There is something almost religious about the way the world collectively holds its breath for fashion’s most revered ritual: the high fashion runway show. A sanctum where creative directors unveil not just garments, but ideologies, emotions, and the quiet fury of craftsmanship that has survived centuries of mechanization. Here, every hem, stitch, and silhouette exists to provoke, to whisper secrets about time, and to fiercely argue against the ephemerality of the now. The haute couture show is not merely fashion—it is modern mythology walking at 120 beats per minute.
Yet, even within this holy spectacle, we’re watching a subtle shift. The curtain may still rise in Paris, Milan, or New York, but its velvet folds flutter in rhythm with digital screens, influencer videos, and the democratized eye of TikTok creators who break down a $30,000 gown into a 15-second clip. What was once reserved for buyers, editors, and old-money elite sipping champagne on gold-framed chairs is now paused, replayed, and dissected by anyone with a Wi-Fi connection. Still, amidst all the noise, the magic of these shows doesn’t just survive—it morphs, matures, and reasserts its primacy with every season.
This year’s shows felt particularly urgent. A palatable tension hung in the air—between opulence and austerity, between maximalist self-indulgence and post-pandemic humility. Chanel played with pearls in ways that didn’t ask permission. Schiaparelli doubled down on surrealism, giving us gold-drenched anatomical illusions that made the audience shift uncomfortably in their seats—and that’s precisely the point. Fashion, after all, is meant to unsettle, to provoke response. Not just sell.
And yet, the paradox remains. Because no matter how avant-garde the collection, no matter how intellectually compelling the theme—say, “decay” or “the myth of utility”—there is always the end game: commerce. The runway may be the designer’s chapel, but it’s also the industry's most elaborate sales pitch. You’re not just selling clothes. You're selling dreams, status, validation. You're selling the unspoken: “This is who I am now. I’ve evolved.”
It’s a strangely similar energy to that of the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale, though wrapped in entirely different aesthetics. Hear me out. I know. High fashion and department store discounts seem like planets apart. But at the core of both lies a shared psychology—urgency, desire, scarcity. A limited-time capsule wardrobe with markdowns that evaporate by August 3 isn’t functionally so different from a Fendi look that hits boutiques six months after debut, only to vanish in a flurry of pre-orders from stylists and heiresses before it hits the racks. In both cases, it’s about timing. About access. About knowing before the rest of the world knows.
To pretend these realms don’t touch is naive. Even the most self-serious couturier understands the implications of market translation. That beaded Valentino cape that closed the show? You’ll see echoes of it in more accessible iterations from contemporary brands six months from now. And guess where they’ll end up? Your Nordstrom cart, just in time for next year’s Anniversary Sale. It’s a cycle—one that doesn’t just trickle down, but trickles through, diffusing into every tier of the fashion ecosystem.
Luxury today isn’t just about price. It’s about intention. Which brings us to the heart of why people are still obsessed with runway shows in 2025. In an age where everyone is constantly curating their identity through aesthetics, luxury fashion offers clarity. It’s a controlled chaos. It’s the deliberate styling of one’s own chaos. And while you may not need that $8,900 Balmain blazer, you understand it. You mentally try it on. You screenshot. You look for dupes. You add something similar—tailored, shoulder-padded, jet black—to your shopping bag. Because what the runway really does is offer you a language. And once you speak fashion fluently, you can translate it into your life at any budget.
This season, designers spoke in dialects of nostalgia and futurism. Loewe played with distortion, using optical illusions and architectural cuts that felt like Dali had designed officewear. Dior’s reinterpretation of armor for the modern woman felt neither defensive nor masculine—it was protection reimagined as elegance. And Balenciaga, true to form, delivered anxiety as an aesthetic. Oversized tailoring, apocalyptic leathers, and a haunting soundscape reminded us that fashion is also political commentary. Each look walked down the runway like a silent protest. Each audience gasp—a vote.
Compare that to the quiet glee of unboxing a deeply-discounted Coach tote during the Nordstrom sale. Different genre, similar gratification. One is a high-stakes performance laced with existential questions; the other, a dopamine hit in soft pebble leather. Both make you feel seen.
In truth, there’s no hierarchy here. Style doesn’t live in one place. Just as a couture show in Paris can make your heart race, so can finding your dream carry-on at 40% off. Because that luggage isn’t just about travel. It’s about possibility. It’s about escape, reinvention. It’s about who you imagine yourself to be in Rome, Tokyo, or even just your best friend’s wedding weekend in Vermont.
Let’s be real: you could scroll runway clips all day and still end up wearing leggings and an oversized tee to the grocery store. That’s fine. That’s human. But what the shows give us is aspiration. They’re not asking you to replicate. They’re asking you to interpret. They’re reminding you that every outfit is a story. And whether yours begins with a Rick Owens coat or a markdown Alo set doesn’t matter. What matters is that it begins.
There’s also a growing intimacy between the show and the shopper that didn’t exist ten years ago. Where once fashion week coverage was filtered through glossy magazines and PR handlers, today, it’s raw, real, and often hilarious. You’ll see a front-row influencer filming their reaction to a 10-foot feathered headpiece with the same breathlessness as someone filming their Nordstrom haul on TikTok. Both have weight. Both inform trends. And both shape the consumer conversation.
As I watched the Maison Margiela show this season—a haunting, operatic display of shadowed silhouettes and exaggerated textures—I couldn’t help but think of a sweater I’d seen on sale just days before. Not because it looked the same, but because it made me feel the same. Cozy but elevated. A bit strange, a bit safe. And that’s the point. Fashion isn’t always literal. It’s emotional. A feeling you chase until you find it—in a showroom, or in a shopping cart.
You don’t need to fly to Paris to experience the fantasy. Sometimes it arrives in a cardboard box on your doorstep. What matters is the intention behind your choices. Whether you’re building a look for the Met Gala or just your Monday Zoom, fashion is the most honest form of personal branding we have. It doesn’t lie. It reveals.
So as we inch closer to August 3, when the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale disappears like Cinderella at midnight, and as we await the next Fashion Week with the same reverence some reserve for equinoxes or Super Bowls, let us remember: it’s all connected. The luxury show and the budget find. The curated look and the impulse click. It’s all fashion. It’s all valid. And it’s all yours to define.
Because while the runway may be sacred, your life is the real stage. And every sale, every show, every seemingly minor sartorial choice is just another act in the longest performance art piece you’ll ever create: being yourself.