It’s 10 a.m. in Paris. The sky is crystal clear, the sun is shining, and you’ve just had your café. Life feels cinematic. You’re strolling toward the Théâtre du Châtelet, mentally preparing for Robert Wun’s show, expecting drama, hyperbolic silhouettes, and existential tailoring. What you don’t expect is to be swallowed whole by the abyss. Because as you step inside, the sunny Paris morning vanishes. Gone. You’re ushered into a theater transformed into a cavernous void. The kind of darkness that clings to your summer dress and whispers unsettling secrets in your ear. Not really reassuring.
“I usually start my collections from some grand concept,” he declared backstage, unbothered by this reviewer’s dizziness. Last season it was the passing of time because, obviously, what better theme for a jacket than the inevitable decay of all things? This season Wun switched gears and turned his gaze inward, asking: What’s the point of clothing? Why do we dress up? What does it all mean? You might think this rumination would lead to something shockingly pragmatic, perhaps even a nod to the current mood for cool wearability. Not from Wun.
His new collection was as sweeping, cryptic, and unsettling as ever. “I’ve never really seen my clothes as a narrative, like, Hey, I want you to wear this on the street,” he mused. “I’ve learned from experience that I don’t perform well when I start thinking about things like: Who are my consumers? Who’s my target audience?” He shrugged it off with the calm of someone who’s made peace with chaos. “I’ve let go of all that. Now I just do what I want, and in that I’ve actually found my voice.” And found it he certainly has. Wun’s voice isn’t a soft, reassuring whisper. It’s more like the distant rumble of thunder: ominous, powerful, and impossible to ignore.
A parade of shadowy creatures emerged from the dark, decked out in outrageously dramatic concoctions that were as magnetically flamboyant as they were unsettling. But that’s precisely the spell Wun casts on his audience. He described the collection as a journey into “the depths of human desire and imagination”—because, naturally, nothing says human desire like a gown that looks as if it survived an apocalypse. For Wun, fashion is a plunge into the beautifully bizarre, where garments feel less like clothes and more like feverish dreams (nightmares, actually) stitched together from subconscious intrigues.
Describing such a tour de force requires a certain level of stamina, something in short supply after a week of fashion shows. Still, a few unforgettable specimens etched themselves onto the retina. Case in point: the colossal padded cape in pristine white satin, fashionably defaced with what appeared to be bloody handprints, that opened the show. It looked as if someone, mid crime scene, paused to wipe their hands clean on couture, leaving behind ghostly smears embroidered in sequins. Art, after all, is all about leaving a mark.
The handbags in Looks 2 and 7 arrived fully dressed, outfitted in tuxedos complete with plastron shirts, bow ties, and all the trimmings. “Why not dress the bag too?” mused Wun, as if it were the most obvious oversight in modern fashion. The garments themselves, meanwhile, were sculpted with such architectural cunning that they revealed entirely different silhouettes depending on your angle, front or profile, like wearable optical illusions or perhaps artsy hallucinations.
But Wun truly hit his surreal stride in the final act, when things escalated from the theatrical to full-blown extravaganzas. Mannequin arms were draped lovingly (or ominously, depending on your POV) around necks and bodices, clinging like needy exes or overly affectionate ghosts. Others jutted out from sleeves like helpful prosthetic appendages (perhaps ready to pass the hors d’oeuvres or hail a cab?).
And then came the pièce de résistance, a bridal look so gloriously bizarre it demanded its own psychological analysis. Atop the model’s head sat a miniature human figure, perched delicately, almost pensively, clutching the veil like a haunted tree ornament. A metaphor for the weight of expectation? A fashion-forward ventriloquist act? Who knows. In Wun’s world, the line between dream, drama, and delirium isn’t just blurred. It’s embroidered, layered, sculpted, and strutting down the runway.
