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Karl Lagerfeld has never been to India. "It's much more inspiring not to go to places than to go," he said today after a Chanel presentation that spectacularly evoked the sights, smells, and sounds of the last days of the Raj. Ok, Michel Gaubert's sitar-free soundtrack might have been a stretch (unless the Raj was rocking to David Lynch's new album), but the towering tiers of fruits, sweets, and flowers that filled the center of the room definitely had a sense of palatial excess. They were circled by a toy train bearing decanters of…what was it that maharajas drank? scotch?…which rang true as a decadent detail, conveying the notion of a privileged few playing while empires crumbled. Sound familiar?

Lagerfeld resisted such topical insinuations, but he did concede that fashion historically tends to come into its excessively creative own during difficult economic times. A perfect moment for him, in other words. And this collection, an annual salute to the work of the craftspeople who make Chanel come about, like the not long ago handed François Lesage (for this reason the identify, Métiers d'Art), was definitely a feat of creative excess, from the jaw-dropping established, which turned a curved place underneath the dome of the Grand Palais into a corner of Rajasthan, to the clotted silver embroideries, the gilded laces, the lustrous silks that identified the character of the outfits.

It's effortless to think about a canny designer producing the determination to purpose such sparkle and glitter at an emergent market place emotion its fashion oats (I'm conversing about India, BTW), but Lagerfeld's article-demonstrate declaration that bling was dated manufactured it obvious that he had a thing else on his head. The concept "Paris-Bombay" was a reminder that Europe's fashion sector has ever more turned to India to make extravagantly handworked parts as it has turn into prohibitively high-priced to make them at property. Lagerfeld's fiendish prepare was to flip the equation, so that almost everything that appeared intricately Indian was truly manufactured by Chanel's ateliers in Paris. That was some variety of tour de drive.

All that apart, Paris and Bombay blended wonderfully in pearl-swagged tweeds, in a uncooked silk tunic in excess of leggings (they were truly sinuously bootlike, so we really should possibly phone them beggings or loots), in sheer paisleys, or facet-draped asymmetry in ivory silk. The beauty of a lightly peplumed jacket and matching skirt in ivory silk had definitely practically nothing to do with geography. It was basically French stylish. Not almost everything worked there was a queen-of-the-fairies moment that felt like a malfunction of Florence's machine but the sheer prodigious extravagance of the desire world that Lagerfeld pours onto his catwalk collection after collection allows for the flaw the merest flaw once in a while.

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