Is it possible to look forward by looking sideways? Craig Green seems to think so — and to be honest, so do we. His Spring/Summer 2026 menswear show at the Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers wasn’t trying to reinvent the wheel. It felt more like watching someone piece things together, a confident remix, taking old references, memories, suburban psychedelia, and emotional textures, and stitching them into something that felt… well, very Green.
“It started by thinking about The Beatles,” Green explained. Yes, those Beatles. Not in terms of style or iconography, but in terms of pace. “What they produced in such a short time was almost a miracle,” he said. “That energy, that creative freedom… It felt very youthful. Slightly out of control, in a good way.”
And yet, the references crept in softly. There was a hint of Sgt. Pepper’s in the cut of certain jackets, minus the gloss and pageantry. You could spot it in the colours too: washed-out florals, like Liberty prints left too long in the sun. Green leaned into that ‘60s energy, but filtered it through a very British, very suburban lens. Less Carnaby Street, more your aunt’s spare bedroom.
The show opened on a sand-covered runway, with models walking barefoot or in long-fringed Grenson loafers as well, some with tiny LED lights blinking from their glasses. They gave the whole thing a soft, sci-fi glow — like androids mid-reboot at a music festival. “I think it’s quite nice to have them as eyes,” Green noted. “There was a lot of references to that kind of psychedelic mind-opening of that era the Beatles went through, when they discovered LSD.” A few models had fabric hanging from their mouths, an odd, slightly eerie detail that Green described as somewhere between a dog proudly carrying a found object and a low-budget exorcism.
The garments were unmistakably Green: trench coats sliced and reassembled in featherlight shirting layers, jumpers that began structured and unraveled into streams of yarn, and shirts with dangling ties that felt like collapsing scaffolding. The outerwear leaned playful: striped anoraks, coats inspired by the cut of dog jackets (yes, really), and sleeveless silhouettes trimmed with faux-fluff and chunky zippers. The tailoring, as always, played with fragility. There was order, but only just.
And speaking of gardens, Green admitted he’s been thinking a lot about them lately. The kind of grounded, hands-in-the-dirt stuff people crave as they get older. That vibe showed up in the finale: four layered looks made entirely from vintage bedsheets, floral, loud, and kind of amazing. Pulled from secondhand stores, some still carrying the scent of their previous lives. “They were kind of gross,” Green admitted, “but also weirdly beautiful.” But also: very real, very British, and a nod to the messy romance of domesticity, the kind of prints once plastered across suburban Britain.
The colour palette drifted into 1970s territory, particularly the murky, slightly off-putting tones of harvest gold and avocado green. “Harvest yellow— I was obsessed with it,” the designer said. “It’s the colour of kitchens, bathrooms, arguments.” Green has a thing for these shades, not for their beauty, but for how emotionally specific they are. Yellow, in particular, came up a lot. According to Green, it’s the colour most likely to make a baby cry. Interpret that as you will.
There’s always a bit of chaos in Green’s shows, the kind that feels intentional, even when everything looks like it’s coming apart. He’s made that his signature: pulling references that sound absurd on paper, the bedsheets, dollhouse lights, dog coats, and turning them into something that somehow makes perfect sense.
