On the penultimate night of fashion month, amid the final paroxysms of designers attempting to define how women want to look today, there was a show of a different kind. Emmanuel Macron, leader of France, and his significant other, Brigitte, facilitated a supper at the Élysée Palace out of appreciation for the business’ creatives. It was what might as well be called the pre-Davos C.E.O. summit that Mr. Macron designed at Versailles in January. News started to spill out right on time in the week.
Pierpaolo Piccioli, innovative chief of Valentino, who had come to Paris without a suit and needed to go shopping at the Valentino boutique, messaged Haider Ackermann, imaginative executive of Berluti: “Would you say you are heading off to the supper at the Élysée?”
It was a major ordeal. French design hadn’t had this sort of authority acknowledgment from the head of state since François Mitterrand was president in the 1980s (another ’80s restoration slant! It’s certain). Natacha Ramsay-Levi of Chloé acquainted herself with Clare Waight Keller, earlier of Chloé and now of Givenchy, on the grounds that they had never met. Alber Elbaz fraternized with Vivienne Westwood. Joseph Altuzarra hung out with Olivier Theyskens. At the head table, Thom Browne sat close Olivier Rousteing of Balmain, who sat cook corner to Simon Porte Jacquemus and opposite Maria Grazia Chiuri of Dior. Et cetera.
Among the not very many fashioners missing were Nicolas Ghesquière of Louis Vuitton and Karl Lagerfeld of Chanel, yet then both had appears on the last day. It was O.K.: They were spoken to by their work. Mrs. Macron was wearing an intricate Louis XVI coat from Mr. Ghesquière’s last accumulation, much to the delight of a few visitors (“You realize the end result for that lord,” one said) — however she embellished it with her own high foot sole areas, rather than the runway tennis shoes. Anna Wintour was wearing Chanel.
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You could see it, for instance, on the evening before the supper at Giambattista Valli, lord of the high/low gathering dress, who opened his show not with a tease of chiffon but rather with a dull denim evaporator suit, and after that sprinkled among the botanical ornamentation and sequined minidresses somewhere in the range of 1970s calfskins, smaller than expected sew vests and long, limit voyaging coats. It’s a promising heading: Here’s trusting he accomplishes a greater amount of it, and that he has the mettle to abandon a portion of the unsettles behind.
You could see it at Alexander McQueen, where Sarah Burton (who went straight from her catwalk bow to her place at the table near Mr. Macron) took the possibility of transformation, of rising up out of the chrysalis, both truly and exquisitely.