“It has been deeply painful to see the Dior name associated with the disgraceful statements attributed to its designer, however brilliant he may be. What happened last week has been a terrible and wrenching ordeal for us all. So now, more than ever, we must publicly recommit to the values of the House of Dior. What you are going to see now is the result of the extraordinary, creative and marvellous efforts of these loyal, hard-working people.”
The dawn of a new Dior broke with a statement, not quite powerful enough to dry the rain but undoubtedly securing a moment of poignancy in the blemished biography.
With a setting that whispered an essence of 19th century Baron Hausmann boulevards, stretching 196 feet in length, the house of Dior prepared to replenish a catwalk with parisian enchantment laced with conquering aspirations. With such intent, entered Karlie Kloss, swishing a black cape to cast a shadow over last weeks drama but instead breathed a deathly echo over a collection, saturated in Dickensian depression.
Deep abyssal purples and blues fell unlit amidst black and tainted bottle green. Their bleak sobriety was incarnated into floppy hats and velvetine jackets, sharpened with brocade on top of victoriana bloomers. Despite speaking with desolate english romanticism, Dior murmured boheme parisian affluence with quaint boudoir dresses in which sheer chiffon sheets were encased with laps of ribbon and lace.
Galliano's (metaphorical) ghost haunted the garments, tainted the atmosphere and sedated onlookers. As the Dior atelier, "petites mains", fraction took their bows, wrapped in rebirthing white coats; the story must continue without its great narrator.