Alessandro Michele’s Valentino: A maximalist’s take on Haute Couture

Red words scrolled along a black board, poetic descriptors heralding Alessandro Michele’s first haute couture collection for Valentino. Words like “Vitruvian,” “Queen,” “Flowers,” and “Harlequin” set the tone for what was to come. The latter served as a fitting prelude to the opening look: a harlequin-patterned gown with an exaggerated silhouette. The voluminous skirt, adorned with oversized woolen diamonds, cascaded to the floor, while the bodice—intricately woven in the same, but smaller motif—clung tightly to the torso. The bell sleeves, playfully striped, reinforced Michele’s devotion to historical opulence. This single garment alone required over 1,300 hours of meticulous craftsmanship—a testament to the maison’s atelier and the painstaking artistry that haute couture demands.

Mr. Michele has long been a designer who translates fantasy into fabric. His tenure at Gucci was defined by an eccentric maximalism that redefined contemporary luxury, earning him accolades and a cult-like following. His creative language—a mélange of historical references, baroque embellishments, and gender-fluid romanticism—has now found a new home at Valentino, though not without controversy.

Gown after gown emerged, some as grand as the finery of a Victorian court, heavy with historical allusions—ruffled collars, embroidered panels, layers of opulent brocade. The spectacle was undeniable. This was haute couture at its most theatrical, untethered from commercial viability. And yet, therein lay the dilemma: couture is, at its core, an expression of artistic craftsmanship, but it must also appeal to those who will commission it. Michele’s debut for Valentino felt deeply personal, a collection that explored his idiosyncrasies with fearless abandon, pushing the boundaries of the atelier’s technical prowess. But it also raised questions about wearability. Couture exists beyond the confines of pragmatism, yet Valentino has always carried an inherent lightness, an ease that invites rather than alienates. That sense of effortless elegance—the kind that encourages clients to reach for their cheque books—was notably absent.

Perhaps the challenge lies in the transition. Designers who reach the zenith of their careers at one house rarely achieve instant success at another. Just look at Hedi Slimane at Celine post Saint Laurent. Or perhaps it is the Gucci curse. Tom Ford, after reshaping Gucci’s identity in the ’90s, struggled to replicate that seismic cultural impact with his eponymous womenswear line. Michele, too, is a maximalist by nature; he is not in the business of designing demure little red dresses destined to fly off the shelves. The critique of this collection was plentiful—some of it valid, some of it weighted with an expectation that does not apply to others in the industry. When Comme des Garçons sends out sculptural, avant-garde pieces that defy conventional notions of clothing, critics laud the vision. When designers propose outsized tailoring that borders on the absurd, the industry embraces the provocation. Why, then, is Michele held to a different standard?

The answer may lie in relatability. Fashionistas want to connect with his vision, to see themselves in the world he builds. At Gucci, that connection was effortless—Double G belts, pussy-bow blouses, a vintage-inspired eclecticism that permeated both ready-to-wear and the cultural zeitgeist. Valentino, under Michele, has yet to establish that middle ground. What does “new” Valentino look like? The house has long been synonymous with an ethereal femininity, a studied grace that transcends trends. Michele’s rendition, at least in this first chapter, leans into the extravagant rather than the sublime. Perhaps, with time, he will strike a balance between the poetic and the pragmatic. Until then, the industry watches with equal parts skepticism and anticipation.