Elie Saab party
The penultimate day of the rest of our Couture life ended with Elie Saab’s evening, which the designer gave in his offices at the end of his fashion show. Because let us not forget: as an honourable Lebanese, Elie Saab knows how to receive – and surely better than the ambassador. First this season, the host opens the (large) doors of his new offices, which he has taken possession of for less than a month, with all due respect to the regulars of his personal salons.
Luxury and voluptuousness reign in symbiosis on this immense succession of rooms, in which it is impossible to suffocate given the height under the ceiling. Very quickly, the Haussmannian ensemble is invaded by guests, forming a conglomerate of fashion editors, celebrities, and customer friends from the Middle East. “There’s more room to party,” analyses a Qatari princess who immediately drops her fur in the cloakroom. Some women look like Janet Jackson, inflated to D size. There are more diamonds here than in Harry Winston’s trunks. Fabrice Dayan, MC resident of Rasputin passes from the after house to which the assembly does not seem to pay attention. “Elie, congratulations, the collection is sublime.” In English.
After several weeks of catwalks, Daria Strokous and Karmen Pedaru seem to be paying the price of being tops. The bodies of the two beauties, poured out but eternally haughty, wander year after year on the steps of the smoking room. In the background, Dita von Teese and Kappauf toast to sequins and curves, while Karla Otto arbore Benn Northover, recently inducted new it-boy of New York fashionsphere for no real apparent reason. Anyway, tomorrow’s over. The smell of holiness smells like mezze. BB