In Parisian salons, where gold no longer shines as it used to, but seems to pulsate under the skin, Daniel Roseberry has opened another chapter in his peculiar, almost alchemical love affair with the house of Schiaparelli. This time it's not just fashion - it's a map, a prototype, a manifesto. “Couture” in his hands ceased to be merely the highest form of craftsmanship. It has become a form of visioning. Autumn 2025 is not a collection. It is a sketch of the future written on the body. Exposed like the nervous system of luxury.
In a world that increasingly longs for something tactile, Roseberry has set his sights on the idea of a return to corporeality, but not the familiar, soft, human one. It's a corporeality deciphered, biomechanical, overwritten by imagination as if from Chris Cunningham's cardboard boxes or a frame from the film “Ex Machina.” The silhouettes flitting down the catwalk didn't have bodies - they had structures. Corseted armor made of living metal, embroideries imitating nerves, fabrics arranged in the illusion of tendons and bones. Elsewhere it would be a perversion - here: a new kind of poetry.
Roseberry talks about the future, but never forgets the archive. Schiaparelli in his approach is not a museum, but a laboratory of dreams. Golden lips, eyes, keys, hand - Elsa's surreal language has been transposed into a new alphabet. Brocade coats and constructed gowns as if from inside a watch become a medium between the spiritual and the digital. The female body in this narrative is not just a canvas - it is a storytelling machine. A sculpture that breathes.
Although the collection dripped with theatricality, there was no shadow of exaggeration. Every detail - from the steel corsets to the draped capes resembling liquid metal - was deeply rooted in the need to convey a message. This is fashion that doesn't scream, but mesmerizes. It doesn't ask for attention, but absorbs it. The future we see here is not a dystopia. It is a revision. Luxury in the post-revision world is not what you have, but what you wear as an idea.
It is impossible not to mention the color scheme: the palette is austere, as if recovered from inside a meteorite. Gold not obvious, dimmed, extinguished black, cold navy blue, reflective beige. Occasionally a flash of red - but more like a warning than an ornament. All immersed in a silence that was more like the breathing of a space station than the bustle of a Parisian hall.
Roseberry does not create clothes. He writes the mythology of the future - for those who are not afraid to be monuments in their own lives. At a time of over-saturation of minimalism, when normcore aesthetics have long ceased to be controversial, he says: "Let's not go back. Let's move on." Schiaparelli, under his hand, is not recreating history - she is rebooting it.
Photos courtesy of Schiaparelli
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