New York Fashion Week | The Blonds SS26: Glamour on safari, darling

If Noah had built an ark for couture, The Blonds would’ve stocked it two-by-two with corsets and crystals and sailed it straight down Fifth. Spring/Summer 2026 wasn’t a runway so much as a cinematic expedition—Fashion Safari by way of Hollywood’s golden age, with a GPS set to “drama only.” Sequins were not sewn; they were weaponized. Corsetry arrived with apex-predator confidence. Stilettos? Jewel-encrusted altitude training. SPF 50 can’t block this shine.

The lights dropped; a hush, then a wink. Madame Hollywood swept in as our high-gloss narrator, and suddenly we were in Blonds of Paradise, a world where the dress code reads “come scandalous or don’t come at all.” The staging was pure picture palace—sliced spotlights, lush score, smoke curling like a signature—and the looks hit like jump cuts: panther-sleek catsuits, crystal-armored minis, and gowns that could stop traffic on the FDR at rush hour. It was costume meets couture with the receipts to prove it.

The references were deliciously obvious in the best way—femme fatales with shoulder lines sharp enough to sign contracts, silver-screen sirens reimagined with 22nd-century sparkle. Think Dietrich if she’d discovered gym-glitter and a motherboard. The Blonds—Phillipe Blond and David Blond—have never been shy about excess (amen), and SS26 said the quiet part loud: extra is the new essential. Every crystal caught the light like a knowing aside; every corset sculpted the torso into an exclamation point.

Let’s talk craftsmanship, because beneath the camp is carpentry: boning that behaves like architecture, hand-set stones that don’t just shimmer—they broadcast. The palette toggled between safari neutrals (sable, sand, sunset) and nightclub neons (electric orchid, chrome, strobe-white), proving you can track big game at noon and steal scenes by midnight. Hair was teased to plot twist; makeup read “leading role at close-up range.” If you weren’t ready to give main character energy, the clothes did it for you.

Highlights, you ask?

A crystal-fringed trench that swung like a chandelier on the move.

A python-print bustier poured into mirror-shard trousers—dangerous at every angle.

Thigh-highs crusted in rhinestones that treated the calf like sacred terrain.

A finale gown so bright the audience practically wore sunglasses inside (which, to be clear, is encouraged).

Was it theatrical? Absolutely. But The Blonds don’t do costume as disguise; they do costume as truth serum. The story here says: the fantasy is not escapism—it’s your inner monologue with better lighting. “Wear me,” the clothes whisper, “and tell the room who runs it.” Spoiler: you do.

The casting had personality for miles, and the WHO’s WHO was exactly that—Lil’ Kim, Crystal Waters, Susanne Bartsch, Ashley Longshore, Emira D’Spain, Dimitris Giannetos, Meredith Marks, Maureen Wrobelwitz, Aquaria, Gigi Gorgeous, and more—an audience that doubles as a mood board. If you felt a soft tremor underfoot, that was rhinestone gravity recalibrating Manhattan.

The after-party? Elevated in every sense—The Riff Raff Club on the 39th floor of Virgin Hotels New York—a glittering aerie where the dress code escalated from “extra” to “extraterrestrial.” Champagne did what it does; DJs tested the chandelier load-bearing capacity; feathers and crystals cross-pollinated happily ever after.

Here’s the thesis, cut clean: The Blonds are a luxury engine built for spectacle—with rebel wiring. Their hand-crafted, one-of-a-kind pieces live at that rare intersection where pop star, performance artist, and Bond villain share a closet. Music, film, art—all in the bloodstream. If it doesn’t accentuate the human form, it doesn’t make the cut. If it doesn’t cause a small commotion, why are we here?

Fun? Cheeky? Darling, the collection practically purred. It reminded us that fashion isn’t polite conversation—it’s a kiss blown across a crowded room, a thigh-high wink, a corset with agenda. Consider the memo received: extravagance isn’t a phase; it’s a practice.

Now powder your décolletage, fasten something that clinks when you walk, and repeat after me: drama is welcomed, not merely tolerated.