Our special correspondent Olga Chabanna took her seat at Rick Owens SS27 and came back with this.
Photos by Stacia Roz
The courtyard of the Palais de Tokyo, late afternoon. Sun on the columns, the water flat and silver. People everywhere, sitting, standing, shifting, glancing back at the stairs.Then a voice from the speakers near me: doors are closing, nobody else gets in. And I feel it, a small flutter, somewhere under the ribs. I know what's coming, Rick always does this here. Still, when the smoke starts pouring out between the columns, thick and white and slow, the whole courtyard stops moving. Nobody dares to breathe, as if one breath might scare it off.
The fountains go up. A fine spray drifts over the first rows, and the sun, already low, turns the whole façade the colour of warm skin. Sissy Misfit's soundtrack starts, and it doesn't so much play as press on you, deep and unhurried.
The first model comes out of the smoke in pale silk, and for a second she doesn't look real.
Right in front of me, at the edge of the water, there's a stone woman lying naked on her side, hand at her throat, looking past all of us. Every model walked right by her. Warm body, cold body. One of them breathing.
Rick called the collection "Stone." In his notes he talks about the stones people throw at each other, and how he's spent his life on the other side of that. I kept thinking of a very old scene: a woman in the middle of a crowd, and everyone's hands already full. He's always been with her. Tonight he didn't argue her case. He just dressed her beautifully and let her walk.
It all began in beige, bone, sand. Long heavy silk that pours down the body and then, at the back, just isn't there anymore. The whole spine, bare. All season long, Rick keeps returning to the lower back, that little hollow right above the hips, and by the end I understood why. Skirts with a bustle that pushes the curve out even more. Halter necks that close tight at the throat, so your eye has nowhere to go but down. Some of that silk was woven from a strap used to tie down shipping crates. Industrial, stiff, almost armour. And then you see where it sits: right against the skin.
Then black, and suddenly it was night. Sheer tulle trousers, sheer gowns, the body there and not there. One dress was all black tulle, soft and messy, like sheets you haven't made yet. High collars, sharp as wings, and nothing at all behind.
And at the end, the softness. Dusty pink, washed-out green, a pale lemon. Jackets made from thousands of tiny tulle circles, puffed around the body like something blooming. Under them, long fluffy ropes hanging down the legs. Rick first made these in latex and leather for the men. Here they turn into something closer to lingerie, all tension, the fabric pulling the way muscle pulls on bone. A faded denim jacket cut so short you see the whole stomach. A pink leather jacket, buttery, with a collar pulled up to the eyes. And those lashes, huge and feathery, hiding half the face. Every girl looked like she was hiding and showing herself at the same time.
When it ended, Rick appeared for a moment. A few steps, a half-turn, and he was back inside the smoke. Very him.
On my way out I looked at her one more time, my stone neighbour by the fountain. Still lying there, still completely naked, completely calm. Nobody throwing anything.
Credits
Rick Owens SS27 Women's, "Stone" – Palais de Tokyo, Paris, 1 October 2026
Casting: Angus Munro (AMC Casting)
Styling: Tyrone Dylan Susman
Hair: Duffy (Streeters)
Makeup: Daniel Sallstrom (MA World Group)
Hair/makeup concept: Figa.link
Nails: Christina Conrad (Calliste)
Production: La Mode en Images
Music: custom soundtrack by Sissy Misfit
PR: KCD
Words by Olga Chabanna