tropez or at the Forte, he exuded coolness in spades wherever he went: even in the water or out for a stroll, he maintained the same poise he displayed on the catwalk at the end of his fashion shows. Requests for autographs, photos and then selfies, and even the insistence of some mothers that he take their little ones in his arms. All this authenticity did not in the slightest undermine his credibility as a creator of haute couture; on the contrary, it reinforced it and served as a testament to his recognisability and fame: he was still very much himself, even when he was seen whizzing around on a moped with Lauren Hutton or pottering about the markets with Claudia Cardinale.

Gianni Versace always knew how to draw inspiration or a new theme from his passions, his interests and, consequently, his holidays. One need only think of Miami, the city that would prove his undoing and which, on his first visit, seemed so unbearable that he stayed shut away in his hotel; instead, after finding his retreat at the Casuarina, the palm trees typical of that landscape ended up on his printed shirts and, later, on the dress designed by his sister Donatella and worn by Jennifer Lopez, which led to the birth of Google Images. Versace helped to change the face of that place: from being a somewhat unsafe and chaotic spot, more suited to faded couples like the facades of Art Deco houses in candy-coloured hues, it became one of the unmissable stops on the most hedonistic and unbridled tourist circuit: Madonna, supermodels and rock stars didn’t need to be asked twice to spend time in those rooms that Gianni had had refurbished with the frenzied enthusiasm of a Renaissance prince. Undoubtedly, the atmosphere was more exciting and lively than that at Villa Fontanelle, with Lake Como and its tranquillity, its sunshine capable of transforming every view into a late-19th-century watercolour. Elton John and Sting were regulars, mingling with the owner’s staff with ease. But the most eccentric guest of those legendary summers remains Prince. Awaited and welcomed with every honour, he left everyone speechless by shutting himself away in his room like a countess stripped of her rank until the end of the holiday, the shutters tightly shut because, in his words, there was too much sun – one has to be rather imaginative to expect days on end of dark clouds in August in Italy. He certainly wasn’t an intrusive guest, that’s for sure. And the Versaces must have shared Brillat Savarin’s view: inviting someone means taking responsibility for their happiness. But when it comes to golden holidays, the textbook ‘dolce vita’, and fashion designers who have become the stuff of legend, one simply must mention Valentino Garavani. Not so much the Valentino of recent years, who would receive guests with sybaritic flair on his TM Blue One (here too, the name pays homage to his parents, Teresa and Mauro) – friends of the calibre of Lady Diana, and celebrities worthy of the master of the houseboat – but the one who, in the 1970s, electrified Capri as he strolled with Jackie, she smiling, barefoot, in a black T-shirt and white trousers: a queen. The images of the couturier with her or with his friends, in the piazzetta or gathered round lavishly laid tables, looked as though they had been painted by a contemporary Fragonard or Velázquez. The island has always been a magnet for the fashion world. Emilio Pucci literally reigned there, and it was there that he sought inspiration for his textile art: such as when he dived into the depths of the sea to capture shades of blue, azure and sky blue to incorporate into his prints. Rocco Barocco has always divided his time between Capri and Ischia; he, too, was a leading figure of an era that seems like a memory from a glossy magazine when compared to the present day, which seems to have come to a standstill at “Temptation Island”.

“Capri is more closely linked to my youth, whilst Ischia is where I grew up,” says the designer, who was literally ‘discovered’ on the island by a forgotten and inimitable duo, Patrick de Barentzen and Monsieur Gilles, the magical hat-maker, now on display in Rome at the Centrale Montemartini: “Even now, my holidays are more closely linked to Ischia: it’s strange, but as we grow older we tend to return to the things and places that were part of our childhood.” Barocco, let us dream. Take us back to those seasons of grace and stardom, excess and enchantment. “In reality, the legendary summers are those I experienced as a boy, when I was still studying at the Nautical Institute in Procida and earning a bit of pocket money working for a shop in Ischia harbour that sold stretch shantung trousers and shirts, to be worn with shoes made from the same fabric. Angelo Rizzoli, the film producer, had opened the Regina Isabella and was bringing divas and socialites there, transforming the island into a sort of branch of Hollywood: that’s how I met Gina Lollobrigida, Anna Maria Pierangeli and Maria Callas. But the one I’ll always remember is Anna Magnani, who one day gave me a five-lire coin and said, ‘Here, lad, go and buy yourself an ice cream’. It was also during that period that I met a couple who owned a restaurant and a nightclub; I told them about my passion for fashion, and they introduced me to some designer friends of theirs in Rome: they were, in fact, Patrick de Barentzen and Monsieur Gilles, and that’s where my career began, because whilst still a minor I moved to Rome to work with them. Summer is a magical time, when things that happen take on a special, fun quality. Like when, at a party, Laura Antonelli wore one of my dresses made from lots of strands of beads. Whilst dancing, the dress came undone and the beads spilled onto the floor, leaving her almost naked, much to the delight of the guests and the paparazzi. I apologised profusely; I was embarrassed and felt responsible for what had happened, but she didn’t seem the least bit sorry!”

It is uncertain when the tide turned, when fashion holidays became rowdy and more akin to those of columnists and footballers. We might well have caught a whiff of it at the dawn of the new millennium when Naomi Campbell made the headlines – summer is a lean season for those in the media – with her holiday at Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana’s. The scene of the event was Stromboli: the island where three-quarters of the Milanese fashion crowd (though there are also a few from Paris and London) gather in a different setting and dressed differently. Naomi found the island a bit dull – even in the literal sense of the word, given there is no street lighting – and her hosts went to great lengths to lift her spirits. One day, after a lunch with about fifteen people, they decide to put on some music to entertain the guests. But at 3 pm, in certain parts of the country, there is a very strict unwritten rule prohibiting noisy gatherings: ‘It’s not the right time’. The two designers’ neighbour shares this view; she peeks out, flustered, to tell them off. Her name is Clio Bittoni, and she is Giorgio Napolitano’s wife. What in any southern town would have been resolved with a healthy exchange of shouts becomes a matter of state, a diplomatic incident, because D&G claim that the lady – a feisty lawyer who defended the farmers of Acerra against the worst abuses and had a sharp, unrepentant tongue – had not merely called the police, but had used the N-word, preceded by the adjective ‘dirty’, against the supermodel. A tale of denials, of lese majesty, of repeated accusations, of body shaming, of conflicting interviews and press releases: the designers, whilst on holiday, were beginning to be portrayed in less dreamy, less idyllic terms than before, and in keeping with the more chaotic summer news stories, which found their perfect embodiment in Lele Mora’s parties.

Even the photographs spoke for themselves, such as those taken at Roberto Cavalli’s parties in Sardinia – another man who, when he decided to let his hair down, really knew how to have a good time. Up until then, photographs of fashion designers caught sunbathing on an exclusive atoll, boarding their yacht as they left that little restaurant known only to locals, or lounging by their swimming pool, seemed to be bathed in a golden glow that softened the scene and made it a symbol of good taste, relaxation and the art of living. In the fledgling new millennium, however, those images radiated an ambiguous and jarring glow, and carried with them an unbearable clamour – even though they were, after all, stills and not videos with sound. The advent of social media would complete this reversal of expression, leading us to the current scenario in which figures once deemed divine have fallen into the trap of ostentation, of the most garish display of manners and often improbable situations. Intentionally, these are meant to be proud assertions of exclusive luxuries and pleasures reserved for the very few; in reality, however, they betray the nature of eager holidaymakers blinded by a multitude of petty-bourgeois pretensions.

And yet, there is no doubt that their presentations have left an indelible mark on the memories of audiences near and far, so much so that around twenty of these unforgettable appearances will be on display from 25 September to 22 November at 10 Corso Como in the first solo exhibition dedicated to them, ‘Spectrum’, curated by Alessio de Navasques, who a couple of years ago organised the excellent exhibition ‘Yohji Yamamoto. Letter to the Future’ in the same venue a couple of years ago. The fact that a venue primarily dedicated to retail and entertainment such as 10 Corso Como is seeking to showcase a creative duo who describe themselves as ‘fashion artists’ and who focus on cultural expression far more than on the so-called ‘product’ is a great credit to its current owner, Tiziana Fausti, even though it is logical to expect that some of the duo’s hard-to-find garments will sooner or later turn up amongst the elegant racks of the building – and, after all, Rosso would have every reason to want this to happen. Although fashion increasingly operates through imagery and ‘constantly challenges the conventions of fashion and its mechanisms of representation’, as the press release announcing the exhibition states, unfortunately making clothes also means selling them, not just placing them in museums; hence we have this visually striking – that is, Instagram-worthy – project, “conceived specifically for the Gallery’s spaces by the Viktor&Rolf fashion house as a single installation”, and by Il Foglio della Moda to a series of questions for the duo on the theme of this issue, namely the persistent lack of irony in an industry which, for many years, has lavished it on every garment, every reference and every gadget. Viktor&Rolf have always allowed themselves as much irony and experimentation as they wished, ever since the early 1990s when, fresh from winning the Festival d’Hyères – which, amongst many others but with a longer history and greater prestige, honours the best newcomers – they shared their friendship, life and work in a Parisian studio so small that, to carve out a workspace from those few square metres, they were forced to push their mattress up against the wall. Even today, thirty years on, they say they do not think about the future “but rather reflect on the concept of time as it applies to fashion”, on the indispensable value of fashion shows as venues and moments of representation, and on the need to pause, from time to time, to take stock. “Since we started, our approach hasn’t changed much – quite the opposite, in fact. Fashion has always been a very personal journey for us. We see our work as a self-portrait: the struggle between pure creativity and commercial interests is nothing new and has always been a kind of conflict. That’s why haute couture is so important to us: it’s a safe creative space where there are no restrictions. Our work is like a laboratory, a place to experiment and develop ideas. Fashion has always been at the heart of our research: its codes, its appearance, its structure. Each new season offers us the opportunity to look at fashion from a different perspective. In this sense, over thirty years of work have yielded an ever-wider spectrum of perspectives on the subject.” The fact that today’s fashion is particularly devoid of irony, and not very entertaining, is therefore not, they say, the result of the increasingly stringent commercial diktats of the holding companies to which most brands belong, but rather a “reflection of the world we live in today. ‘And as far as we’re concerned,’ they add, ‘even though we try to express serious ideas through our work, irony comes naturally to us. We’re rather detached and rational in our way of thinking; perhaps that’s the reason. And we strive to create complex works. Irony, humour, sadness… it all plays a part in our creative process.’ At times, these conflicting emotions surface all at once, eliciting both positive and negative reactions from the audience; indeed, it was hard not to feel a twinge of unease when, at the Winter 2023–2024 collection show, the models took to the catwalk carrying headless, male-like puppets dressed in tuxedos on their shoulders: “The creations must serve a greater purpose,” they explain, “and the fashion show remains the main focus of our project. It is a narrative moment within a performance in which the garments and models portray characters from a broader story,” one that seeks, however, to be linked to the historical moment in which these characters are depicted. Nothing, they are keen to emphasise, is further from their minds than reflection on the future; yet their latest haute couture collection, ‘Gilded Age 2.0’—a representation of the ritual of dressing that seemed to span five centuries of Western history, staged on a catwalk that rotated like a music box—appeared to be precisely that: a reflection on time, on the value of creative continuity, on the evolution of the gestures of dressing, in a continuous interplay, a constant tension between ‘restraint’ and ‘decadence’, moderation and decadence: rough, soft, regal and modest. Although they insist they have no idea how the sector will evolve (“we don’t have a crystal ball”), their fashion is the clearest demonstration of how, on the contrary, they have the time and the means to reflect on it at length. And indeed, they have the answer, or at least a guiding principle: “The future of fashion depends on the society we are all building together”. What we have seen in their last two collections raises more than a few doubts.

Are you thinking of those red-soled pumps? For Christian Louboutin, red is a symbol – of passion, audacity, strength – but in the lawsuit he brought against Zara (a long-running saga dating back to 2012), he had to accept that it is impossible to claim exclusive rights to a colour. The issue of stolen ideas, in fact, is far from new; feuds between couturiers and industrial espionage over collection previews date back to the dawn of fashion shows, and as early as 1963 they inspired a romantic comedy starring Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman, "My Love for Samantha", about a New York fashion designer on the hunt for the secrets of French designers (incidentally, inspired by the true story of Elizabeth Hawes): the film’s light-hearted and playful atmosphere would still be a good antidote to the censorial seriousness of social media. Contrary to what appears in the reports of the outraged, today the issue of ‘plagiarism’ is not limited to the similarity of a trouser leg, but rather lies in a system whereby designers almost automatically slot themselves into trends created by others, either now or many years ago. This, combined with the long-standing but ever-pressing problem of extremely tight deadlines, seems to offer no alternative to the ‘reference supermarket’ and creates minor misunderstandings that lead to unnecessary cries of scandal over a decontextualised element. In reality, we all live immersed in cultural worlds that are as varied as they are specific, in which references chase one another, and it seems natural to seek out paths already trodden. Perhaps we should stop watching all the fashion shows compulsively: gathering information is necessary, but it cannot be processed on the spot; stepping back from it is needed to kick-start a creative process without running the risk of embarrassing debts, whether real or imagined. As Star Wars teaches us (and Freud before that, to be honest), at a certain point we must metaphorically kill our fathers; this applies to emerging designers (it’s impossible to find a student who doesn’t mention Cristóbal Balenciaga), and not only to them. Instagram’s algorithm, whilst updating me on Olivier Rousteing’s career, brought back to my attention one of his famous faux pas: the white Balmain jacket that was almost identical to an earlier design by Alexander McQueen for Givenchy. Years on, it comes across as a disarming naivety – something to be overcome rather than condemned. And this applies to everyone.

Back when we could have a laugh. A jumper from Alessandro Michele’s 2018 Gucci collection. It’s now available on eBay and other vintage websites for 500–600 euros

When “Il Foglio della Moda” asked me to write a piece on the lack of irony in the fashion industry over recent decades, I was reminded of a poem by Aldo Palazzeschi, written in 1909, entitled “Chi sono?” (“Who am I?”), the ending of which I have reproduced above. It is well known that mental associations often have more to do with dreams than with reality, but evidently the word ‘irony’ had the effect of bringing back a memory – perhaps from my school days – which, on the face of it, had nothing to do with the topic I had been assigned. Then, upon calmly analysing this intuition, I perhaps understood the reasons behind this association. There are states of mind that pertain to the indivisible mental spaces of individual people; they cannot be transferred. Everyone lives their own life, their own experiences and – even if parallel paths can emerge amongst humans – as individuals we are truly like prototypes: each of us is our own acrobat; unique and unrepeatable. So, returning to the theme of irony, I must say that, at least as far as I’m concerned, I’ve never thought of infusing my work with even a gram or a kilo of irony. And I think this is because, unless you’re a creative or a provocative designer – and here Franco Moschino or Vivienne Westwood spring to mind; they really did rely on irony and subversion to highlight their highly personal collections and styles – but I believe that, just as the habit doesn’t make the monk, irony does not make one ironic. Let me explain: to dress in an ‘ironic’ way, it is not necessary to wear garments that are inherently ironic. Rather, it is the blend that each person creates that transforms a look into an ironic style. It is not the designer or the creative director who will provide the key and the garments needed to be perceived as ironic individuals. Rather, I imagine that – if a person harbours a light-hearted instinct, a desire to surprise a little and not to remain in the shadows – they will know how to put together a playful, biting outfit, drawing inspiration from here and there. So, when I think about my collections, it’s clear that colours, certain cuts, and even specific buttons serve to create that subtle difference which, if used well, can help ensure you don’t go unnoticed. Nanni Moretti’s famous dilemma: ‘Am I noticed more if I turn up and stand on the sidelines, or if I don’t turn up at all?’ applies perfectly to those who seek out irony, for whom it’s obvious that it’s important to be there, to go along and – why not? – even to stand on the sidelines – just to see what effect it has. I adore irony – not so much my own, which is constantly kept in check by a watchful seriousness, but that of others, once I’ve recognised it as genuine. But this theme has really put my thinking to the test, as I’ve tried to reconcile two worlds that rarely coincide. I’ve taken the example of two iconic designers whom we can imagine at work: in those ateliers, the desire to amaze came before the garment itself, culture before production, and a love of diversity even before customer satisfaction. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately?), Piombo is the result of a, all things considered, more traditional approach. I have always said and written that I would like to dress ‘everyone’ – and I put ‘everyone’ in quotation marks precisely to make myself clear – this is not hyperbole on my part but a constant aspiration, and it goes without saying that, in order to dress everyone, I cannot and must not show any preference. If anything, the task is to find a factor we might call the ‘wearability factor’, which helps to infuse every collection with something that can intrigue and stimulate, precisely, anyone. And so, yes, I do like to appeal to those with a sense of irony, but also to the melancholic, the defiant, the shy, and – why not? – to all those who understand that luxury is not the pinnacle of beauty, but rather that beauty is the pinnacle of simplicity, which for me is the true luxury. Years ago, I thought my work might help people feel like ‘somebody’; then, over the years, I’ve come to realise that it’s better to let the garments speak for themselves rather than imbue them with hidden messages that, ultimately, would only convey my own thoughts. When I work, I set Massimo aside and let Piombo go its own way – not because a brand doesn’t also represent its creator, but because, as a poet friend of mine wrote, ‘the individual emerges from chaos and moves forward’. In conclusion – and I’ll ask myself a question in the time-honoured Marzullian tradition – but without giving myself an answer: is it possible to convey the immaterial nature of language within products? To describe them, certainly yes, but to imbue them with a primal feeling, I really don’t think so.

Massimo Piombo is Creative Director at OVS

That Generation Z discovered Galliano on that occasion (it had taken just a few years for him to slip off the radar of young people with an ultra-short-term memory, not to say no memory at all), and that that fashion show was followed by his appointment by Zara and the exhibition due to open on 9 May 2027, is entirely logical, at least according to the established order of things and the balance of power that prevailed until a few years ago. The designer had something to say; he said it in an accessible yet powerful way; someone footed the bill for his narrative, reckoning that, in the long run, it would help sell a few more T-shirts and a couple of pairs of trousers. All these opportunities in the fashion industry are now a privilege, as became clear from conversations with analysts and, more rarely, journalists, following the half-yearly results presentations by the major fashion groups and brands a few days ago. Although the situation is showing a slight improvement for Kering and LVMH or, as in the case of Cucinelli and Prada, has been following a steady upward trajectory for years (in the case of the group led by Patrizio Bertelli, which closed the half-year at 3.048 billion, this marks the twenty-second consecutive quarter of organic growth), the sense of strain, anxiety and obsessive control over every tiny detail is causing the fashion world to lose that aura of spontaneity and fun which, in the past, meant that when Giancarlo Giammetti and Valentino Garavani were calculating how much they’d spent on each fashion show long after the final applause had died down, people would smile indulgently and with interest, because who wouldn’t have wanted to be like two such cool guys? Whereas today, the Valentino brand – with all its controllers, its merchandisers and its badges designed to ensure that the intern downstairs doesn’t even dare to approach the creative bigwigs upstairs – has empty shops, and Kering’s CEO, Luca Di Meo, no longer knows how to put off the acquisition any longer, in the misplaced hope that it will be postponed indefinitely. And yet, although we’d all like to blame the financial sector for what’s been happening to the fashion industry over the past couple of decades, and pin the blame solely on the ‘men of numbers’ as the scapegoats for this rigid, hyper-controlled environment that has emerged – where, years ago, the very charm that the public now seeks in ‘travel experiences’ once reigned supreme – not everything hinges on the fear of going over budget. Or, at the very least, not directly. The most serious mistake occurred when, in order to justify the exponentially rising prices of largely mass-produced goods, there was a desire to turn these stylists – whether tailors or designers, but in short, honest professionals with generally uncertain backgrounds yet an excellent eye for detail – into maîtres à penser, ontologists of the handbag, the Kants of knitwear, in short, high-flying intellectuals whose gruelling press conferences on ‘seasonal inspiration’ were to be religiously recorded, much like Borges’s lectures on English and North American literature to students at the University of Buenos Aires – lectures which, sixty years on, we can finally enjoy in Italian translation. The fashion show reports by Elsa Robiola and Irene Brin are still a pleasure to read today, not to mention those by Oriana Fallaci, who, although she considered herself visibly superior to the world of fashion and approached it with annoyance, did not even bother to double-check names and dates before submitting her pieces – which are, in fact, riddled with errors (fact-checking has never been the strong point of national newsrooms).

Today’s news reports – at least in Europe, where the fashion industry wields the most influence, and Bernard Arnault’s tirade against "Le Monde", which brought the family feuds to light, is the clearest demonstration of this – how one longs for the days when he was not yet the richest man in the world and would drink Coca-Cola in interviews – represent a balancing act: ten lines for the favoured investor, five for the one who bought the least advertising. In response to this lopsided balance, the journalists themselves – not all, but many – take their revenge by setting up Instagram channels and accounts where, under a false name (which is certainly a bad thing, but with great success), they write the well-informed and highly entertaining reports they could never get away with in the media outlets for which they officially work (one of the most feared and, at times, incomprehensibly malicious of these, boringnotcom, is said to have been unmasked a few hours ago, and is believed to be the profile of Rasharn Agyemang, a photographer and stylist who works for a number of Condé Nast publications). He is not the first (everyone in Italy would love to know who is hiding behind ‘fashioncricket’ and ‘crispino21’), nor will he be the last – not to mention the illustrious precedents of the many female writers, starting with Charlotte Brontë, who wrote under pseudonyms to protect themselves and their work. If fashion designers did not take themselves so seriously these days, and if CEOs had not begun seeing themselves as film stars (when, last Christmas, De Meo – who comes from the world of cars and ‘masstige’ – filmed a humorous festive video, the fashion world discussed it for weeks), this would not even be a topic for discussion, but simply a normal professional exchange: I’ll invite you to my fashion show because I genuinely value your opinion, which I recognise as both knowledgeable and impartial; you write whatever you feel like writing, and thank you. Instead, in this game of mutual suspicion – where I judge you to be a fool who cobbles together ideas based on hearsay, and you invite me only because the publication you write for is useful to me or lends me prestige – nobody in their right mind would read an official fashion report anymore, whilst apocryphal accounts or those using nicknames boast tens of thousands of readers, hundreds of comments per post, and the savviest PR departments are learning to capitalise on the negative reviews and poke fun at them to defuse the situation and forge a connection with Generation Z, who seem particularly inclined to support those who don’t put on airs – as people of my generation would have said – or ‘stay chill’, as the current generation puts it. A few weeks ago, a video of Shay Mitchell, founder of the Bèis brand, went viral. In response to the scathing online criticism of the quality and construction of her travel bags, she placed one on an operating table, vowing to take care of the issue by redesigning them. And sales have started to rise again.

The news that the project is soon to get under way – confirmed by Matilde herself, who is currently on holiday in Punta Ala – has taken LuxVide staff by surprise, including the head of the costume department, Monica Celeste, who did not expect such rapid progress on a project that had been under discussion for months but had, until now, remained merely a possibility. As is clear, in a production such as this, the issue of costumes is extremely significant, first and foremost for a historical reason: Armani’s international fame – like that of Richard Gere, who paired suits and ties whilst dancing in his iconic underpants to the tune of ‘The love I saw in you was just a mirage’ – was cemented in 1980 by a film, Paul Schrader’s American Gigolo, the first in a series of over two hundred films which, in a stroke of genius never before attempted, were dressed not in period costumes – as everyone from Coco Chanel to Christian Dior had done – but in contemporary catwalk garments, with a few exceptions, including The Untouchables*.

The costume designer tasked with working on a series about Armani would therefore be dealing with a protagonist who has reshaped the history of fashion (including) in cinema; for this reason, the production is relying heavily on the support of the designer’s vast archive, which has, incidentally, been significantly expanded in recent years to cater for numerous exhibitions in Italy (the Silos, the Pinacoteca di Brera) and abroad. As for the choice of costume designer – even though LuxVide have told "Il Foglio" that there isn’t even a cast yet, let alone anyone to dress – it is clear that archival research alone will not suffice. Massimo Cantini Parrini, a two-time Oscar nominee, knows this all too well; since last March, he has been working on the series about Gucci, based on the book by Maurizio Gucci’s second daughter, Allegra, and directed by Gabriele Muccino (the fashion industry is only now beginning to recover from the crisis, having changed its strategy and sales policies, as demonstrated by the half-yearly results of LVMH and Kering and the excellent results of Prada and Brunello Cucinelli, but nothing works on a pop culture level quite like series about handbag dynasties).

Whilst it is not yet clear whether the series on Armani will cover his entire life story – spanning over ninety years – or just the decades that marked his rise to prominence, namely from the 1970s to the present day, it still covers half a century, involving at least four significant shifts in style. In short, a costume designer is indispensable, so much so that in the great Roman tailor’s workshops – still the finest in the world – predictions have been circulating for hours, with just one name on everyone’s mind. Ozpetek will in fact be co-producer of the project through his company Faros Film, and will have carte blanche over the choice of collaborators. After years of professional collaboration with Alessandro Lai, he has for some time now entrusted the costumes for his films to Stefano Ciammitti, a highly versatile member of the latest generation of Piero Tosi’s pupils: he designed the costumes for Matteo Garrone’s "Io Capitano", Gennaro Nunziante’s "Buen Camino" and, of course, "Diamanti".