We weren’t sure what Michael Rider’s first full collection for Celine would feel like, but we definitely didn’t think it would feel this right.The handover had been quiet, almost too quiet for a House with this much weight behind it. And maybe we were all a little guilty of thinking he’d play it safe, just hold the line until someone louder came along. But after this show? No one’s underestimating him again.
Rider didn’t just show up. He’s been building toward this moment for years. He worked under Phoebe Philo at a time when nothing felt sharper than Celine. Later, he honed his taste for American polish at Ralph Lauren. And now? He steps into the post-Slimane aftermath — six years of skinny tailoring, indie sleaze, and a signature silhouette that left very little room for reinterpretation.
From the first look –structured coat, balloon-cut pants, boots– it was clear Rider was pulling from his own design history. You could spot traces of Ghesquière in the volume, a touch of Philo in the clean lines and colour-blocking, and a nod to Ralph in the preppy layering: rugby shirts, striped ties, soft blazers with bunched sleeves. But it didn’t feel referential. It felt lived-in.
Instead of rejecting the past, or rejecting Philo or Slimane, Rider worked with it. He didn’t try to reinvent the brand, he refined it. There were clear nods to it, but nothing felt costume. Enough to feel fresh, but not unfamiliar. Rider put it simply backstage: “I hope people want things that last. I don’t think things that last have to feel not exciting.” You could see that idea running through the collection, clothes meant to stay with you, to age well, to be worn again and again without losing their edge.
There was sharp eveningwear, a sequined dress worn with a cropped tuxedo jacket, sheer black crochet, and tailoring that felt deliberate. Even the accessories had bite: exaggerated bangles, angular sunglasses, and belts that knew they were the punctuation mark.
The colour palette stayed close to the classics –camel, black, navy, ivory– but occasionally, something slipped in: a grass green jacket, a pop of fire-engine red, a bright blue leather tote with a smirk of a zipper. And the shoes? Quietly subversive. Soft jazz-like pumps, glove-fit boots that curved at the ankle, delicate enough to go unnoticed, but odd enough to make you look twice.
All of this brings us here: to a collection that values memory over novelty, that trusts the archive without depending on it. Because what Rider proposed here wasn’t a reinvention of Celine. It was a reminder of what makes it matter: the idea that fashion can hold memory, and still move forward.
