Schiaparelli Spring Summer 2026 “Dancer in the Night – And Hopefully Out of Sight”. Story by Eleonora de Gray, Editor-in-Chief of RUNWAY MAGAZINE. Photo Courtesy: Schiaparelli.

By now, we’ve learned to expect that Daniel Roseberry’s Schiaparelli ready-to-wear collections will deliver something… ambitious. The kind of ambition usually reserved for first-year art students high on espresso and misplaced confidence. And for Spring Summer 2026, Roseberry didn’t disappoint. In fact, he went so far off the syllabus he may have stapled the mood board to the wrong wall and called it “installation.”

The collection is titled “Dancer in the Dark,” which, considering the cuts, fits perfectly—because, darling, someone was clearly cutting in the dark. Hemlines wandered like lost tourists. Asymmetry was not a design choice, it was a cry for help. If Elsa Schiaparelli was a comet lighting up the Parisian sky, this was a damp sparkler flickering near a fire alarm.

Let’s begin with the drawn-on bodies. Yes, again. Jean Paul Gaultier must be watching it somewhere in Paris, thinking, “Really? Again?” The trompe l’oeil has become less of a surrealist statement and more of a required school project. “Take your pencil, draw a boob. Good. Now, stretch that sweater over it. Voilà—art.”

And about those satin ruffles. They looked like the ghosts of fabric scraps past, resurrected with a hot glue gun and a prayer. Described by the Maison as “memory satin,” but sweetheart, the only memory they conjured was a vague flashback to a Halloween costume gone wrong. Somewhere between a shower loofah and a broken prom corsage.

But wait—there’s depth. Daniel Roseberry, our designer-philosopher-poet, is here to tell us this isn’t just fashion. No. It’s museum-worthy. In fact, he told us so himself, several times, referencing Brancusi, the Pompidou, and that elusive, trembling whisper of “inspiration.” Louvre didn’t work, hah? He wants Schiaparelli to be less catwalk, more cultural pilgrimage. Less prêt-à-porter, more prêt-à-pray.

And to be fair, he might actually need a museum. Preferably one with very dim lighting and generous funding. Vaseline on the lens optional, but encouraged.

Let’s talk accessories, because someone must’ve had fun. Derby boots with corset lacing, jeweled eyelets, and tiny heels “evoking a sun”—adorable. Nothing screams “summer” like trudging through Paris in medieval ankle restraints adorned with what looks like leftover bits from a craft store clearance bin.

And the jackets. Oh, the jackets. Described as “celebrations of discipline.” Which is interesting, because nothing about this show felt particularly disciplined. If anything, it felt like someone threw darts at a mood board and said, “Let’s go with everything.”

We were also introduced to sculptural flounces made of “memory foam satin,” because now your dress can remember all your regrets. Including the one where you thought this was couture. But no, this was ready-to-wear, or more accurately: ready-to-wear-you-out.

The trousers were oversized, the skirts gathered with chains (practical!), and everything was held together by either a ribbon, blind faith, or both. One dress came with a gold chain belt you could also hold in your hand, presumably for when you’ve given up on the whole thing and need something to swing at critics.

And then came the cloche hats and limewood carved faces, because nothing says summer like a bit of performance art stuck to your skull.

It all culminated in Roseberry’s signature monologue, delivered with the kind of gravitas normally reserved for Nobel speeches or Apple product launches. He told us he wanted the collection to feel like “dancing alone at home after work.” But in truth, it felt more like dancing alone after quitting your job, in a blackout, while wearing a cardigan inside out.

There were whispers of Dali (melting clocks, naturally), Brancusi, and Elsa herself. But mostly, it felt like an awkward blind date between fashion and fine art, and neither paid the bill.

Still, to be fair, there is something endearing in Roseberry’s earnest belief that fashion can be more. That ruffles can be revolutionary. That satin can spark spiritual awakening. That a knit with a sketched-on six-pack is our modern Venus de Milo.

Is it absurd? Yes. Is it fashion? Sort of. Is it entertaining? Not even that.

So if you missed the show, don’t worry. Just go into your closet, turn off the lights, glue a foam sausage to your blouse, and spin in circles. Congratulations. You’ve just experienced Schiaparelli Spring Summer 2026.

Now quick—submit it to the Pompidou before they change their number.

See All Looks Schiaparelli Spring Summer 2026