Paris opens with sensual realism without exaggeration at Louis Vuitton

The relationship between fashion - understood as a catwalk proposal - and life is an undulating motion that oscillates between utopia, staging and cinéma vérité. The men's prêt-à-porter season, after Milan, continues in Paris under the banner of what could be called magic realism: the days of eccentric extravagances are momentarily over, but the same can also be said of expressionist exaggerations, of suburban street toughness. A light concreteness is affirmed, tinged at best with poetry, touched by a light decorativism.

Jun Takahashi of Undercover captures these instances like a master in a collection of clothes as light as pyjamas, assembled with the instinctive freedom of those who shed their existential burdens and ballasts to embark on a spiritual journey, and presents them on long, dry boys, their eyes shielded by lace veils, a little rocaille, a little punk, vaguely tribal, all bearers of a vision of masculinity that is certainly feminine, but not mannerist.

At Louis Vuitton, Pharrell Williams weaves an ode to universal brotherhood that is perhaps a little good-natured, but certainly timely, and chooses as his theatre the large forecourt in front of the Maison de l'Unesco, complete with an enormous iron grid globe. Everything in the show is about gigantism, a true obsession for luxury conglomerates, but the monumental scale does not oppress the clothes, which are graphic and opulent, with the kind of bling bling that is the norm here. In spite of the hippie theme, Williams works largely on black, and then on light tones, pursuing the idea of the dress matching the colour of the skin, which is a stimulating perspective, and in power very sensual. There are no pyrotechnics, however, nor the phantasmagoria of past seasons, which are instead reserved for the bags, now and always the real core business.

Skin as flashing nudity is part of the idiom of Louis Gabriel Nouchi: his logo, after all, is a cut. This season Nouchi is actually talking about the body by covering it up more than usual, suggesting hairiness with wavy jacquards, letting it peek out from transparencies. It is standard and non-standard bodies that she shows, and the message is compelling.

Seasonal magic realism shines all the more brightly when cloaked in a kind of lopsided classicism, a patina of apparent normality. At Auralee the models wander listlessly in the rooms of a patrician mansion as if it were Saturday morning, with the dog pressing to go out and the shopping to be done, or the prospect of a walk in the park, and then you put on your overcoat over your pyjamas and your mackintosh over your white jeans. The characters in Lemaire always have a hunched, self-conscious nonchalance that brings to mind the films of Wim Wenders, but this season the layering gives way to sensuality, with skin showing, severity softening and class as always.