Today, however, it is fragmentation that dominates fashion, in both forms and materials. Let us therefore forget the visual clarity of the 1960s, the ‘democratic’ prevalence of synthetic fabrics, affordable to all budgets, the optical and psychedelic prints, through which every designer nonetheless had their own recognisable style, to the extent of defining a genre – as with Emilio Pucci, for example – and also the velvets, smooth or ribbed, and the Paisley patterns of the 1970s, the postmodernist micro-geometrics and the lamé of the 1980s, and finally the first technical fabrics derived from activewear, that is, sports-meets-urban styles.

These, and many other images, tell the story of eras that can be identified through the clothing worn, whilst for far too long now we have been immersed in limited, short-lived micro-trends which, by distancing themselves from one another, never become a defining feature of the contemporary era. Fabric manufacturers are well aware of this fragmentation – and to some extent suffer from it – to the extent that, at the presentation of new collections to clients or at trade fairs, it is evident that technical resources and in-house know-how are often not sufficiently utilised, in an attempt to satisfy a clientele that is as vast as it is indecisive. Meanwhile, designers who need to differentiate themselves as much as possible paradoxically find their inspiration primarily in the weaving mills’ corporate archives – a valuable technical heritage that it is a shame to reduce to yet another reinterpretation, to minimal variations in the mix of fibres dictated more by economic considerations than by the fabric’s performance, and to the endless colour variations trivialised by AI, starting from an original that is unattainable in terms of colour combinations.

And yet, from a technical point of view, the conditions for inventing a material that embodies a vision are all there – far more so than when Cristóbal Balenciaga decided to treat himself to a fabric all of his own, gazar – and not merely in the context of recycling and sustainability, which should be preconditions for production rather than merely visual cues. Craft techniques reproduced or supported by industrial processes; colourings that can only be stabilised with the aid of technology (I reluctantly had to forego the extreme craftsmanship of a historic silk from Maison Bucol, dyed and aged underground in a tuber plantation, which inevitably ran); Looms that allow digital printing on both sides of the fabric simultaneously, eliminating the unsightly white reverse side and making it possible to create combinations without worrying about minimum production runs. In general, while experimentation and innovation are present, they remain sporadic; they represent a micro-theme – once again fragmentary – on the fringes of collections that are heavily narrative, conceptual or dense with references, quotations and superstructures (accessories, finishes), in which the textile material is lost from view and becomes a blank canvas to be covered.

 Every now and then there is a flash in the pan (the ‘return’ of denim, velvet…), of fleeting commercial longevity and little visual impact amidst the jumble of the heterogeneous. Perhaps it is a sign of the times; we are faced with literally hundreds of styles and, as designers, millions of sources of inspiration: distilling these into a cohesive whole by taking a decisive direction, starting with the choice of materials, is a task that requires courage (a drop in sales is always lurking for a thousand other reasons), but the alternative is not total creative freedom so much as confusion.

Whilst, up until the 1990s, advertising campaigns by fashion houses and designers often featured the names of the collection’s partner textile manufacturers at the bottom of the page, and legendary designers such as Ossie Clark linked their identity to the prints created by his wife, Celia Birtwell, without losing an ounce of their creative relevance, we could now give space to the technical skill and all too often unrecognised creativity of those who first bring the fabric to life. 

Italian manufacturers and producers are a strategic asset to the fashion industry that we are not making full use of – beyond the salvific archives – with the risk that we may soon come to regret the loss of expertise and quality that have vanished amid standardisation and the pursuit of an illusory commercial competitiveness. 

For Agostino Apolito, general manager of Assomac – the national association representing Italian manufacturers of technology for footwear, leather goods and tanning – this is the real lesson to be learnt from the affair. ‘There is no general technological gap between us and China.’ Italy, he explains, possesses ‘world-class’ expertise in injection moulding and stamping, in the processing of polyurethane and thermoplastics, in mould design, in automation and robotics, as well as in materials chemistry. Why, then, did Gucci look to China? ‘Evidently, it identified a technological partner particularly well-suited to that product.’ The difference, according to Apolito, does not necessarily lie in the individual technology, but in the way in which the various areas of expertise are applied and integrated. “The model for applying know-how is completely different.” The issue, therefore, is not merely a matter of possessing individual areas of expertise, but of being able to bring them together and make them work in unison on the same product. “This is probably the crux of the matter,” emphasises Apolito. ‘China has developed a very strong capacity to integrate materials, technology, research, design and production within the same industrial system.’ This is an advantage that primarily concerns the speed with which an idea can become a product. The trainer is the most obvious example of this transformation. It is not merely a sports shoe, but a technological product in which materials, design, sole structure, moulding, automation and digital control must all be developed together. “These are processes that we, too, are familiar with and know how to manage.” The difference, however, lies in the ability to ensure these areas of expertise interact effectively within the same development process. In China, Apolito emphasises, research, materials, machinery and production are much more closely integrated, and this integration has been consolidated thanks to the presence of major manufacturers, sports brands and a huge domestic market. There are companies capable of producing 15, 18 or 20 million pairs a year. “We do not have that kind of production capacity, and that is not necessarily the model we should be pursuing,” Apolito points out. But that scale has made it possible to experiment with materials and processes on a large scale and to build highly integrated supply chains. “We have all the pieces of the jigsaw. The challenge is to put them back together, creating a complete picture.” This means building the ecosystem: connecting those who manufacture machinery, those who develop materials, those who build moulds, those working on automation and robotics, and those who understand the production process. And ensuring they engage with the brand right from the design stage. Today, Apolito admits, if Gucci were to ask us to bring production of the same trainer back to Italy whilst maintaining the technical specifications, volumes and lead times, “I’d say no – at least not with the speed at which it would probably need to be done. We’d have to work on it.” But it is precisely on speed that action can be taken: “The facilities exist, the companies exist and, above all, the technologies exist.” The aim is not to turn our production system into a ‘mini-China’. ‘We mustn’t produce like China. We must produce better.’ The competitive arena lies elsewhere: flexibility, small batches, customisation, new materials, traceability and energy efficiency. This is what Apolito calls ‘technological tailor-made’: machines and processes adapted to the needs of the designer and the brand. A platform is also needed. This is where Assomac comes in with its Simac Tanning Tech trade fair, where the next step will be to showcase not just individual machines, but integrated solutions. “We must present more and more integrated solutions, in which technology, materials and the production process are designed together.” The project, which is already underway, also includes trainers, but it is applicable to the wider footwear sector. ‘As a national association of technology manufacturers, we must first and foremost ensure that this know-how comes together.’ The Gucci case could serve as a catalyst. ‘We must, once and for all, succeed in bringing all this expertise round the same table and be able to tell the brands: you don’t necessarily have to look far afield, because what you’re looking for is already right here.’ The question raised by the Gucci sneaker is not merely why the Kering brand produced that model in China. It is, above all: «When a designer – whether Italian or international – envisions the next technologically advanced sneaker, where will they go to develop it?»

This interview, which has been ongoing for some time—to the extent that I have even had the opportunity to verify, at the latest Milan fashion shows, just how accurate Campara’s theories are on many topics, for example on the commercial and social value of nostalgia and the reconciliation between generations through music and cinema – which has, in fact, become the theme of discussion in this issue – and so thank you so much, because without his prompting I would have viewed certain fashion shows in a different light. It came about during the ‘Land of Plenty’-style celebration organised by the Cerea family in mid-July to mark the sixtieth anniversary of the family business, ‘Da Vittorio’ at the Cantalupa estate, just outside Bergamo: among the thousands of guests—so many, in fact, that I spotted someone I would have been delighted to meet just three days later, in the photos from the evening—at one point Campara appeared from down a path, wearing a tracksuit and, of course, trainers with the little star.

Three days later, we were sitting at our respective computers: the CEO of the sneaker brand with the star – now a ‘love brand’ recognised on a par with Nutella – with the Golden Goose people panel behind him, a photographic symbol of that ‘sharing of projects’ which has also led to joint or, indeed, community-based decisions (‘no named architect; the interiors are the work of the creative department”) for the Milanese spaces opened last year on Via Ercole Marelli, between Prada and Moncler. ‘The universe of Golden Goose values’ called for the inclusion of a golden wall evoking Kyoto’s Golden Temple, a pool table, a floor studded with 6,300 tiny Carrara marble stars paying homage to the technique of Venetian terrazzo and the mosaics of the Olivetti shops in Venice, counters fashioned from the shelving of the first shop, as well as a faithful reproduction of the Madonnina from Milan Cathedral, mounted on a column in a prominent corner of the courtyard. Campara, a former AGESCI scout who considers it ‘a great blessing to have experienced the spiritual side of scouting, as well as its practical aspects and communion with nature’, is well on his way to becoming a guru in the sector. He believes that, in his case, the acronym ‘CEO’ stands for ‘Chief Emotional Officer’, suggesting, in short, that in the company’s business, thethe bottom line comes after many other values – which is a wonderful philosophy and a winning strategy, provided we do not forget that over the last fifteen years, Golden Goose has also made giant strides through a meticulously planned strategy of transfers from one fund to another (the latest transfer is scheduled for December 2025), which Campara has steered with the same skill he probably displayed as a young boy when jumping over logs.

No one remembers Golden Goose before him; he joined the company in 2013 as chief commercial officer following its acquisition by Style Capital, alongside Roberta Benaglia (who, a few days ago, appointed Autry’s second-in-command). And yet, the company that is now held up as a model of ‘Made in Italy’ integration had been founded over a decade before his appointment in Marghera, in the classic ‘garage-office’ set-up, by Alessandro Gallo and Francesca Rinaldo, The pair, small business owners from the Veneto region with a brilliant idea and a clear flair for naming—because one must admit that ‘L’Oca d’Oro’ is not just a beautiful Russian fairy tale, but also a splendid name for a boho-chic luxury clothing line—originally did not produce trainers at all, but upcycled garments, that is, items created by reworking vintage clothing. In 2004, cowboy-style boots arrived on the scene, followed three years later by distressed-look trainers – a brilliant idea borrowed from the US. But the business was growing too slowly; 30 million in this sector is a drop in the ocean in a market that was becoming increasingly competitive. And so, along came Style Capital, which acquired a majority stake in 2013, bringing structure, financial leverage and a highly ambitious manager to a company that was still family-run. Two years later, having multiplied the company’s value with the opening of its first flagship stores, the majority stake passed to a group of investors linked to Ergon Capital. In February 2017, Marco De Benedetti arrived with Carlyle, which acquired all the shares, before handing control to Permira in February 2020. The latest change of ownership took place in December 2025 and was finalised last June, by which time there were almost two hundred shops worldwide, spread across twenty-three countries in Asia, Europe, the Middle East and the Americas, and the company had two production centres: one in Casarano, in the province of Lecce – a hub for trainers – and the other in Sirio, near Caserta: the majority stake was sold for approximately 2.5 billion euros to HongShan Capital Group (HSG), a Chinese venture capital and private equity firm, whilst Temasek and its subsidiary, True Light Capital, each acquired a minority stake. Turnover reached 734 million euros in the 2025 financial year, and the current year is once again seeing double-digit growth. Campara, a former model and Bocconi graduate who began his career at McQueen and Giorgio Armani, has reinvested at every change of ownership; he is not just the manager of the moment – he has also become a wealthy man. Last summer, the boutique on Via Camerelle was virtually the only one constantly crowded with customers who were ‘personalising’ their trainers around a workbench. The general in the particular, the community in individualism, the customer who pays to work alongside one of the brand’s creatives, feeling part of a project. As they would say in France, y a du génie en cela.

Campara smiles. “The idea of community is as old as humanity itself, but although it has faded over the millennia – losing, at least in the West, its political and religious inspiration – its basic premise, which is the sharing of values, has remained intact. Communities evolve, but their dynamics do not change; therefore, the question to ask today is what values unite people. There is an exogenous one, represented by the failures of other unifying forces, such as politics and religion – and here,” he points out, “we could open another chapter, because uprooting two thousand years of Christianity in the name of a vague secularism was a choice made by a few, the effects of which we see today in this society built on rights rather than duties. Then there is an endogenous value, inherent to humanity itself, which is the need to draw closer to a higher dimension.” Campara believes that the line between a value and spirituality is very fine, and that addressing these needs is the true and ultimate reason for the brand’s success. “Golden stems from a very simple idea: we are imperfect beings, who spend our lives trying to improve ourselves in a society that judges us by our performance and the number of ‘likes’ we receive, thereby generating anxiety.” The brand’s star – incomplete, broken – is therefore “a symbol of each of our lives: a simple shape whose empathetic significance lies in its imperfection. In a society where you feel nothing but the pressure of judgement, being able to offer a tool that conveys positivity and love strikes me as a beautiful message”.

When we began this conversation months ago at a conference in Milan, Campara had just told a bewildered and uncertain audience of CEOs that ‘communities are not all the same’ and that simply forming a group or creating one is not enough to gain recognition, whether intangible or financial. He reiterates this now: “Whereas once the need was to secure the approval of a social enclave – and this approval was gained through the display of certain uniforms, such as the ‘paninaro’, the punk or the hippie, whom fashion had to supply with new products – with the advent of social media, this dynamic has fragmented and the relationship between producers and consumers has become direct. But the even more interesting aspect,” he says, “is the evolution of the decision-making process: until now, right up to our time, the consumer could only choose but never decide.” Golden Goose, he points out, “has changed things”.

To tell the truth, it hasn’t always been this way: up until the Second World War, tailors, weavers, customers and often milliners collaborated on the creation of every single garment. Ready-to-wear clothing was a second choice. Over the past century, the process has accelerated and become distorted. Moreover, a range of induced demands and needs has constantly altered our relationship with our bodies—and, consequently, with clothing.

“The greatest thing missing in today’s world is happiness. We are inundated with negative news; we are judged everywhere – especially on social media – on our physical appearance, our abilities and our performance: we are never good enough. Granted, we sell trainers and clothing, but we try to create fashion with people, not just for them, encouraging those who enter our shops to become ‘consumer-creators’ of their own consumption. Because that’s how it’s been on social media for years.”

The logic behind the large workstations where people design their own trainers, in short, arose from observing the more or less professional content created by millions of people. “I said to myself: if they’re creating their own content today, one day they’ll want to make their own products.”

A NEW PACT BETWEEN TOURIST AND CUSTOMER. When we discuss synergy between product and customer, what do we really mean, and what is the main obstacle today to the relationship between the creator and the wearer?

Flora Rabitti. The relationship between designer and consumer begins with direct sales or bespoke services, thereby also gathering opinions and criticism. Our readers are looking for a point of view, an interpretation, but above all the truth. Digital media helps a great deal, but it is difficult to build a relationship of trust and convey the true value of a product: in real life, quality is evident; online, it is more difficult and, for this reason, people often prefer a well-known brand to an emerging one.

Simone Botte. I see a generation that watches fashion shows, but often feels excluded and so recreates the looks through upcycling, DIY and flea markets. Fashion has thus drifted away from the people on the street; I, on the other hand, do not want to put too many barriers between my clothes and those who fall in love with them. For example, one of my T-shirts, which costs 40 euros but was shown on a catwalk in Milan, can become a dream: it might seem mad, but I don’t care, because prices have become the obstacle. What’s more, we avoid mass production and warehouses full of unsold stock, producing items only when they’re ordered and reducing stock and waste to zero.

Angelo Cruciani. The many stimuli have led the designer and the client to speak the same language, so a sense of belonging and shared ideas are integral to the partnership in the purchasing process. The first problem, however, is the price: too many steps lead to a price escalation that excludes 90 per cent of the customer base. There is much to reinvent, and taking a step back might benefit all parties.

HOW TO BALANCE CREATIVITY AND ALGORITHMS. In a fashion industry that is increasingly driven by data and algorithms, what real scope is there today for creativity to remain unpredictable, daring and authentic?

Flora Rabitti. Creativity must stem from values and the imagination, rather than from a product; it must encourage experimentation. For me, creativity and innovation are closely linked to the craftsperson or model-maker. Knowing how far I can go allows me to push the boundaries further whilst remaining true to myself, because trends come and go, but one’s perspective endures.

Simone Botte. Some of us, the ‘forever up-and-comers’, choose this profession at our own risk. We were born amidst the ruins of a fashion system with rotten foundations, but I have never given up nor skipped a season, so as not to have a blank page in the diary of what I have always dreamed of doing. In those ten minutes of the show, I can have my say, and this fills me with more joy than any turnover ever could. Then there is what they refer to as the ‘community’ – for many, it is merely a hashtag, but for me it is my salvation: my collections are born out of dialogue with people who believe in the project.

Angelo Cruciani. For me, creativity is a quest for truth: not chasing trends, but pursuing a unique vision of beauty for those who have the eye to recognise and choose it. It’s about knowing how to draw the client into your own dream and becoming partners in a shared aesthetic. Just like a couple, client and designer can grow together.

HOW TO STAY INNOCENT WHILE TURNOVER GROWS

Is giving young designers an official platform during Milan Fashion Week an act of trust in their creative vision, or is it also a way of gauging their commercial potential? What does emerging Italian creativity really need today? And how can we re-establish the link between a material such as leather and its craftsmanship, and the end customer, who is confused by conflicting messages?

Flora Rabitti. Institutional support has been essential in building Florania: without these opportunities, we would not have been able to improve. However, there is certainly a lack of public financial support in the form of state subsidies, dedicated funding schemes, export incentives or support for trade fairs abroad: it is up to us to shape the future of ‘Made in Italy’, not least because historic brands are struggling to adapt, whilst we are more dynamic and flexible. Lineapelle Designers Edition allows designers to experiment with materials, backed by an organisation with a strong structure and historical ties, so that everyone can bring their own community on board and help them discover the merits of this material. I’m interested in working with offcuts of leather because they’re just as valuable, but with zero environmental impact.

Simone Botte. We’re not being sidelined; we’re part of the whole thing. When I was twenty, I wrote in my diary that I wanted to be featured in the calendar before Miuccia Prada; today I’m on the catwalk after Gucci. But the system wants to see turnover: it takes us into account only when we’ve reached a certain level on our own. Fashion today often risks becoming a viral meme, but that doesn’t necessarily translate into profits. The system no longer works even for the big names, so perhaps it is we who are rewriting it and who are also ready for industrialisation, but in a new way: we could teach companies to waste less and save money, but unfortunately we are forever stuck with the label of ‘up-and-coming young designer’. Until the agreement with Lineapelle, I used very little leather (it’s expensive), but thanks to them, I’ve expanded its use to more garments and accessories: I’ve recreated some of my classic designs using this material, and it’s worked very well.

Angelo Cruciani. Securing a spot on the catwalk during Fashion Week is extremely difficult. Fast fashion and e-commerce have dashed the prospects and dreams of young people who confuse opportunity with popularity. It takes time for the public to understand and embrace new forms of expression. Furthermore, whilst Italy is famous for its talent, it has never established a system – including a regulatory framework – to protect it: we need a system that safeguards those who bring added cultural value and that fosters links between creatives and the business world. Fortunately, the most tenacious are developing new channels where success no longer equates to popularity. As for the use of leather, well: we too are clad in leather when we are naked. As a vegetarian from birth, I found it very difficult to come to terms with this material; however, whilst studying the issue of food waste, I realised that the animal is sacred also for its beauty: no designer could ever match what nature creates. So I realised that leather guarantees quality and durability and, through the use of offcuts – as in my case – also offers significant environmental benefits.

After the pleasantries and the “good to see you” – which in the fashion world is bandied about with the same generosity and the same insignificance as the adjectives “amazing” and “iconic” – we asked him the question that any observer is bound to ask at this point, namely how he interprets the difficult times the sector is currently facing. Kliger, who heads the world’s most powerful e-commerce group, replied that he had nothing to complain about, that the US market is growing by 35 per cent and that, as long as interest rates remain as high as they are now, there should be no downturns (thanks, Trump), and that, all things considered, Europe is holding up well too.

In the fashion world, he added, the problem lies rather in the constant changes in creative direction – which are sometimes nothing more than a reshuffle of positions – and the fact that all this coming and going of creatives, each with their own vision of fashion, from one brand to another – which is, of course, both right and inevitable – ends up confusing the end customer. A rather well-known Substack account has just published a surreal ‘guide to the latest creative changes’ so that no one gets confused; when you’re out and about, your friend asks, ‘So who’s in charge at X now?’, just like in fantasy football.

“Today we need stability, continuity and certainty,” observes Kliger.

However, the latest reports indicate that Vaccarello is indeed stepping down—a gentle and unassuming man who, over the course of ten years, has tripled the fashion house’s sales, even securing it a prestigious role among major film producers (some titles: “Emilia Pérez”, “Father Mother Sister Brother”, “Parthenope”).

Pierpaolo Piccioli’s future is in doubt. He was brought in by Balenciaga just over a year ago to restore the brand to its original status within the couture sphere following Demna’s long period of quasi-streetwear, but instead – following Francesca Bellettini’s move from Gucci – has found himself designing a sort of casualwear that is yet to be seen and doesn’t even find a place in the shop – just try popping into the boutique on Via Montenapoleone – whilst surrounded by a creative team of youngsters who have remained there from the previous management and who cannot tell the difference between nylon and duchesse satin.

Rumours are also mounting regarding Alessandro Michele at Valentino: backstage, there is talk of an ultimatum regarding sales figures ahead of his contract renewal next March, as well as Kering’s numerous attempts to back out of the definitive acquisition of the fashion house, which has already been postponed until 2029.

It seems that sales are not looking good even at Dior; the summer 2027 collection presented two days ago in Paris is perhaps the weakest under Jonathan Anderson’s creative direction; he is certainly a great creative talent but probably unsuited to a very expensive brand that dresses middle-class ladies and female executives who go to the office in the morning, rather than ‘jeunes filles en fleur’, who wouldn’t pay for a dress even if their lives depended on it, as Giambattista Valli bitterly discovered.

But it is well known that the LVMH group’s response times and methods differ from those of Kering, not least due to differences in financial performance and urgency. Kering needs to sell – a lot, and straight away – and indeed Demna, who lives almost permanently in Los Angeles and only visits the creative office in Milan from time to time, whilst trying to interpret its directives as best he can, presented a crowd of buyers and journalists with a very clever, perfectly marketable collection, steeped in nostalgia and what he described as an interplay “of aristocracy and pop culture, good and bad taste’ in a letter delivered to their homes a few hours before the show (a WhatsApp message would have sufficed – aren’t we in the age of sustainability?), but lacking that allure which creates the dream and, indeed, the desirability – see Saint Laurent two days ago, for which many will be willing to save up.

At the Portello, Demna has recreated the look of a future Gucci shop – in fact, the very one in Paris due to open shortly – he populated it with real shop assistants and real clothes, and had models, a couple of actresses and a small group of ladies renowned for their style – such as Osanna Visconti and Naty Abascal – wear jodhpurs, jackets and waistcoats that were very well-cut and also beautiful, of course, and sent them onto the catwalk with that characteristic defiance of his – of danger and even of the very bourgeois conventions he is supposed to cater to.

Is this what you want? This is what we call clothing – some more expensive, some more expensive; some better made, some less so – and this is also sold in large chains such as Cos and Zara, which are already crammed full of virtually identical striped T-shirts.

They’ll be copying Gucci’s looks in less than a minute, with the exception of the wide belts and oversized buckles used as martingales, which will, in fact, become collector’s items alongside the magnificent bags and other accessories that are, quite clearly, the ultimate sales objective of a brand which, after all – and until Tom Ford’s arrival many years ago – was selling precisely that: handbags and suitcases.

All this display of merchandising strategy – which is, of course, legitimate; we are here to sell, not necessarily to write fashion history, let alone to change the course of society, as Michele attempted to do for years with considerable success – does not, however, justify the constant change of creative direction. This is why one should not leave it to those one chooses – sometimes after gruelling negotiations – the time to step into the shoes of someone whom, in some cases, they have never even met (Christian Dior, Hubert de Givenchy, Cristóbal Balenciaga), who never actually existed (Bottega Veneta perhaps works precisely for this reason, because there is no prominent founder in anyone’s imagination) but whom they cannot ignore.

Because it looms there like Banquo’s ghost with its thousands of designs – that is, with its ‘codes’, as they say in the industry – which generally boil down to four lines and three products repeated ad infinitum with different leathers and embroidery, because the merchandising department no longer has the courage to experiment further, let alone close the fashion house upon the founder’s death, as was once the custom and as we have written on several occasions would have been necessary to do, starting with McQueen, whose agony it was high time to bring to an end.

There are cases – Dior stands out precisely because its founder was the one who ran it for the shortest time – where changes have almost always (Raf Simons, ugh) worked out. In many others, forcing someone with good ideas into the narrow confines of another’s way of thinking is a dangerous game, yet one that is often played at the expense of the creative person themselves by a generation of managers who have, on the contrary, learnt the rules to perfection.

One of these prominent figures, a former executive who has become fabulously wealthy, explained the technique to us: by calculating the production time for a collection – which generally takes at least two or three – you guarantee yourself a couple of good years of monthly fees with plenty of zeros, and a severance package worth millions. Then the process begins again elsewhere, as headhunters are often reluctant to take risks and therefore continue to put forward the same names, drawing from an established shortlist regardless of results. This is not a hard and fast rule, of course, but it does occur with some frequency.

So, whilst it is true that the major players in the luxury sector have begun to divest (LVMH has already sold off brands such as Off-White™, DFS, Marc Jacobs and Patou, Kering is desperately seeking a way out for Valentino, the merger between Estée Lauder and Puig in the beauty sector has fallen through, and Prada has indicated that the relaunch of Versace will take some time), whilst US funds are looking to diversify their portfolios and Chinese funds are turning to international sportswear, as demonstrated by the case of Icicle with the appointment of Sabato D’Sarno.

But the ‘consistency’, the resilience and the solidity that Kliger advocates – and which, at the Milan fashion shows, has often translated into a nostalgic effect, sometimes successful and even moving, as in the cases of Fendi and Armani, who seek first and foremost to build a creative and cultural bridge between different generations, and sometimes really not – seems to have become a resource available and accessible only to a select few.

Valentino is holding a fashion show on Sunday in Paris: we have just received a written request to bring a book, “either new or from your personal bookshelf: all the books collected will be donated to a selection of public libraries in Paris and other cities”. The initiative recalls an earlier advertisement for Mondadori’s stock market listing, in which a staircase composed of nearly a million real books was constructed, up which the future shareholder ascended. It is a nostalgic memory, though decidedly not a melancholy one.

At Cavalli, the iconic prints make a comeback; they’re still as fresh as ever. There have been happy summers, and hopefully there will be more to come; there are faces and names that must be celebrated, whose lessons cannot be forgotten – indeed, must not be forgotten – and so here is Agnese Zogla, Giorgio Armani’s most beloved model, who, among the first looks from the Summer 2027 collection, is wearing an exact replica of her First Communion outfit from the year of grace 1942, complete with white gloves and long trousers – and these were probably her first pair, as at the time well-bred children wore short trousers even in winter until they were eight or ten years old. There is a desire—or rather, a need—to return to contemplating the essence of the clothed body (“I like my body when it is with your body”, from Edward Cummings’ poem, which serves as the title for Fendi’s fashion show), and at the same time to look up at the stars. Rooted on Earth, with our gaze turned skywards: to feel lighter, like Marras’s joyful floral-print narrative. For his comeback – because competition in recent years has become so fierce that not everyone can afford to put on a show consistently, time and again – Massimo Giorgetti of MSGM has struck a deal with the Schifano Foundation and has, naturally, chosen its palm trees and stars. "I’m starting over from myself", 1983.

Beyond the obvious considerations that everyone raises – which, in short, boil down to ‘why must we pay for Chinese-made goods as if they were Italian luxury goods’ – the decision by the Kering Group’s flagship brand raises a serious issue, because whilst Gucci officially states that it has chosen a Chinese supplier for the technological know-how and manufacturing capabilities best suited to meeting the performance and quality standards it sought – much as it has done in recent years with Swiss and Japanese suppliers for watches and eyewear – the issue is not merely about the ‘Made in Italy’ label, but what ‘Made in Italy’ has to offer in terms of craftsmanship, at a time when China is increasingly establishing itself as a manufacturer of premium-quality trainers. Take, for example, vulcanised rubber, which forms the basis of any sports shoe. In Italy, this remains a centre of artisanal excellence, concentrated mainly in Puglia, in Barletta, and in the Marche region; yet whilst for brands such as Golden Goose – which is entirely made in Italy – its positioning is defined by the customisation of the upper within a range of relatively classic models, including the soles, there is no evidence to suggest that the Gucci model could have been produced by an Italian manufacturer with the same characteristics sought by Demna, who—incidentally, and despite declaring in a charming little letter sent to the guests’ homes that he spent his first year at Gucci trying to understand ‘what Gucci stands for’ and that he found it in a ‘mix of good and bad taste, whatever that means’ While he articulates this position effectively, Demna does not live in Florence, where Gucci was founded, but in Los Angeles, a situation that reportedly causes some anxiety among the creative team based in Milan. And so the question we must ask ourselves once again – twenty years after Patrizio Bertelli declared that what mattered was ‘Made in Prada’ – is what ‘Made in Italy’ actually is, where and how it should be produced today, and how much it deserves investment, including in terms of government support and industrial plans. In Gucci’s case, we must simply take the board’s statements at face value, namely that Italy has not lived up to expectations – as it has in other sectors, such as watchmaking. And at this point, the problem becomes political, systemic, and relates to that famous ‘Made in Italy’ industrial plan promoted by sector associations, from Confindustria Moda to Unic, which has yet to take root. 

Ten years ago, Renzi told the cameras that “Italy is back” (he actually said it in English, or something along the lines of: “Italy is come back – this is the message”), adding that he was “not here to say ‘we will now invest’, but to acknowledge a reality that exists”: in fact, no other Italian prime minister had ever gone so far as to sit down with fashion entrepreneurs, who, moreover, were generating double-digit profits at the time and had no need for support with energy costs or to cope with crisis situations as they do today. For this reason, the tone of the speech ten years on is quite the opposite. Meloni emphasises that she felt it was “particularly right” to send a signal of her presence “at a time when things are not exactly easy for the sector, yet it continues to deliver excellent results. A tangible sign of presence and solidarity, not just through measures and resources, such as the 100 million to incentivise investment”.

Ten years ago, the event was always held at the Royal Palace, in the Hall of the Caryatids, rather than in the grand courtyard decorated in cream tones – from the carpet to the objectively splendid centrepieces: times have changed, and above all the atmosphere has changed; the ladies are largely wearing low-cut dresses – the modest Milanese neckline, that is; the Prime Minister is wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo and a blouse with a lace front by Ermanno Scervino. In 2016, Franca Sozzani – who was very close to Renzi and would pass away later that same year – presided over the event. Ten years on, at the head table, Prime Minister Meloni – who arrived with Prefect Claudio Sgaraglia – has Kering CEO Luca De Meo to her left, who chats to her intently throughout the dinner, and opposite her sit Anna Wintour, Gildo Zegna and Brunello Cucinelli. A little further along, Antoine Arnault, CEO of Loro Piana, was instead talking to Francesca Bellettini: the LVMH brand is in good health, whilst Gucci is facing a crucial test with Demna’s fashion show, due to be presented in a few hours’ time. At dessert, and even before the Cerea family make their rounds with the traditional selection of freshly filled cannoncini (by now, the paccheri and cannoncini prepared in the dining room have become a ritual – we’re starting to think it’s a bit of a superstition), Meloni rises and, flanked by Carlo Capasa, President of the Italian Chamber of Fashion, makes her way round the tables – a departure from protocol that raises a few eyebrows. She already knows many of those present; she was in Lesa, home to Herno, just a few days ago, and apparently proved herself to be quite well-informed about the production processes for outerwear. Luca Sburlati, president of Confindustria Moda, has plenty to say about energy costs. He smiles, looking at ease, whilst the waiters wait for her to leave before serving the sweets or, as they still say in Milan – where French hasn’t quite disappeared from everyday usage – the ‘friandises’. 

Not least because it was an imaginative and entertaining show, at times bordering on pure eccentricity – after all, not everyone can gracefully combine Velcro and crystals, nor make a crinoline look interesting and contemporary, wrap certain flared sheath dresses in sheer synthetic fabric like delicate chrysalises, or fold a masculine fabric at an angle to transform it into a skirt with real character, or even leave metres of fabric loose, forget about hems, so that it can be grasped and carried over the arm like a train. Pure invention, yet all just above or at knee length, as the women of Milan have always worn them, regarding the miniskirt as something for schoolgirls (indeed, Miu Miu sells them) and, objectively speaking, without ever giving a second thought to respectability. Quite simply, the knee-length skirt is more beautiful, drapes better, and serves the aim of this collection – and of the Prada philosophy in general – with greater ease: to make skirts the new T-shirts, ‘blank canvases on which to sketch new ideas’. Think freely, beyond the centimetres.

Loro Piana and Celine, tagged by the magazine in the introductory post for the new issue alongside the photo in which Albanese poses wearing their garments, are in fact owned by the French multinational LVMH, one of the world’s leading luxury groups. Both, however, have come under scrutiny from Boycat, a website that allows over 2 million users to scan or search for brands to determine whether they have any links to activities that ‘support the Israeli occupation, apartheid or violate the rights of Palestinians’. The platform works directly with the BDS movement (which stands for ‘Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions’), which has been promoting boycotts and actions against Israel since 2005. Although the official BDS list does not mention LVMH amongst the major brands with the strongest links to Israel (and therefore to be boycotted), on Boycat both Loro Piana and Celine are flagged for “ethical issues” stemming from the fact that the group’s chief executive, Bernard Arnault, and the US billionaire Howard Schultz invested in the Israeli cyber-security firm Wiz in 2021, participating in a $120 million funding round and raising Wiz’s valuation to $1.7 billion. That is why, in the case of Loro Piana, Boycat recommends alternative and ‘ethical’ brands to buy.

 Another brand monitoring platform, Gaza.nu, is calling for a boycott of the two brands because their owner invests in Israel. However, a third website adopts a more confrontational stance. In 2022, LVMH Luxury Ventures (the private-equity arm of the French conglomerate) invested in the Israeli lab-grown diamond company Lusix, participating alongside other firms in a $90 million funding round. “These financial ties link the group’s leadership to the Israeli economy against the backdrop of an ongoing military occupation, characterised by documented human rights violations,” states The Boycott Directory, another online register specialising in companies that “profit from violence, exploitation and dispossession”, and which, in addition to “military complicity” with Israel, accuses LVMH of environmental damage, human rights abuses and animal rights violations. “When considering ethical luxury brands, it is important to find out about the company’s supply chain, its labour practices and any initiatives supporting marginalised communities, including those in Palestine,” the website states. 

Despite the accusations and calls for a boycott, the two brands ended up being worn by Albanese, the quintessential champion of Gaza’s rights. She is a public figure whom both Loro Piana and Celine were probably delighted to dress, perhaps also to project an image of themselves as being closer to the Palestinian cause. 

Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, given that the system had been in need of a real shake-up for years, and we’ve been writing for years that it could not have expanded beyond these conditions – the fashion industry is not recovering at all. It is, however, changing its face, and is doing so in the only way it can, having neither the will nor the means to backtrack on its pricing strategy: it is shifting its objectives, its offering and its focus. Plates and glasses alongside handbags, embroidered tablecloths next to clothes – which, incidentally, are showcased on the catwalk but produced in ever-smaller quantities – chessboards alongside watches, and then creams, perfumes, lipsticks, suitcases and books, exhibitions and permanent displays to reassure the public – certainly foreign visitors, but not only so, as the domestic market is regaining its central role everywhere: too many destinations have become dangerous due to wars; low-cost flights are increasingly a gamble; after all, there’s always the grandparents’ seaside cottage where life is lovely. Consumers are returning to buying locally, and AI is being used to verify purchases. Deloitte reports that consumers trust AI or GenAI roughly twice as much as they do social media and influencers – a fact that the most astute fashion houses have long been aware of, as demonstrated, quite simply and with a few curious exceptions such as Chanel, by the front rows at fashion shows, where influencers are now reduced to a minimum. Domestic luxury consumption is therefore on the rise in the major international markets, starting with the United States, although this does not necessarily relate to sales of clothing and accessories. All this display of old-school Milanese power and sophistication in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele – because, in fact, the reading room opened by Prada on the first floor of the boutique itself could well have been intended to sell a few items, yet to use it one simply needs to register on the website – is in fact aimed squarely at that sort of audience that defines itself as ‘international’, just like the menus featuring Caesar salad and fettuccine Alfredo with butter and truffle – which have become as indispensable to Italy as they are to the Milanese themselves, a group long neglected, as evidenced by certain shop windows blatantly designed to appeal to different tastes: At Prada Galleria, it is reported that a certain pair of shoes, which sold out in a matter of weeks, was snapped up exclusively by Milanese women, who evidently still buy schoolgirl-style designs today just as they did fifty years ago, when Miuccia Prada’s mother, wearing a black apron, stood at the boutique’s till and everyone wanted – indeed, we all wanted – a certain model of brushed black leather handbag. The vast majority of customers for national or international ‘Made in Italy’ luxury goods remain foreign at present, but a slight reversal in the trend is noticeable. The crisis in the Middle East, the severing of ties with Russia and Putin’s allied republics, and the instability of relations with North-West Africa over the issue of illegal immigration have rendered too many destinations inaccessible or potentially dangerous (in a month’s time, a major party is to be held in Tangier, and the guests are thinking with apprehension about its proximity to Ceuta, and are therefore considering declining the invitation). Even at the broader level, the sector of domestic sales to overseas markets is facing difficulties, and an equally – and increasingly – restricted playing field. The Chinese market, which is becoming less and less responsive – partly because it is focused on its own growth in the luxury sector – is shrinking month by month; Dubai is struggling to recover from a shock that was primarily psychological (no one is invulnerable), despite the fact that many foreign investors – including those in the premium mass market such as the OVS Group with its beauty division, which is growing to a turnover of 150 million – have just opened a retail outlet there. ICE, Confindustria and the government are seeking new outlets and opportunities. At times, this leads to reflections or assessments that history has repeatedly disproved. For example, those who still pin their hopes (for the third time in twenty years) on India’s growth, or know nothing of the history of civilisations and the motivations underlying the rise of the fashion system (in a nutshell, a fluid society, not rigidly divided into castes), or are simply pretending to do so to reassure their clientele and boards of directors, who no longer know which way to turn and are therefore turning to Trump, banking on US interest rates remaining stable. For several months now, the Meloni government has been finalising agreements with Mercosur, and even the president of Confindustria Moda, Luca Sburlati, tells us that ‘in the medium term’ – that is, in at least five years’ time, which is an extremely long period for the fashion industry – the region could grow; we, who have been analysing the sector for over thirty years, have already seen it develop and collapse miserably once, around 2006, in Brazil, during Lula’s first term as president, before running aground shortly afterwards in Argentina and disappearing for twenty years. We are not sure that this might not happen again in the coming years, due to the profound asymmetries between the countries making up the bloc, and an underlying populist policy which, in times of difficulty, leads to the demonisation of discretionary spending and the imposition of restrictive fiscal measures; this, despite the historic trade agreement reached with the EU last spring. It appears that Palazzo Chigi intends to establish even closer ties with some of these countries, working both on credit protection and trade flows with SACE and on the training of buyers and commercial operators, but at present there is no precise information regarding the timing and implementation of this programme. The latest figures show a 5 per cent decline in Italian industrial production in the textiles and clothing sector, against a backdrop of a trade balance that remains stable thanks to a balanced import-export relationship; however, as Sburlati warns, “the real industries are suffering considerably, albeit with a few positive exceptions”.

Camera Moda forecasts a year-end decline of 1.6 per cent to 91.6 billion, around 10 billion less than just three years ago, and is pushing hard for a revival of trade relations with Asia, but it is now clear that every brand has its own target markets and that the 60 million customers lost by the luxury sector over the last five years, according to Bain, (some other research firms believe the figure to be lower, but the trend is not positive), will not be easily regained or replaced. It is no coincidence that some high-profile creative directors, such as Kim Jones or, more recently, Sabato De Sarno, have chosen to work with Chinese brands amongst the many consultancy opportunities available: they offer security, have five-year plans reminiscent of the Mao Zedong era, and managers who do not succumb to nervous breakdowns and disappear for six months or take a hard line against those who disagree with them (Steven Kolb, president of the CFDA – the equivalent of the National Chamber of Fashion – has just resigned after roughing up a PETA activist at the Cos fashion show). Gucci’s former creative director has signed with Icicle, a Chinese brand partly owned by Kering – which must surely feel a little indebted to him – and will be working from Paris with trusted European manufacturers. Speaking of which. Something has been irrevocably broken in the chain of trust that once bound brands to the fashion industry’s key customers – the so-called ‘aspirational’ consumers, that is, those who view brands as symbols and seals of their own worth and success – and the numerous geopolitical crises that began whilst we were still in the throes of the Covid emergency, whilst obviously significant, are not the primary cause of this rupture. These causes are to be found, first and foremost, in the disappearance of the grey market in Asia, which had inflated turnover, triggering a sense of omnipotence in CEOs and managers who had soon convinced themselves they could multiply their annual bonuses indefinitely, perhaps even groping the face of the international campaign en passant and in public, only to find themselves, all of a sudden, with warehouses full of overpriced goods that nobody wanted any more, not even at a discount, because the continuous and unjustified rise in the prices of accessories and garments that had been affordable until the previous decade had alienated the middle class of the Western public (does Saint Laurent really believe that the slump in sales is down to its creative director Anthony Vaccarello—one of the best of the last decade—and not to prices that are completely divorced from any principle of reasonableness?). This situation, already dire in its own right, has been further exacerbated by the gradual decline in product quality. Not all of them, of course; one need only touch one of Dior’s full-grain nappa leather handbags or a knitted jumper by Cucinelli or Scervino to realise how well they are made, but the use of polyester – for which Stefano Gabbana accused Elisabetta Franchi in one of those nefarious posts of his that, time and again, create further problems for a company already in such a deep crisis as hers – is a feature common to many brands, even in the luxury sector, where for far too many years it was thought that the brand’s value would make up for any other shortcomings.

It is therefore this combination of negative factors – confirmed by research or even simply by observing people’s behaviour, which is now more or less identical in its reactions across the globe – that has led to the decision to restyle the boutiques mentioned at the start, in Milan, where Fashion Week is about to begin, just as it is everywhere else in the world. For some, the financial commitment involved in these operations is colossal; for others, less so; but no one can escape it any longer – not even luxury e-commerce conglomerates such as Mytheresa, which, in order to safeguard a spending model that was on an unstoppable rise until 2023 but is now becoming increasingly unattractive, now has a division dedicated to entertaining high-spending customers, let’s say from half a million euros a year upwards, by treating them to trips, balls, visits and exclusive meetings with the designer of the moment – in other words, the sort of ‘experience that money can’t buy’, as CEO Michael Kliger always says. These are, in fact, the conclusions reached by the latest edition of the annual study carried out by Banca Ifis for Il Foglio, on which we published an initial in-depth analysis in late spring, and which the head of the research department, Carmelo Carbotti, sums up with a striking slogan: “From ownership to experience, from fashion to wellbeing”. The Western world has “redefined the concept of individual wellbeing”, creating a new context where “fashion has not been abandoned, but has lost its centrality in favour of categories perceived as more directly linked to quality of life” – namely health (we are an ageing world), travel and the home: there has been a return to entertaining at home after two decades of dining out; fashion itself has moved away from lavish gatherings in favour of what were once called “exclusive dinners” and are now described as “intimate” gatherings. Abroad, Banca Ifis reports, “the proportion linked to changing priorities reaches as high as 52 per cent (39 per cent due to changing habits and 13 per cent due to different spending priorities), clearly surpassing economic reasons (37 per cent). This figure includes Dior’s coloured, cut-glass glasses, Prada’s embroidered tablecloths, the many new Rimowa suitcases, and even the ultimate reason behind the numerous new mergers and acquisitions reported by Deloitte in the 2026 edition of its “Global Fashion & Luxury Private Equity and Investors Survey”, conducted globally amongst a sample of around fifty representatives from private equity funds and 119 companies representing approximately $941 billion in turnover in 2025 across the clothing and accessories, watches and jewellery, cosmetics and fragrances, luxury cars, hotels, private aviation, cruises, furniture, yachting and restaurants sectors. Last year, the fashion and luxury sector recorded 345 M&A transactions, an increase of 3.6 per cent compared with the 333 recorded in 2024. This growth was driven in particular by personal luxury goods, which accounted for 145 transactions (+8.2 per cent), representing 42 per cent of the total, though with an average value down by 16.5 per cent to 339 million; These two figures suggest two noteworthy conclusions, fully in line with what we have been stating from the outset: namely, that competition requires capital and scale, and that many, in order to achieve this, are accepting lower valuations for corporate takeovers compared to two years ago. In a contracting market, where the fashion sector is losing ground, no conglomerate intends – or can afford – to see its scope shrink excessively: the growing squeeze on margins, “which remains the sector’s real structural problem”, as Deloitte puts it. By 2025, the average EBITDA margin had fallen to 15.5 per cent, with the personal luxury goods sector having completely lost its post-Covid gains.

At the time of Prada’s acquisition of Versace, when many expected that – given his long-standing professional relationship with Mrs Prada – the creative director would be retained, there came the surprise of his departure and the appointment of Pieter Mulier, formerly at the helm of Alaïa – a clear signal of the (hyper-feminine) direction Lorenzo Bertelli wishes to take with the first major brand to which he will apply what he has learnt and developed to date ‘en famille’. Vitale’s youthful, ironic yet at the same time clean and precise style, coupled with his razor-sharp eye for accessories, is exactly what Emporio – and indeed the whole group – needs; and, to be perfectly honest, this has been the case for some time now, as demonstrated by the expressions of enthusiasm for the appointment voiced by Leo Dell’Orco and Silvana Armani, the heirs of Giorgio Armani, who will remain in charge of the group’s menswear and womenswear styles respectively (“Emporio was founded as a space for freedom, experimentation and energy, and we are convinced that the arrival in our team of Dario, a talent who has already made a name for himself on the international scene, will capture its spirit with respect and authenticity”) and by CEO Giuseppe Marsocci, who emphasises “this important milestone for the group” – and one cannot help but agree with him, given that until now, no one other than Mr Armani and his closest associates – namely his family and a team of creatives who have been with the company for decades – had ever set foot in the creative department (in recent years, there were several discussions between the founder and Maria Grazia Chiuri, who was certainly the closest to him in terms of taste and style, but these never came to fruition).

In short, Vitale is the group’s first creative director from outside the organisation, and this alone is a positive sign for those backing the current management, even whilst the search for new partners continues. He is also the first to take a genuine interest in handbags and footwear. Originally established as a flagship brand for Italian clothing on a global scale, the Armani Group has in fact never managed to make its mark in the accessories sector, despite excellent growth in footwear in recent years; and even the brand’s most iconic handbag, ‘la Prima’, despite its elegance, has never joined the ranks of those accessories that have changed a company’s history – as has happened, for instance, at Saint Laurent (we’ll be writing about this shortly), at Gucci, Prada and Miu Miu. In an era where accessories sales account for up to 70–80 per cent of turnover – this was the figure at Gucci until Sabato De Sarno’s arrival – the current pressure on Demna is all directed towards this: being not ‘relevant’ enough, another fashion-world adjective, when it comes to shoes and handbags, means permanently jeopardising turnover; and without Mr Armani, the House of Armani cannot afford to underestimate this aspect: “I approach this new challenge with a deep sense of responsibility and enthusiasm, with the aim of building on these solid foundations and defining a new era together,” said Vitale, and there is no doubt that this is the case: in a few days’ time, the Emporio fashion show scheduled on the calendar will take the form of a presentation, whilst new directions will be openly discussed in January (a sign that Vitale has been working on the project for at least three months: the fashion cycle is a long one).

Surrounding his appointment, there is also a broader, systemic aspect, in which certain traditional media outlets and social media are beginning to have a say even in terms of strategy, offering, moreover, excellent advice – or at least suggestions based on the sort of common sense that many boards and CEOs are failing to demonstrate, accustomed as they are, for decades, to never questioning their own certainties and privileges, including through data and research that sometimes seem to have been commissioned specifically to maintain a status quo that is contradicted daily by the facts (in recent days, a minor row even broke out between trade associations over the 2026 turnover forecasts for the national fashion industry and a difference of three negative percentage points, namely between –2 and –5 per cent). The fashion industry needs new names – even those unknown to the general public but cherished by the industry – and it needs effective strategies that are consistent with this extremely difficult period, in which the spending power of the average consumer, and others besides, has become the decisive factor. If even the Armani fashion house has deemed it necessary to bring in a figure favoured by the international press and the so-called ‘fashion community’ to offer the market proof of its vitality – and this is no play on words – then the umpteenth round of gossip regarding the change at the top of Saint Laurent takes on a whole new meaning. Ten days ago, it was taken for granted that Anthony Vaccarello – who had been creative director of the Kering Group brand for a decade – would be leaving, and that he would be replaced by Chemena Kamali, the current creative director of Chloé.

Amidst the rumours and speculation, a spontaneous movement of protests has emerged on social media, which appears to have so far thwarted any initiative on the part of the Kering group. Some of the most active websites (usually anonymous, but no less effective for that – see boringnotcom) have even gone so far as to offer advice to Kering’s board itself, noting, for example, that at Saint Laurent the problem lies not so much with the creative direction – which remains highly regarded – as with the price positioning (shoes at 2,900 euros, roughly double that of Prada and even higher than Chanel and Hermès, exceed what any customer is willing to spend in an era where status is no longer expressed through spending power on luxury goods) and that the appointment of Kamali – whose management of Chloé has so far failed to yield stellar results – would do nothing to improve what is a misguided commercial policy and a strategic assessment out of step with the times.

For those few who have not yet expressed an opinion on the matter and have not seen the photos, but might be interested in understanding what lies behind that suit, here is a summary and a brief history. At the screening of Martin MacDonagh’s sensational film – currently the best of those seen at Venice – Malkovich wore a dark suit with a shirt in that shade once known as ‘Isabella’ and now ‘off-white’ – this clarification is important given the era to which it refers – with a double ruff, which draws simultaneously on the great Flemish-Spanish tradition of the first two decades of the seventeenth century, with its large pleated but drooping ruff, known precisely as ‘à rabat’ and of which there is a fair amount of evidence in Caravaggio’s many early self-portraits, and on contemporary English fashion, which even then had a significant say in matters of masculine elegance.

The first direct reference to Malkovich’s collar can be found – complete with fastening ribbons and virtually identical in design – in the portrait of an actor (would you believe it?) presumably depicting Nathan Field, dated 1615 and held at the Dulwich Picture Gallery (Southwark, the neighbourhood where Marlowe practised and which Shakespeare also frequented).

That Jonathan Anderson, creative director at Dior, enjoys blending two different traditions is hardly unusual; indeed, it is a testament to his originality that Malkovich – who, whilst specialising in drama, studied the history of costume and, remember, played the Vicomte de Valmont? – wears historical costumes with a naturalness unknown amongst film people, who already struggle with a long dress from the day before yesterday – must have struck him as very interesting. As someone wrote on Instagram, not everyone could wear such an eccentric shirt today, and that’s true. But if, in fashion as in costume, relationships can only be dangerous when there is mutual awareness, it must be pointed out that, even before becoming an actor, Malkovich worked in the costume department of the legendary Steppenwolf Theatre Company in Chicago, and that for years – as well as modelling for connoisseur brands such as Comme des Garçons (1989) and later Prada (1995 campaign) – he was a collector of rare and antique fabrics, many of which were used over the past decade for his own brand. He christened the line ‘Technobohemian’ – essentially the name one might give to the outfit from the other day: for a couple of years, he designed and produced it in Italy, and when he presented it at Pitti, we all rushed to see it; in Prato, they still remember him for his expertise and exquisite manners. 

Crestani began shaping glass at the age of sixteen, almost by chance, when he took a summer job at a glassblowing workshop. Today, his studio comprises a team of seven people and his designs are commissioned by major international fashion houses. Two different trades, one shared idea: the contemporary artisan is not someone who merely repeats a technique, but someone who knows what to do with it. “Artisans are experts in problem-solving,” says Cerrato. In her work, tradition is not a constraint but a tool. When a collaboration with Montblanc came about, for example, she had to adapt kintsugi to the project’s timeline: urushi lacquer takes months to cure. “A Japanese person would never have done that,” she explains. She did. “Professionally speaking, it saved my life.” It is this skill that distinguishes a genuine craft from a mere label: knowing a technique well enough to be able to adapt it and find a solution when conditions change. Yet today, it is no longer enough for a craftsperson simply to know how to make things. They must also know how to sell, tell a story, take photographs and promote their work. Websites, social media, quotations, invoices, communication: “All things that go against our nature,” says Cerrato. Crestani has undergone the same transformation. Her workshop creates one-off pieces and special projects for the luxury sector: visual merchandising, jewellery, even buttons. The fashion houses, he explains, have become “like patrons” of high-end craftsmanship: they bring an idea and ask for it to be developed. It is precisely within that scope of research that manual skill becomes invention once more. But growing also means becoming a business. “To carry out work at this level, you need a team. And a team costs money.”

In his studio, two people handle content and storytelling. “My main expense is communication.” Even a workshop in the province of Vicenza, if it’s targeting international clients, needs to know how to get noticed: “You make something beautiful, you photograph it, you tell its story.” The price of this growth is also time. When he worked alone, Crestani could leave a prototype on the table, think about it, and come back to it. ‘Today, I can’t afford to do that.’ Yet it is precisely that time that forms part of the value of craftsmanship. Cerrato knows this only too well. Restoring an object can take him three months, and the materials are costly: in his case, urushi and gold. The problem is getting the customer to understand what they’re paying for. ‘Consumers often don’t realise how much manual labour goes into it.’ This is where the word ‘artisan’ risks becoming a shortcut: if everything can be described as handmade, it becomes difficult to distinguish a product built on years of expertise from one that merely imitates its appearance. Crestani has a strict rule in his studio: everything that leaves it must be 100 per cent handmade. But he does not believe that a label alone is enough to certify its value. ‘A brand is always a double-edged sword.’ The reputation built by organisations such as Homo Faber and Wellmade, which select and showcase artisans, also counts for a lot. The problem of passing on the craft remains. Crestani learnt the trade at a very young age and now tries to train young people in his studio. But in Italy, he notes, there is ‘no school’ for glassblowing. In the United States, the Netherlands and Germany, such training programmes are more widespread. This is why he believes that a relationship with the material must begin before a career choice is made: “You have to learn to get your hands on the material, even if it doesn’t end up becoming your profession.” Wood, ceramics, glass: a relationship between thought and the hand that takes time. It is a challenge that Cerrato also sees in his own courses. Kintsugi cannot be learnt in an afternoon: it requires patience, repetition and waiting. ‘Do something 10,000 times and then you’ll start to get the hang of it.’

The hand, even before the mind, must learn the craft. This, ultimately, is the value that the term ‘artisan’ should convey: not an image, but a set of skills. A craft that takes years to master, time to execute, and a market willing to recognise its value. The law may determine who is authorised to call themselves an artisan. The rest must be demonstrated by the hands.

His gaze, which has always been directed towards nature, has led him to commit himself to protecting the environment through a major international project aimed at raising public awareness of climate change.  His works form a sort of unconventional ecosystem of diversity: flowers, seeds, leaves, pods, roots, ants, anthills, hybrid insects, pomegranates, jasmine flowers, elements – or, as he calls them, ‘Natural Intelligences’ (the title of his recent exhibition in Milan) – through which he has always sought to make a ‘noise’ in silence. It is his way of shouting to the world about the need to protect the environment – an expressive language designed to raise awareness, even before making a complaint, of the need for care and respect for our planet.

“I’ve always done this, even before it became fashionable. I have also been involved through an association dedicated to the protection of cultural and environmental heritage. But art has always been a necessity for me, a means of drawing attention to the true value of what surrounds us – something which, unfortunately, is taken for granted, when it really shouldn’t be. Even today, in the face of the catastrophes we are witnessing, climate change is ignored and even denied by many."

Collages and installations are created by hands skilled at assembling elements that others would often overlook. His artistic signature is a poetic language expressed through craftsmanship honed over time and experimental techniques with which he secures his elements: ‘linking’ – simply the act of gluing, the connection formed with a natural element, such as a pod, on the surface – and ‘bonding’, that is, the choice of the exact position in which to place the element, which is never random. It is a position which, within the composition of the painting, means that it can only be in that specific spot.

This is how its landscapes come into being – at once natural and alienating, where the real and the artificial ultimately merge. Take the dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), the common dandelion, with its seeds carried by the wind – a metaphor for detachment and journey – anchored in beds of roots – those of a common hydrangea (Hydrangea macrophylla) – and juxtaposed with flowers, fabrics and other seeds, in a delicate balance of shapes and colours. Or wasp and beetle nests, olive blossoms, human faces and animal figures, intermingled with leaves and blue flowers alongside wild sage blossoms.

The works take the form of microcosms, painstakingly constructed with a delicacy that is only apparent, for every organism is subject to a tension that alters its equilibrium. “Nature defies all rationalisation, even though its turbulence stems from profound climatic and environmental changes; yet its natural intelligence forms the bedrock of the earth. It is precisely in this space, between the vitality of nature and human intervention, that the works find their strength.”

What do these compositions aim to convey? "They are an expression of that something which, otherwise, would never be seen amidst the banality of everyday life. They help to foster greater awareness and a deeper appreciation for our surroundings, by using natural elements in an unconventional way. The beauty of nature is something that allows us to live our daily lives with greater satisfaction and mindfulness. My paintings are fragrant; they are immersive in themselves, enveloping. In my archive, I keep books which, even after years, are capable of releasing scents and flavours that reconnect us with our own identity and that of the places we inhabit. To protect the Earth from the consequences of climate change, we must protect identities – everything that is unique to a particular territory, to a particular way of life – because beauty lies precisely in diversity.”

Our ancestors’ fins reproduced the music of the waves. They sensed the scent of the air from beneath the water and, being amphibians, made their way onto dry land. Whilst some branched out upwards, reaching towards the sky to trace lines, our bones slowly fused together, two million years ago, so that we might encounter matter, the world and ourselves. It is through our hands that our process of understanding others and the world begins, just as our journey onto dry land began. Helping ourselves with our hands, propelling ourselves towards the light. We do not think solely through the cerebral cortex; our bodies, too, participate in the process of learning and in the creation of culture. Our hands and fingertips are instruments of knowledge. Today, sixteen billion hands dance every day with the universe, speaking a universal language: hands use a language understood by all. For this reason, when the Michelangelo Foundation invited me to curate the new edition of Homo Faber, I did not think only of the hands of the hundreds of craftspeople from all over the world who contribute their works of art to the exhibition, but also of the light and water that dominate the Venetian archipelago. I thought of the creations of those hands as a manipulation of light. Works that dance with light, because the materials from which they are made – clay, wicker, glass, feathers, wood – came into being through the interaction between natural elements and manual skill.

Each artisan is an island of talent and excellence, just as the island of San Giorgio Maggiore – where the event takes place – represents, through its history of industrious spirituality, not merely a backdrop but a true source of inspiration for the masterpieces on display in its cloisters, halls and gardens. While collaborating with the artists on the selection of subjects, I drew inspiration from the lagoon’s fauna—its birds and fish; each of the seven hundred objects that has found its way here sings a unique melody, drawn directly from its creator’s score. Each piece bears the imprints, traces, and marks of time, along with the light of Venice. One must, however, take the time to decipher their meaning. To get to know them. To commit their forms and substance to memory, and to observe the way in which each one conveys the unique light of the place where it stands. Every time we come into contact with a work of human ingenuity, we encounter a pair of hands, an embodied mind, a link to places, circumstances, culture, climate, ideas and eras. Every object has found its form out of chaos; every pair of hands reflects the light of the planet back to us through their own craft and skill.

British artist, set designer and costume designer Esmeralda (Es) Devlin holds a degree in English Literature from the University of Bristol and specialised in set design at Central Saint Martins. Over the years, she has designed the sets for concerts by pop stars such as Beyoncé, Miley Cyrus and Adele; the installations for the closing ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics; the set design for the 2016 opening ceremony in Rio; and the imaginative ‘Village of Music’ for the 2022 Super Bowl LVI Halftime Show at SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles, featuring hip-hop legends such as Dr Dre, Snoop Dogg, Eminem, Mary J. Blige, Kendrick Lamar and 50 Cent, as well as the set design for Boris Godunov, which opened La Scala’s 2022–2023 season (the great scroll of parchment evoking the chronicles of the monk Pimen), directed by Kasper Holten, right through to the sets for many of Nicholas Ghesquière’s fashion shows for Louis Vuitton, including the sinuous spiral path winding around the structure of the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo de Niterói, designed by Oscar Niemeyer, for the presentation of the 2017 Cruise collection. For her work in theatre, she has won three Laurence Olivier Awards and, in 2022, a Tony Award for "The Lehman Trilogy". The fourth edition of "Homo Faber" will run until 30 September at the Fondazione Cini

“Family circumstances, financial hardship and the suffering of the war and post-war years ‘certainly influenced my character, which was already rather reserved’,” he tells me, reflecting on his disposition. “I have a disillusionment that stems from life in those years, a sense of disappointment at not having truly experienced my youth. Sometimes I realise I use a rather harsh form of irony. It’s not malice, it’s a defence mechanism. It’s a disillusioned outlook which, however, allows me to assess situations quickly and to understand straight away whether a person is genuine or whether they’re putting on a front. Yes, I grew up feeling a bit sad deep down, sensitive and touchy, perhaps because I didn’t have many friends; I was more at ease with myself than with others.” By the time he had made a name for himself, one of their young colleagues, Gini Alhadeff, asked Sergio Galeotti – a partner and friend who passed away in 1985 – why, despite his success, Giorgio often had that sad look about him. The remark struck him so much that he still remembers it: “Today, however, I might reply by saying that I’m shy about my feelings, yet I laugh on the inside and perhaps it doesn’t show. I have a great sense of humour and, deep down, I also make fun of myself. I know myself by now; I know how I react’. I ask him if he has ever undergone psychoanalysis or any form of psychotherapy; he replies that he hasn’t and adds that ‘no one knows oneself better than oneself; I don’t have too many surprises in store for myself’. He also tells me that he often sleeps very little, but ‘in the morning I devote at least half an hour to a scrupulous self-examination. Sometimes that half-asleep state becomes a continuation of my dreams; I carry them on whilst awake, even if they’ve frightened me’. I ask him to tell me about some of them; he says that one of the most frequent is actually quite banal – it’s the one about the fashion show that’s due to start whilst the clothes aren’t there: ‘But it’s not a very original nightmare; I imagine all fashion designers have it!’.

He is also in the habit of analysing his way of expressing himself, which sometimes involves major outbursts and harsh words: “I know my language is often too harsh, very cutting. I know it’s not right, but it stems from the need to give those around me a wake-up call, even those who love me. It’s a way of intervening in their lives; it’s exactly what my father didn’t do – with me, he was quietly respectful, always. Given the results, perhaps he wasn’t wrong; perhaps I am. I realise, for example, that I’ve been an uncle who’s kept a bit of a distance; I haven’t been the ‘uncle’ they could play with. But in my own way, I am a father, and I have loads of children.”

Without my even asking, Armani tells me about the relationship between his parents: “When I think back on them, I can’t say whether they loved each other; they were certainly very close, despite everything.” In those days, it was unthinkable for children to ‘gauge’ the passion and love between their father and mother; marital relationships were a private matter and taken for granted: “There wasn’t much discussion about feelings amongst us; back then, it wasn’t the done thing to talk about such things. But there was a time when my father had a brief fling and my mother vented a little to me, perhaps because I was young and she thought I wouldn’t understand or judge her.”

When he speaks of his mother, Giorgio is both admiring and protective: ‘She was a very charming woman; men were drawn to her and she had a way with women, yet she, too, was a woman of few words. We were a family of modest means, but she always managed to be elegant and never let us look out of place. She was ninety when she died, as quietly as she had lived, without ever compromising our peace of mind.’ As a young woman, Maria Raimondi had lost six family members in the Spanish flu pandemic, but these were not things she liked to tell her children, except to say every now and then: “You don’t know how hard life used to be.” One day, when Armani’s success had brought him financial security – and much more besides – he asked her if she was happy with it, and his mother replied: “Yes, Giorgio, but it’s a bit late.” For him, those words were devastating, and this perhaps also explains his constant regret at having wasted too much time in the uncertainty of his youth, at not having chosen his path sooner.

Wicker, rattan and raffia have been used so frequently in fashion (there are plenty of examples even at the latest edition of Homo Faber, which has just opened) that they immediately trigger a chain of associations and a tally of who did what. I must confess, however, that they also trigger an immediate urge to save an image of Skarsgård—more statuesque than ever, even in a large basket version—for an upcoming mood board, alongside a vintage 1950s bucket bag that I had purchased and until now forgotten, and a 1960s girl’s handbag that has suffered the same fate. The mind then wanders to Gianfranco Ferré and a dress that was admired—with a touch of Stendhal syndrome—in the archives of the fashion house’s historic headquarters: a corset and crinoline covered in black wicker (which is hoped to still be available at the Gianfranco Ferré Research Centre), or his variations on the Vienna straw weave for Christian Dior. From this game of memory, I immediately move on—through self-induced conditioning—to a reinterpretation for an imminent collection. The search for quick inspiration is, for those of us who work not only ‘in’ but also ‘on’ fashion, almost an automatic reflex – a dangerous mechanism because it inevitably leads us to translate any suggestion into ready-to-use material, like a computer that processes and metabolises every piece of data absorbed for the sake of efficiency. More calm is needed, yet instead we find ourselves dumping onto the drawing board everything we have seen, read, photographed, tasted, encountered and come across during the summer holidays – holidays that are becoming ever hotter, more exhausting and filled with jumbled thoughts. 

Those of us who design for others, under ever-tightening deadlines, should strive not to lose ourselves in the endless twists and turns of forced stylistic exploration, but rather seek to clear our minds, absorb and observe without any immediate purpose, confident that something will emerge in the long run.

There is a reason, apart from the joy and the desire to present the museum dedicated to his uncle, who passed away in 2020, at Palazzo Bragadin in Venice – which has been in the family for many years – why Rodrigo Basilicati Cardin chose the date of 3 September. There are actually two reasons behind the celebration that will light up Calle della Regina this evening – the street on which the Prada Foundation also stands: to mark the opening of the house-museum, with guests not wearing Space Age-era costumes invited to arrive at the palace a little early to choose a Cardin outfit from the vast archive brought over from Paris, not all of which, of course, is of museum quality but nonetheless of excellent craftsmanship; and to do so on the very same day that, seventy-five years ago, the Bal Oriental – organised by Charles de Beistegui under Tiepolo’s fresco "The Banquet of Cleopatra", which had inspired him – was held on the opposite bank at Palazzo Labia, now the regional headquarters of RAI. Pierre Cardin, who was very young at the time, designed around thirty costumes for the more than one thousand participants (including three hundred gatecrashers), and it was precisely that occasion that launched his career. A social climber who had added the ‘particule’ to his surname, from an extremely wealthy Mexican family that had fled the persecutions following the execution of Emperor Maximilian, Beistegui was not loved; rather, he was feared. Cecil Beaton, who was himself inspired by Beistegui’s library at Groussay Castle in Yvelines when designing Professor Higgins’s library in My Fair Lady, painted a scathing portrait of him in his memoirs, The Glass of Fashion. Jacqueline de Ribes, the grande dame of elegance who passed away a few months ago, also recounted that Beistegui was “an amoral snob”, adding that she had “seen it all during the war”, but had felt “an innocent” until she met him. ‘Charlie’s law’ was, in a nutshell, the Proustian principle of exclusion and social standing, still dominant in those years, but which would be shattered in the following decade by the student protests of ’68, which would also lead to the closure of Cristóbal Balenciaga’s atelier. Although he had made Groussay his residence, he had restored Palazzo Labia at great expense, enriching all the artisans of Venice, and that ball was intended to cement his position as the new Doge of Venice. Beistegui sold the palace to Ettore Bernabei, then Director-General of RAI, in 1960, thereby securing the Tiepolo paintings for the national heritage for all time. No one can now recount exactly how it really was – the ball of the century – except the great theatre director, curator and set designer Pier Luigi Pizzi, who was just a boy at the time and attended by chance and through a stroke of luck.

How does one prepare for the party of the century? Perhaps one doesn’t prepare at all, as the experience of Pier Luigi Pizzi seems to suggest: over seventy years ago, he actually attended the Bal d’Orient – almost by chance – with the carefree attitude of a twenty-year-old. This really does seem to be the best way to mingle with the international jet set: with the detachment of someone who did nothing to be there and with the usual dose of irony that this extraordinary man of the theatre has kept intact, along with a prodigious memory that still allows us to relive every detail of that night. But let’s take it one step at a time. On 3 September 1951, Venice, in the midst of the Venice Film Festival, already seemed to be teeming with celebrities: from Vivien Leigh and Marlon Brando, the neurotic and intensely sensual leads of "A Streetcar Named Desire", to Kirk Douglas as an unscrupulous journalist in Billy Wilder’s "The Seven Year Itch", not to mention other giants of the screen such as Cukor, Renoir and Kurosawa, who that year won the Golden Lion for Rashomon. Nothing foreshadowed that yet another host of billionaires, aristocrats and artists was poised to pour through the narrow streets and small squares on their way to Palazzo Labia. Charles de Beistegui, a leading figure in Parisian society of Basque origin, whose family had made their fortune in Mexico from silver mines, had, a few years earlier, acquired and restored the grand residence on the Grand Canal featuring Tiepolo’s frescoes, including the famous ‘Meeting of Antony and Cleopatra’. The intention was to transform the venue into the ideal setting for the ‘last European ball’, as Paul Morand put it. In the preceding months, over a thousand invitations had been sent out, reading: ‘18th-century costume ball. Masks and dominoes’. Aristocracy and high society from across Europe had answered the call, vying to impress with their costumes and commissioning the greatest couturiers of the era – from Christian Dior to Jacques Fath – to design them, all called upon to rival the figures painted by Tiepolo. In the days leading up to the ball, the guests began arriving in Venice, all more or less busy putting the finishing touches to their outfits. Meanwhile, Pizzi was there for an entirely different reason. He had only just begun his career as a set and costume designer and, during those weeks, was working with Cesco Baseggio on Carlo Goldoni’s "L'Avaro", to be presented at the Theatre Biennale. While he was in the La Fenice costume workshop supervising the creation of the production’s costumes—inspired by Fra Galgario—a Roman princess suddenly appeared; she too had been invited to the ball but, evidently ill-prepared, had turned to the theatre in search of outfits for herself and other members of her family.

The head of the costume department explained to her that the theatre could not hire out its repertoire costumes. “At that point, rather cheekily,” says Pizzi, “I piped up and said I could help her. I was standing there with my sketches in my hand, in front of a mannequin, and the princess was clearly intrigued. ‘Can you help me?’ she asked me hopefully. ‘I’d be delighted to,’ I replied, partly because the idea amused me, but also because I saw an opportunity to earn some money, given how penniless I was at the time.” It turned out there were seven people who needed to be dressed, and Pizzi took a few hours to come up with a special entrance. In the afternoon, they all met up again: “Fortunately, they were all beautiful, elegant and, how shall I put it, refined. In the meantime, I’d decided to draw inspiration from the palace’s frescoes, looking to Tiepolo’s costumes but filtering them through a more contemporary sensibility: there were certainly the silhouettes of Tiepolo’s ladies, knights and pages, but rendered in a more stylised manner, less concerned with the pedantry of historical details.” A method that would go on to become the hallmark of Pier Luigi Pizzi’s theatrical work to this day. “In the tailor’s workshop, I had samples of fabrics at my disposal. We had to work quickly, as there were only a few days left before the ball. As it happened, I’d already chosen some of these fabrics for my production: taffeta and silks in beautiful shades of red, ranging from vermilion to ruby, verging on purple. There was therefore a wide variety of shades, all in harmony with one another – a sort of chromatic alchemy that could work.” Two days later, he arranged a meeting with them for the first fitting: everything went smoothly, and only the finishing touches remained to be completed. On the eve of the ball, they returned for the final dress rehearsal, this time accompanied by a hairdresser and a make-up artist from the theatre, summoned by Pizzi to take care of hairstyles and make-up as well, ensuring everything would be perfect. “They were all happy and excited, and they were absolutely delighted with themselves: it was all a great flurry of bows and pirouettes in front of the mirror. The princess did not know how to express her gratitude any more. She took me aside to give me my fee, which was truly very generous, and which made me breathe a huge sigh of relief. ‘There’s something else too,’ she said, handing me an envelope. Inside was an invitation to the ball which, I don’t know how, she’d managed to get for me. With less than a day to go before the ball, the question of what to wear remained. There was nothing at the theatre that would suffice: he did not want to arrive in a dusty repertoire costume, and he certainly could not wear one of the costumes from The Miser. Then an idea struck: he asked Baseggio if the company had any old costumes in storage. Cesco, renowned for his generosity, replied in the Venetian dialect: ‘But of course, bocia! We’ve got a storeroom full of trunks: go and see if you can find something.’ He therefore had me taken to a warehouse near Marghera where sets and props were stored. Opening one of the trunks, I found an eighteenth-century Harlequin costume. I slipped it on and it fit perfectly; it even included the traditional black leather mask. I hurried out to purchase black Friulian shoes and red stockings, and I was ready for the ball.” And so the twenty-one-year-old who, just a few days earlier, had no reason whatsoever to imagine himself at Palazzo Labia, was now able to cross its threshold: “I was like Alice stepping through the looking-glass.” And what lay on the other side of the looking-glass? The tales of the ball belong to that uncertain realm where society chronicles begin to resemble mythology. At eleven o’clock in the evening, gondolas filed past the palace, illuminated by hundreds of candles; dozens upon dozens of footmen in livery welcomed the guests. Beistegui received them wearing a wig, in the sumptuous robes of the Procurator of the Most Serene Republic and perched on high stilts – a detail that Pizzi remembers very well.

“In the large central hall, he stood majestically leaning against a fireplace, for maintaining his balance on those dizzying stilts was no easy feat. Over the course of the night, he would disappear and reappear several times, each time in a different costume. It had all been conceived as a magnificent spectacle. The guests handed their invitations to the doorman, who announced them, and went to greet the host. Boris Kochno (poet, screenwriter, and also for the Ballets Russes, ed.), who had learnt from Diaghilev that a party can be a total work of art, had organised the arrivals. Lady Diana Cooper appeared as Cleopatra, as did Daisy Fellowes, another Cleopatra in Dior, immortalised by Cecil Beaton beneath Tiepolo’s ‘Cleopatra’; the Duke of Verdura personified Time, surrounded by the four Seasons; Leonor Fini appeared as a black angel; Princess Chavchavadze was Catherine II; Arturo Lopez made a spectacular entrance as the Emperor of China, accompanied by a lavish retinue. Pizzi had arrived well in advance: ‘I didn’t want to miss a thing’. Leaning out from the balconies, he watched the guests disembark from the gondolas and motorboats. In the courtyard, he recalled the ballets of the Marquis de Cuevas: one featuring enormous masked figures, the other more Rococo and eighteenth-century in style. The courtyard itself had become a stage set: draped in tapestries, its floor featured a trompe-l’œil painted canvas reproducing the Savonnerie carpet from Louis XV’s chamber at Versailles, whilst a gigantic chandelier designed by Emilio Terry hung from above. “From the façade overlooking Campo San Geremia, one could see a crowd of onlookers thronging behind the barrier of hoardings. Beistegui had thought of them too, treating them to the feats of fire-eaters, human pyramids and fireworks. There was even a coin-throwing spectacle.” And so, for a few hours, the line between private party and public spectacle blurred. Seventy-five years on, it is easy to see all this merely as the final roar of an international aristocracy that could afford to re-enact the 18th century whilst Europe was emerging from the war. The French press recalls that Beistegui even turned down eight million dollars offered by an American television channel to film the evening: he preferred to entrust its memory to the photographs of Cecil Beaton, Robert Doisneau, Frank Horvat and the drawings of Alexandre Serebriakoff. It is here that one appreciates all the more the unique perspective of Pizzi’s account. He had not arrived at Palazzo Labia pretending to belong to that world. “I had no desire whatsoever for high society. Nor have I ever had one. I didn’t have the yearning look of Cinderella watching her stepsisters go to the Prince’s ball, and I certainly wouldn’t have sold my soul to the devil for an invitation. I walked in by chance, as a curious onlooker, a spectator.” In other words, he was already a man of the theatre. At five in the morning, Pizzi returned to his hotel, took off his Harlequin costume, had a shower and went to rehearsals. Yet something of that night remained. Not so much high society as the realisation of what theatre can achieve. “Walking into Palazzo Labia, lit by thousands of candles, with cascades of flowers and lavishly laid tables everywhere, and so many different, perfectly conceived performances… for someone who was just starting out in the theatre, it was truly an unimaginable experience.”

Perhaps the lesson lay in realising the effort required to produce something that was destined to last just one night and then disappear. There were those who had been preparing their costumes for a year, those who had crossed the Atlantic to be there, those who had mobilised design studios, artists, architects, dancers, gondoliers, chefs and valets. Then dawn broke and it was all over. “That magical night taught me that the ephemeral takes everything away. What remains are memories, photographs, drawings and stories. And what remains are images upon which life lays many more.” Over the years, Pizzi would go on to spend time with many of the figures who had taken part in the ball back then, from Kochno to Cocteau, but always “with the same curiosity I had at twenty, just as when I’d walk into a museum or a cathedral”. It all served the same purpose: “To gather experiences and ideas. To accumulate images that would nourish my creativity”.

Cristiana Brandolini, who that evening was wearing a dress designed by Lila De Nobili, remained friends with Pizzi until his death a few weeks ago. “I remember seeing Lila’s sketches of the dresses that Cristiana and Brando had worn that night in his Venetian palace.”

Memories are now fading, witnesses are disappearing, but perhaps this fate suits the Bal d’Orient. Beistegui had spent a fortune creating a night outside the flow of time, and today all that remains are photographs, sketches, dresses and fragments of conversations. And a twenty-one-year-old Harlequin who arrived by chance, watched it all until five in the morning and then, whilst the ball of the century was becoming a legend, quietly returned to the theatre to carry on working.

Dolly Parton was undoubtedly the most dazzling representative of this category for a whole host of reasons. Because she had managed to find her balance in excess, and the reason for her success in extravagance. Her secret lay in a contrast that made her a living oxymoron: unnatural to the highest degree, yet authentic. What Parton created, nurtured and embellished was a highly contrived construct designed to convey the messages of a personality that had remained admirably genuine.  While fashion dictated a tedious, stale notion of good taste and women took refuge in little black dresses and stifling, characterless suits, she pushed the boundaries of bad taste to the very limit: dissonances can prove more unforgettable – even on first listen – than predictable harmonies. Fashion designers pointed to the example of the established icons of elegance – the Jackies, the Audreys – women for whom ‘diminutio’ was as much a part of their name as it was of their wardrobe; yet she puffed out her bust and fluffed up her hairstyle, appearing colourful and voluptuous just when women across half the world were striving to look flat and monotonous.  “Would you have liked to have been born a man?” asked a young man from the audience during a live television broadcast in the late 1970s. “Oh, Lord, no! If I’d been born a man, I’d have been a drag queen.”

Dolly understood human beings and their needs, and she knew that the public demands content and a style that entertain, distract and break with bourgeois conventions. Irresistibly witty, she played along with this game because it was second nature to her; her intelligence and irony meant she could even laugh at herself and her persona.  A figure who deserves credit for bringing, even into the homes of the most puritanical American families, that taste and love – along with the boundless enjoyment that follows – for the artificial and the exaggerated, which Susan Sontag identified in the 1960s as the constitutive and indispensable elements of ‘camp’ – a concept that cannot be separated from kitsch and the absence of snobbery, ostentation and theatricality. Of this language, of this subculture so pervasive in the world of the arts, Dolly was queen and high priestess, interpreter and prophetess; and through that natural unnaturality, she poured out, via music and television programmes, love songs and silly laughter, winks and activism, the cause of the LGBTQIA+ community, which identified with her and had elected her as their patron, and the promotion of reading as a means of escape from an unhappy fate. What made her irresistible and etched her into hearts and minds was a trait common to figures of her calibre: the embodiment of duality. In most cases, the coexistence of the person and the character takes the form of a clash, a conflict, in the least peaceful sense these terms can convey. Think of Dalida, the perfect representative of this great family that brings together so many artists. Feminine and joyful, dazzling in sequins whilst singing ‘Laissez-moi danser’ or ‘Gigi in paradisco’, yet tormented and restless in her personal life – a conflict so exhausting that it led Jolanda Gigliotti, in 1987, to ‘kill’ the woman and the traumas that inhabited her soul, in order to separate herself forever from that diva Dalida who was so distant from her, even though she herself had created her.

In Parton’s case, however, this contrast was an intelligent, honest and serene dialogue, handled with the sound mastery of life that a girl born in the Black Mountains of Tennessee at the end of the war might possess. A down-to-earth quality with which she reconciled an artistic career characterised by ‘too much’ with a private life so tranquil as to seem almost mundane – certainly not in keeping with the romantic lives of those in showbiz, and in spite of a great clandestine love affair that was never spoken of but much whispered about.The woman who, when asked the cheeky question “What do you do when you wake up in the morning?”, would reply mischievously, “I get up, get dressed and go back to my own home”—a quip recycled by thousands of gay men of all ages—was, in reality, what the Latins would call a ‘univira’, married to the same man for almost sixty years until his death separated them two years ago: as the woman who first wrote and sang ‘I Will Always Love You’, she kept her word. 

It is striking to note that on the very same day that Dolly shone for the last time, on 25 August, Tim Curry also passed away: it was a truly dark day for the camp scene. As always happens in such cases, social media was flooded with the grimaces, irreverence, fishnet stockings and curls that allowed The Rocky Horror Picture Show and its Dr Frank-N-Furter to sow ambiguity in a world that still clung to a measure of moralism despite the recent revolution in sexual mores. Camp thus became the vehicle for an unbridled and mocking vision of the concept of sexual identity, laying bare all its limitations. With his theatrical gestures and his proudly ramshackle character, Curry seeped into the most sensitive and thirsty minds like a stimulating substance—bitter and sweet at the same time—injecting a new perception of beauty and desire into the veins; and just as camp demands and dictates, he expanded the aesthetic boundaries to include categories, styles, languages and forms that had until then been considered repulsive, immoral and unacceptable. The outcome of this revolution was complete and effective, thanks in part to the credibility of the British artist, who was the ideal representative of this phenomenon: at his final appearance, confined to a wheelchair following a stroke, Curry took to the stage surrounded by a swarm of muscular young men, clad only in golden glitter. It was a fitting testament to his status as an iconic figure of camp.

As devoted as we are and always will be, even in the absence of celebrations worthy of her artistic stature and the place she occupied in Italian and international pop culture, we cannot fail to recall, through these two events, how Italy too produced a venerable and rightly revered high priestess of camp and exaggeration. Raffaella Carrà brought to Italian television and to packed South American stadiums a feminine image previously unknown before her arrival: that of a woman who displayed a sensuality that was free, spontaneous and joyful – and therefore not alarming. 

Recognisability as the key strategy for building loyalty. Costume designer Luca Sabatelli, who skilfully contributed to her image and that of the leading ladies of Italian variety shows, explained that dressing Carrà meant respecting her immutability: the blonde bob, the shoulder straps, the shimmering dresses and the ruffles were the elements that allowed the public to recognise her immediately and, he added, “We recognise the Virgin Mary by her blue mantle”, applying this principle to the creation of Raffaella’s looks.

Carrà and Parton share numerous similarities, not just in terms of their appearance. Both have managed to be desired by men, idolised by gay men and seen by women as friendly figures rather than rivals. Carrà, too – just like Parton in ‘Jolene’ – addressed the woman who might take her beloved away from her in 1979 with empathetic words: ‘Go to her, and say hello for me. I sincerely hope that what happened to me never happens to her’. Like her American counterpart, she championed LGBTQIA+ rights by speaking out in favour of same-sex marriage, singing about ‘Luca’ who prefers to disappear with a blond boy, and bringing the experience of a young gay man to Rai’s afternoon television, which was still steeped in the Christian Democrat dictates of the early 1990s.  She, too, possessed the gift of the improbable: what would have seemed ridiculous, if not downright grotesque, on others, sat with incredible naturalness on her persona. Although she was repeatedly targeted by censors, she never appeared vulgar: not when she danced at midday in a red leotard more suited to a fetishist’s fantasy, not when she paired a nun’s habit with visible hold-ups, as in “Ma che sera” in 1978, and certainly not in the almost childlike “Tuca Tuca”. Whenever there was a risk of appearing overly sensual, her innocent, childlike grace always prevailed – the grace of a little girl who senses the storms of adolescence approaching but still indulges a little longer in games whose full meaning she does not yet fully grasp. 

Just like Dolly, Raffaella too had made a name for herself with a resounding ‘no’: the former had turned down Elvis, who demanded half the royalties to sing ‘I Will Always Love You’, while the latter turned her back on Hollywood and the (apparently rather persistent) advances of Frank Sinatra – both women’s courage was richly rewarded, with the former pocketing millions of dollars thanks to Whitney Houston’s rendition and the latter becoming the Saturday-night starlet of the Latin world, from Italy to Spain and South America. Even in matters of the heart, the Raffaella who invited us to make love ‘from Trieste downwards’ and to come to terms with the end of a relationship by finding someone else more handsome who has no problems, resembled the very much married Parton: her long-standing relationship with Gianni Boncompagni had given way to a deeply affectionate friendship, and so the end of her romance with Sergio Japino did not put a stop to their professional collaboration, affection and mutual understanding.

Raffaella Carrà was Mrs Pelloni’s greatest stroke of genius, a world away in terms of habits and desires from the blonde doll who swayed her hips for the camera. Those who encountered her in everyday life took a few seconds to recognise her: the woman who, on stage, was a riot of Swarovski crystals, was, on the street, a quiet lady who loved reindeer-print jackets, neutral colours, and a Burberry scarf as her greatest concession to fashion; at the Argentario – a place where Pelloni seemed to take a break from that flamboyant character she had brought to life – she appeared even less concerned with her image: her hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing a cap, a vest top and shorts, with make-up and high heels a distant memory. 

Dolls created by other dolls. Dolly erecting a monument to the creature of her imagination. Tim crafting his most successful character just as one might create a fetish. La Pelloni playing with the boisterous version of herself. The queens are dead, and we, seeing no new heirs on the horizon, feel the need to wish the camp a long life.