It all started with a rosette. Whilst on assignment to cover Copenhagen Fashion Week a few seasons ago, I found myself in the throes of a severe summer cyclone, duly unprepared for the record-breaking rainfall and wind that ravaged the Danish capital.
As Storm Hans loomed above, the light knits and elegant pencil skirts that I packed for the occasion no longer seemed suitable. Instead of doing the responsible thing and investing in a waterproof jacket and, at the very least, an umbrella, I became completely enamoured with the idea that this unforeseen weather was the opportunity I needed to completely overhaul my wardrobe in line with the playfully optimistic stylings of Scandinavia’s chicest.
There, backdropped by 17th-Century homes painted in a Piet Mondrian palette, I became acquainted with brands like Pico, which sells decorative brooches and high-octane hair clips in an apothecary-esque boutique, and Caro Editons, which offers limited-edition and upcycled pieces embroidered with rich textures and nostalgic patterns.
I had envisioned coming home completely reinvigorated. Stocked with polka-dot capris and embellished jeans, these pieces felt more attuned to how I’d like to present myself to the world than the oversized shirts, wide-leg trousers, and bare sandals I typically wore ever would. Still, life has a funny way of catching up to you. As I sank back into my familiar surroundings, the outlandish pieces I picked up on my travels seemed too bold for the slinky Christopher Esber dresses that served as the signature of my home town.
So, I resigned myself to a rotation of elevated basics and quiet luxury staples that were guaranteed to label me as chic, despite my heart panging to wear my outré pieces that appeared just so out of reach. And in an era marked by stealth wealth and conspicuous consumption, who was I to argue with the likes of The Row and Toteme when they, albeit proverbially, said that a meticulously tailored black coat was far more polished than any Penny Lane-inspired jacket could ever be?
It wasn’t until I moved to London from Sydney a year and a half ago that I finally felt unshackled from that binary way of thinking. As a city bursting at the seams with defiant emerging designers and stiff-upper-lip heritage brands alike, this disruptive blend meant that nothing felt out of the ordinary. In tiger-print trousers and feathered boleros, I started to feel more like the girl who once got ridiculed on a school bus on non-uniform day for wearing something “unusual”.
It was like I was finally allowed to indulge my inner magpie fantasies, despite my own internal critic labelling me a social pariah for wanting to wear anything slightly flamboyant. (Bella Freud, can we diagnose this as some sort of fashion neurosis?) So, like ending a bad relationship, I decided to break up with quiet luxury for good. I've always felt like a Carrie Bradshaw in a sea of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy's, so this analogy is quite fitting.
Somewhere along the way, fashion’s pendulum swung so far towards quiet luxury that looking chic became synonymous with looking invisible. But if I was seeking permission for this newfound maximalist agenda, it didn’t take me long to realise it had already been granted.
After the chaotic revolving doors of fashion designers, this new seasons marked a firm reset for the industry. With fresh talent at the helm, this new cohort of creative directors, including Marni’s Meryll Rogge and Dior’s Jonathan Anderson, ushered in a new wave of unbridled joy and optimism. To put it plainly, the art of dressing up was back on the agenda. This was clothing that romanticised the everyday, with sequin embellishments and layers of ruffles bringing texture and movement to even the simplest of settings.
Chanel’s Matthieu Blazy epitomised it best in his autumn/winter 2026 collection. In the Grand Palais, towering primary-coloured cranes that evoked a sense of childlike wonder and Lego toys served as a metaphor for the dialogue he had been developing with Gabrielle Chanel’s archive. These were pieces that formed the building blocks for the French maison’s new era.
More importantly, they were a testament to Chanel’s own design methodology, which Blazy unearthed from a 1950 interview with Paris-based newspaper Le Figaro. “Fashion is both caterpillar and butterfly,” she said. “We need dresses that crawl and dresses that fly. The butterfly doesn’t go to the market, and the caterpillar doesn’t go to the ball.”
It finally feels that after years of minimising ourselves, be it as a response to a new conservative agenda that’s being pushed in the political climate or an answer to crippling financial constraints like the cost of living crisis, fashion has finally given us a reason to have fun again.
Tory Burch piled on jewel-toned embellished cardigans with petal-inspired boas and chintzy skirts, whilst Prada explored the art of layering by sending a limited group of models down the runway in four distinctive looks, each to be taken off an unveiled like some glamorous Milanese nesting doll. Dries Van Noten, too, has garnered more cultural cachet than ever. The elusive Belgian designer’s trademark eclecticism, elaborate jacquards and floral tapestries, which once felt like catnip to a certain group of avant-garde dressers, have become mainstream for even the most understated amongst us.
Now, more than ever, is the time to emerge from our cocoons and embrace the chaos. To pile on the jewellery, clash prints and wear the wrong shoe. Because as Lena Dunham said, if we’re going to wear luxury, it should always be loud.
Shop the Maximalist Fashion Trend for Autumn 2026:
