How do you pronounce Loewe? A Paris Fashion Week first-timer learns the hard way

Before I go to Paris, I message the husband of one of my publishers on Instagram; he’s written about fashion for an intimidatingly impressive list of places. I tell him that I’ve been asked to cover a fashion show, something that I’ve never done before, something I’m not sure how to write about. His advice is abstract, but still offers me a certain kind of clarity: don’t read anything, don’t follow anyone, there are no rules, trust your instincts, write what you think you should write and what needs to be written.

When I arrive in Paris, I pronounce Loewe wrong and become convinced that everyone behind the hotel check-in desk considers me to be some kind of interloper. In a way, I suppose I am. They give me a package along with my room key; it contains, among other things, my invitation to the show. I’ll need to bring it, and photo ID, with me tomorrow morning; I am told that because the show is in a former military base, the security is stringent. It’s not the kind of military base I was expecting. I was ready for a kind of bunker, threatening and ominous for its grey anonymity, but instead, this building is centuries old, once used by gendarmes. There’s a separate line for press: you give your name, show your invitation, and get waved through. Outside of what’s essentially the front door to this space – a quad with a few smaller buildings scattered around it – are droves of people who, I’m told, got here in the early hours of the morning to see if they can spot celebrities attending the show. A few names are dropped – Andrew Garfield; Kit Connor; Taylor Russell. I was hoping to spot Russell, someone who’s been bringing interesting looks to red carpets and runways over the last few years – as I mill around, waiting for the show to start.

The art of this show, the presence of Richard Hawkins, is felt long before the show itself begins. In a stark, white space, parts of the wall become stained-glass windows on which a video, full of fragments of the American artist’s imagery plays on a loop. Up against the back wall are a handful of Hawkins’ prints, a kind of visual shorthand for what we’re about to see on the runway. There’s a sense of reverence, as the history of art and the history of the world go by and, in fragments, male bodies appear alongside images of painterly salons, or cities in ruin; as if beauty is something that we can hold on to, that can outlast everything else. Between the windows, the pristine white colour of the walls and seats occupied by a congregation of endlessly, eternally faithful fashion devotees, the space becomes a chapel; the question of what it is we’re being led to worship remains tantalising unanswered.

I’m told that Anna Wintour perpetually wearing sunglasses isn’t out of a desire to create a signature look or self-brand, but simply an occupational hazard. The show lights for a runway are bright; I find myself squinting, looking down, doing anything to adjust to sudden change in the lights; the burst of stark, sudden brightness coming like the kind of thing that might accompany the pearly gates. It’s no wonder there were so many people in the space wearing sunglasses; they knew the language, passed the test. Unsurprisingly, plenty of those shades were made by Loewe themselves; I remain struck by an orange pair, the eyes shaped a little like puckered lips, although I’m yet to find the courage to Google them and see how much they cost.

Once the show begins, the relationship between Hawkins and Loewe takes on a new dimension. Some of these runway outfits are embedded with Hawkins’ artwork; bright collages of psychedelic spaces and classically beautiful men, in contrast to some of the more edgy, revealing looks: leather jackets with elaborate bows; models stomping down the runway shirtless, in bright blue jeans. Hawkins’ work, and this collaboration, screams the word California at me every time a model turns the corner and moves – with great speed and glorious purpose – to my section of the audience. The nature of the collage, the consciously slapdash way that looks are put together; the hints at nudity and eroticism. The show feels like stepping into a visual version of an Eve Babitz novel; languid and seductive; glittering, but with something else under the surface. It’s fascinating to see so much of Hawkins’ work directly stitched onto trousers, jackets, and bags in minute detail. The question that’s always associated with runways and red carpets is who are you wearing? And here, Loewe answers it by gesturing both towards and away from themselves; some of these models are literally wearing the art of Richard Hawkins turned into clothes, turned into a head on the hydra of a fashion house. This kind of artist/fashion synergy is nothing new for Loewe: during the 2021 Met Gala, Dan Levy wore a Loewe ensemble that leaned on the art of David Wojnarowicz, and their 2023/24 spring/summer menswear collection saw the show space adorned by the sculptures of Lynda Benglis.

One thing that I find myself drawn to, whenever appears around the corner of the runway, is the presence of the bag. There’s something about this ubiquitous item that draws the eye; the way its size and the intricacy of its designs almost overpower whatever a model might be wearing. And while the artistry might be the thing that first captures the gaze, something more mercenary is what lingers; after all a bag seems like the easiest way to brandish a brand – no need to hunt for a label or a tell-tale sign when bags place this front and centre. During the 13th season of Drag Race, the staple Ball challenge – in which contestants present three looks tied together by a theme – was dubbed the Bag Ball. The second category, Money Bags, had each queen given an oversized Coach clutch that they could customise to suit the rest of their look. As they reached the end of the runway, everyone seemed to brandish the C of their Coach-provided bag as if they were showing it off to an audience watching QVC. In short, the bag is a shorthand for the brand itself; that deeply seductive way of showing knowledge, taste, money. Of showing that you’re not an interloper in a world like this.

There’s a complexity to the role The Bag seems to be playing and to the relationship between artists and fashion houses. The outfits themselves are, of course, works of art. Whether it’s because they carry with them the images and symbols of artists such as Hawkins that surround the models, or from the sheer labour required to create a bag embellished with Hawkins’ imagery. Looking at shots from the Loewe show, the artistry itself becomes seductive; the sheer level of detail and the psychedelic backdrops that fleetingly become home for these bodies. Everything seems to hint towards the world of Hawkins’ work: a world – not unlike the one of this show itself – of beauty and seduction, one that always remains just out of reach.