In a world where the name Wintour is spoken with the same reverence as Chanel or Balenciaga, the Met Gala remains more than just a ball. It is an annual liturgy of the aesthetic elite, a sacred procession of beauty, meaning, and spectacle performed on the marble steps of The Met. This year’s edition—under the theme “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style”—was no exception. It was a turning point. Fashion in its purest, most refined, and intellectually provocative form.
Curator Andrew Bolton (who detests being interrupted, especially when speaking about Savile Row) and Professor Monica L. Miller—the undisputed aristocrat of Black dandyism—invited us into a world where Black tailoring is not embellishment, but the very architecture of elegance. From the pride of the Harlem Renaissance to the quiet mastery of today’s designers, this was not a costume parade, but a manifesto stitched with silk thread.
There were many moments worthy of being framed in gold, but some were etched in haute couture calligraphy:
• Rihanna – did not arrive, she descended. In a sculptural Marc Jacobs coat with a bare belly, she announced her third pregnancy with such theatrical elegance that even Madonna might have felt outshined.
• Zendaya – as always, didn’t walk the red carpet but floated above it. Her sharply tailored suit from Louis Vuitton could cut diamonds. A baroque-toned dandy. Completed with Bvlgari jewelry.
• André 3000 – orbiting as ever. Dressed in an ensemble with a miniature piano pinned to the lapel—a tribute to jazz, eccentricity, and precise joy.
• Diana Ross – immortal. Draped in silver, in a cape embroidered with her descendants’ names. A generational psalm whispered in satin.
• Sabrina Carpenter – arrived without pants. Literally. But with such calculated nonchalance that the look became a philosophical thesis.
• Janelle Monáe – once again in her archetypal black-and-white diptych. An avant-garde Sonata for Suit and Soul. A balance between form and message, between gender and performance.
• Madonna – unpredictable, dominant. In a white Tom Ford tuxedo tailored by Haider Ackermann. Lace gloves, slicked-back hair, and a cigar—not an accessory, but a declaration.
• Pamela Anderson – radiant in restraint. In a Tory Burch gown, makeup-free, with a new hairstyle and micro-bangs—minimalism elevated to an inner luxury.
• Kim Kardashian – her full-leather Chrome Hearts look was less an outfit than a proclamation. A gothic armor crafted with couture precision, embroidered with crosses and details worthy of medieval goldsmithing. An homage to craftsmanship and to the cult of the body—tamed, framed, nearly sacred. Kim didn’t walk—she processed.
• Demi Moore – a living legend and proof that time can be a designer if worn with dignity. In a monumental Thom Browne gown, embroidered like a Renaissance tapestry, she looked like an artifact, not a celebrity. She ascended the Met steps like an aria—not to be missed, not to be forgotten.
• Miley Cyrus – returned after six years. Southern Gothic, Alaïa-style: a crocodile-skin top and a monumental taffeta skirt. Sunglasses at night? Of course. Rebellion needs shadow.
And the men? They didn’t just arrive—they ruled:
• Colman Domingo, co-host of the evening, sanctified the red carpet in a Valentino coat in hues of azure and amethyst, embroidered with fresco-worthy precision. His tie—silk, with a monogram visible only in the flash of cameras—earned him a new nickname among editors: Mr. Monogram.
• Pharrell Williams – fashion monk and face of Chanel—in a pearl-studded jacket embroidered over 400 hours. He reportedly requested a 0.5 mm lift to the sole of his shoe because he “felt too grounded.” Naturally.
• Lewis Hamilton – in a cream tuxedo coat adorned with cowrie shells—symbols of African heritage and royalty. Mastery of identity in form.
• Usher – a futuristic minimalist, in geometrically clean black. James Baldwin meets Wakanda. Quiet, yet thunderous.
Behind the scenes, where truth is whispered, one stylist was overheard saying: “Savannah James dressed like she wanted to remind the world that LeBron doesn’t need arm candy when he’s got royalty by his side.” Indeed—her gown, embroidered in black, was more than attire. It was a declaration of inherited authority.
Rumor has it Pharrell requested a microscopic heel adjustment because “his spirit floats higher than the standard 3 cm.” Exaggeration? Perhaps. But what is fashion, if not the art of rising above the ordinary—even if only on a Dior sole?
The ‘Superfine’ exhibition is not a fashion show. It’s an act of documenting the aesthetic power reclaimed by those long excluded from it. This isn’t to be watched—it’s to be experienced. And if you didn’t feel a chill seeing the reconstructed Harlem zoot suit from the 1940s, then—sorry—you don’t speak the language of haute couture.
In an age where “influencer” is a profession and TikTok dictates seasonal palettes, the Met Gala remains the last bastion of fashion as identity, not commodity. Here, tailoring is not a trend—it is truth. And snobbery, when worn with awareness, is a form of cultural heritage.
Photos courtesy of Theo Wargo/FilmMagic | E!News | People
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