Why couture matters: It’s expensive but it serves joy for free | Canada Voices

The buzz on social media and in the press around the spring/summer 2026 haute couture shows in Paris has been remarkable. “Mind-numbingly incredible,” was British journalist Alexander Fury’s take on Chanel, as he described weightless silk mousseline sets, some adorned with hand-embroidered love letters. “Oh my God!” blogger Bryan Yambao (a.k.a. Bryanboy) gasped while filming a regal gold cape by Alessandro Michele for Valentino. And it was impossible not to share actor Anya Taylor-Joy’s delight when she opened what appeared to be a floral bouquet at Dior, only to discover it was actually a purse.

There’s no doubt that two major creative head debuts this season helped fuel the excitement: Matthieu Blazy at Chanel and Jonathan Anderson at Dior. Neither has worked at this complex level of fashion craftmanship before, and the pressure was on. Both Chanel and Dior are multibillion-dollar businesses that rely on creative genius to stir passion for the brand. While couture sales are a fraction of total revenue, their halo effect on ready-to-wear, accessories, fragrance and makeup is critical to the bottom line.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Parisian haute couture was considered irrelevant. By the dawn of the 2000s, the wealthy few who could afford a dress that equalled the price of an Aston Martin and three trips to Paris for fittings had dwindled. And the days when North American retailers, including Holt Renfrew, paid French fashion houses for the right to copy designs were long gone, having ended with the rise of ready-to-wear in the 1960s and 70s.

Then came social media with its self-appointed “expert” commentators, and front rows stocked with A-listers paid to show up in the hopes of igniting a viral frenzy. Haute couture was reborn as a marketing machine, and this season was no exception. Golden Globe winner and Oscar nominee Teyana Taylor made headlines when she attended the Schiaparelli show wearing a recreation of Empress Eugénie’s jewels, stolen from the Louvre Museum last October. Actor Dakota Johnson and singer Lily Allen were appropriately swarmed at Valentino. And Jeff and Lauren Sánchez Bezos swanned around, sparking online debate over good versus bad taste.

But the voyeurism of celebrity mania suddenly feels like the staged performance that it is. A fresh generation of designers and industry watchers are instead becoming newly enthralled by the skills of the petites mains, the artisans who devote their lives to taming feathers and perfecting pleats. One dress can take a team thousands of hours to make, and the reverence for their labour is unique to French culture. Responses to a video of Paulette Boncoure, who joined the Dior atelier in 1947 and sat front row at this week’s show, were filled with respect and awe.

Even TikTokers who have never attended a European runway show – and probably never will – are marvelling at creative director Daniel Roseberry’s hand-painted bird-face footwear and winged jackets for Schiaparelli. Much like admiring a Frank Gehry building or Mark Rothko painting we will never own, the pleasure comes from studying the details. And happily, appreciation is free.

Perhaps the most telling evidence of this shift is the discussion Dior’s Anderson had with Business of Fashion’s editor-in-chief Imran Amed last December. “If someone had asked me about a year and a half ago about couture, I would have probably been nonchalant and said something like, ‘Well, I think it’s irrelevant,’” Anderson admitted. “I never really understood the glamour behind it.”

But couture is not about what you see. The magic lies in what you don’t see, such as the meticulous ruching used to swirl tulle into Dior’s bulbous hourglass gowns. No wonder Anderson told Amed, “I feel like I’m doing a PhD in couture.” Several looks from the presentation remained on display at the Musée Rodin after the show and were opened to the public for free alongside a program of talks. Anderson seems to get that, like art and architecture, the more couture is discussed, the better it is understood. And the better it is understood, the less endangered it becomes.

Chanel was ahead of the pack on that count. In the 1990s, the company started buying up Parisian artisan workshops, including feathermaker Lemarié, embroidery house Lesage and shoemaker Massaro, to ensure their survival. One can only imagine the reaction when Blazy told the cobblers he would like pumps with pink fungi heels for his collection inspired by a haiku about a bird and a mushroom. Models marched among giant toadstools with feathers flapping from their skirt hems and tiny birds dangling from their ears.

Where Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel freed women from corsets, Blazy gave them mousseline suits that were literally light as air. Clients can also have special meaning embroidered into their selections, be it initials, a zodiac symbol or a lucky number – a clever way of distinguishing couture from ready-to-wear. “Blazy’s Chanel Couture Was a Slam Dunk!” declared Tim Blanks in his Business of Fashion review.

The gushing couldn’t come at a better time for an industry that is facing increasing cynicism due to seemingly arbitrary price hikes and accusations of labour abuses. Executives will continue to grapple with extracting maximum profits from ready-to-wear and leather goods, while hoping for a rebound in luxury spending.

But as more consumers wake up to the heart and soul inherent in handmade goods, there may be more interest in supporting small-batch designers and local artisans whose work will endure far longer than pieces from H&M and Shein that are destined for landfill.

Parisian couture may only be accessible to crazy rich collectors, Saudi princesses and Oscar nominees, but there are plenty of more affordable options closer to home. Project Runway Canada 2025 winner Leeland Mitchell and Indigenous beader Brit Ellis, who works under her spirit name Blu Hummingbird, are two that come to mind. Could fashion with integrity turn out to be the next hot trend? Now that would really be exciting.