image and video courtesy ©Celine
The collection itself was a quiet exercise in precision. Rider’s women glided through the silk‑draped set in masculine tailoring, knife‑pleated skirts, funnel‑neck trenches, and long, lean proportions, a wardrobe of Parisian archetypes rendered in navy, camel, ivory, and a whisper of cobalt. Silk scarves knotted at the neck evoked Philo’s intelligence; striped rugby sweaters tucked under blazers evoked a kind of Connecticut‑via‑Rive‑Gauche nonchalance. Charm belts tinkled at hips. Archive Phantom bags made their comeback as though nothing had changed.
Everything was immaculate. Too immaculate.
For all its refinement, what Rider delivered was less a debut and more a homage, a careful love letter to Philo’s Celine and to the house’s quietly intellectual heritage. One sensed, watching the show, that he had pressed his ear too closely to the past and forgotten to let his own voice ring out. Critics muttered about its „politeness,“ and they were not wrong: while his predecessor Slimane often growled too loudly, Rider barely spoke above a murmur. There is a thin line between restraint and reticence, between elegance and fear, and he flirted dangerously with the latter.
A great debut does not simply respect a house; it unsettles it, sharpens it, makes you see it anew. Rider’s debut, while exquisite in parts, seemed content to reassure rather than provoke. The ghosts of Philo’s era hung so heavily over the runway they threatened to eclipse Rider’s own presence entirely.
And yet.
Perhaps this is precisely the wager Rider has placed: that in an industry drunk on spectacle and shock, it might be revolutionary to whisper rather than shout. He does, after all, have a clear eye for silhouette, for the seductive precision of a trench collar or the quiet wit of a charm belt.
The question, the real question, is whether he can let go of the archive long enough to become himself.
At its best, the collection evoked the Nietzschean lesson of style: that elegance is not about obedience but about the courage to shape oneself against time. At its worst, it felt like someone afraid to leave the master’s house.
But even a whisper can grow into a voice. Rider has yet to show us his.
For now, Celine remains suspended, like those foulards above the runway, somewhere between memory and possibility, between the whisper and the void.
And the void is not without its own seductions.
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