There was a moment, earlier this week, when members of Parliament gathered to debate whether London Fashion Week was in the national interest. It felt like a strange, slightly surreal validation. Fashion, so often relegated to the cultural periphery, was being discussed at the highest level of government. The new British Fashion Council CEO, Laura Weir, spoke of a lapse of respect for the industry. Her message was simple and direct: fashion matters.
The question that hung in the air, both in Westminster and in the darkened show spaces across the city, was why? In a world of cascading crises, why should a parade of clothes command the nation’s attention? London Fashion Week, in its latest iteration, seemed determined to answer that question, not with a single, coherent statement, but with a cacophony of competing, often contradictory, ideas. The week was a city arguing with itself about its own identity, and in that argument, it found a renewed and vital energy.
This was a season defined by a tension between legacy and rebellion. It sought to be a “sensational showcase of creative fashion design talent,” as Weir put it, while simultaneously chasing the commercial heft of its European rivals. The result was a fascinating, sometimes uneven, display of a fashion capital fighting to prove it is more than just a nursery for talent that eventually flees to Paris or Milan. It is a place where ideas can be born and, crucially, where they can also grow up.
The Anxious Search for Britishness
With the nation’s gaze upon it, it was perhaps inevitable that many designers turned inward, mining the complex, often fraught, idea of British identity. The trench coat, that enduring symbol of stoic Britishness, was deconstructed by Patrick McDowell, a designer from Liverpool who dedicated his collection to his home county. He sliced and reformed the classic silhouette into structured bustier tops and full skirts, a kind of respectful vandalism. Daniel Fletcher, designing for Mithridate, staged a more direct confrontation, clashing the archetypes of country folk and city dwellers. Pink sequined party dresses were thrown over staid Oxford shirts; riding boots were paired with little more than sparkly underwear. It was a joyful, deliberate mess, a reflection of a nation that has never been a monolith.
This exploration of national character is where London has a distinct advantage. It lacks the monolithic brand power of Paris or the polished luxury machine of Milan. Its identity is more fluid, more contested. It’s a place of friction. The Burberry show, which closed the week, was the ultimate expression of this. Staged in a tent in Kensington Palace Gardens, complete with fake mud, it was an homage to the British music festival. Chief Creative Officer Daniel Lee sent out Mod-style skinny suits, fringed leather jackets, and an army of weatherproof parkas. The front row was a pantheon of British culture: Elton John, Joanna Lumley, Naomi Campbell, Skepta. It was a powerful, and hugely expensive, assertion of cultural relevance, a corporate entity wrapping itself in the flag of Glastonbury. It was a reminder that in Britain, even our heritage is a performance.
History, Remixed and Reclaimed
While some looked to national identity, others delved deeper into the historical record, using the runway as a stage for revisionism. There is a sense among many of London’s most interesting designers that the past is not a settled territory, but a place to be challenged and reinterpreted. Simone Rocha’s collection was inspired by a “disgruntled debutante,” her models walking in dresses with their wired crinolines exposed. It was as if the underpinnings of social expectation were being deliberately laid bare, a critique of the gilded cage.
This idea of beautiful confinement found its most potent expression at Dilara Findikoglu’s show, one of the week’s most sought-after tickets. Models appeared like spectral ladies-in-waiting, their bodies encased in dirtied, torn corsetry and elaborate metal face coverings. Sharp hip bones jutted out from low-slung leather trousers, an aggressive, almost painful, assertion of the physical form. In her show notes, Findikoglu wrote that for women, “the expectation of purity and innocence has functioned as both an ornament and a prison.” Her work is not easy, but it is necessary. It is a stark reminder that fashion, at its best, is not about politeness; it is about power.
Perhaps the most curious historical excavation was performed by Chopova Lowena. The cult brand, known for its punk-inflected folk aesthetic, turned its gaze across the Atlantic, creating an entire cheerleading squad complete with tinsel hair and rhinestone eyeliner. They marched to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck,” a song synonymous with the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. It was a fascinating piece of cultural appropriation, a British brand adopting the iconography of American high school hierarchy. It was, as co-founder Emma Chopova said, about “healing high school trauma.” It also felt like a comment on the increasingly globalised nature of our cultural memory, where even the most specific of identities are now available for remixing.
The Vanguard of Craft
Beneath the headline-grabbing spectacles of the major shows, the true heart of London Fashion Week beats in its smaller studios, where a new generation is redefining the meaning of craft. In an industry dominated by mass production, there is a powerful counter-current here, a commitment to the handmade, the experimental, and the sustainable.
Oscar Ouyang, in his debut show, spoke of “reinvention.” A graduate of Central Saint Martins’ knitwear course, he used a combination of machine and hand-knit techniques to create T-shirts with cartoonish proportions and braided tunics that appeared to be woven from straw. Pauline Dujancourt, another knitwear specialist, created hauntingly beautiful gowns that mixed chunky Argyle knits with delicate lace and frothy tulle. She spoke of modernising the art form, of taking the techniques learned from her grandmother and offering a “new rationale so people will actually want to knit.”
This is more than just an aesthetic choice; it is a philosophical one. It is a quiet rejection of the relentless pace of the fashion system. Paolo Carzana uses repurposed materials and vegetable dyes, creating unexpected colour pairings from found objects. Susan Fang creates ethereal dresses from beads and 3D-printed patchwork that resemble flower petals. This work is intricate, time-consuming, and difficult to scale. In a way, that is the entire point. It proposes a different relationship with our clothes, one based on care, ingenuity, and a respect for materials. It’s the architectural equivalent of building with reclaimed timber instead of concrete and steel; it’s slower and more difficult, but the result has a soul.
London Fashion Week ended, as it began, with a question of relevance. Did this chaotic, creative, and deeply commercialised week prove that fashion matters? The answer is as complex as the city itself. It matters because it is a barometer of our cultural anxieties and aspirations. It matters because it is a space where young people with radical ideas can still find a platform. And it matters because, in the hands of its most thoughtful practitioners, it offers not just new things to wear, but new ways to see. The crown may sit uneasily, but for now, London still wears it.
