Courrèges Resort 2026 is Self-Shot in Paris
Summary
Courrèges, under the creative direction ofNicolas Di Felice, has unveiled itsSpring/Summer 2026Men's Collection and Women's Pre-Collection, with a distinct campaign twist. This collection is deeply influenced by the 'Mirrors of Paris' social media selfie phenomenon.
Instead of traditional studio lookbooks, Courrèges embraced a more authentic approach, inviting 18 friends of the house and muses to self-shoot the collection against the backdrop of real Parisian streets and interiors. These 'mirror' selfies, captured with smartphones, offer an unfiltered, spontaneous glimpse of the garments in everyday life, reflecting a harmony of refinement and realism. The campaign images showcase the collection against tiled passageways, metal fencing, and the worn textures of the city, emphasizing movement, light, and self-direction.
The collection itself features Nicolas Di Felice's signature blend of tailored athleticism, soft structure, and a fluid approach to dressing. Key elements see the use of blurring archetypal styles seamlessly blending utility and formality across both men's and women's silhouettes as well as the reimagined trench details appearing as a sporty blouson collar, on skin-tight lycra pants, or shrunken into cut-out top straps. The collection introduces the soft-shaped 'Strip bag' with ingenious magnetic flaps and a hidden zipped pocket while versatil heritage codes see the 1964 cap sleeve defines floor-length polo dresses and men's tees, micro-houndstooth tweed tailors versatile mini-skorts, and boxy football jerseys dress maxi-skirts down.
This collection continues Di Felice's exploration of modern dressing, offering pieces that are both contemporary and rooted in Courrèges' heritage, all presented through the intimate and raw lens of self-expression in the urban environment.
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Eater
16 hours ago
- Eater
A Celebrated French Restaurant Adapts to Tough Times in Hollywood
Mr. T opened in Hollywood in September 2022 to high anticipation thanks to its reputation as a chic Parisian bistro from restaurateur Guillaume Guedj (previously of the two-Michelin-starred Passage 53). Opening chef Alisha Vannah came from République, another celebrated Los Angeles French-inflected restaurant. Everything seemed set for Mr. T to succeed on the then-bustling Sycamore Avenue in Hollywood on the ground floor of a new office building until a series of setbacks in the past year-plus led Guedj to seriously evaluate its approach. The restaurant's opening menu featured Angeleno-oriented takes on classic bistro fare, like chicken pot pie with tare chicken jus, tuna crudo, roast lamb kebabs, and Koshihikari rice topped with sea urchin créme. Early on, Time Out LA awarded Mr. T with a solid four-star review, and praised its inventiveness, editor Patricia Kelly Yeo noting that 'every dish delivers with just the right amount of flair.' In mid-2024, Guedj brought on talented pastry chef Francois Daubinet to helm a daytime pastry program and the restaurant's evening desserts. Later that year, Mr. T was added to the Los Angeles Times' 101 Best Restaurants at number 87, where columnist Jenn Harris wrote, 'Vannah's cooking is a quiet luxury, demure but powerful in its intention and flavors.' Harris also commended Daubinet's desserts, especially the 'impossibly smooth' chocolate mousse. Though everything seemed fine on the outside, Guedj tells Eater that sales had slowed for the restaurant due to numerous issues. Its location demanded a steady flow of customers from offices, including Jay-Z's Roc Nation, which occupies space above Mr. T, but the reduction in mandatory office hours and the impact of the 2023 writers' and actors' strikes hampered business for the restaurant. Then, at the top of this year, the Palisades and Eaton fires happened. Eater spoke with Guedj about the effects of the 2023 strikes and the January 2025 wildfires, and discussed the changes he's made with Vannah to make the menu this year more approachable for an LA dining scene that still today remains in flux. On the word changes for the menu: After the fires and amid difficult economic times, we wanted to serve more of what people want and need, to go back to the basics that we love. Mr T. opened with a modern French menu, and the idea is still the same, but we adjusted the menu to lean more on warmer, classic recipes. We have poulet roti, roasted chicken, with a proper jus. You might want a good steak frites with a thick, flavorful peppercorn sauce, or our twist of the famous beef Bourguignon. You get a classic Caesar salad with perfect seasoning. Apple pie with roasted apples. We're still modern French, but as a French guy, I feel like this is what people need right now. We wanted to adjust to Angelenos with a more straightforward menu than what we do in Paris. When we opened, it was France meets U.S., but when the new French guy came to town, we adjusted and found the right balance. April was tough with Coachella, but May was a little better. It's still very mellow and slow. We were on so many lists, like Time Out and Eater. Until June 2023, we were really good, busy all the time. Then the strikes hit, and that's when things started to slow down. The strikes really affected the business because we're in Hollywood. Last summer, we were added to the Los Angeles Times 101 Best Restaurants, and we were super proud to be at the event showcasing our food with 40 other restaurants. That was a huge push and amazing exposure, so that December was great, but then the fires hit. We ended up only having that high for a month. 'People don't want to be overwhelmed during these times.' — Guillaume guedj, owner, Mr. t On making the menu less French and more French American: We realized that we had to communicate that we were more approachable to our regulars. We have French dishes like roast chicken, steak frites, branzino with beurre blanc. It's more French American, and it's a good mix. French people come and they love it, and American people can understand it. People don't want to be overwhelmed during these times. They want to come eat, and have something simple; they want to know what they're going to get. I think that really helped us attract regular customers after the fire. On Vannah's development as a chef in the past two-and-a-half years: It was challenging to adapt to the concept of Mr. T from Republique. We were doing things like roasted cauliflower with hummus or fancy tacos. It's all very creative, and that's what made Mr. T famous in France, but it was a challenge for her. I think she took it and did great, incorporating her Thai background and adding Asian twists. I was challenging us to do better and be more creative. But I think there was a disconnect. When customers come here, they want French food. It was confusing for some people. We had to make things more approachable, still with a nice presentation and good cooking technique. So now the fusion is more French American, with a burger, macaroni and cheese. It's more what people want, and Alisa had to adjust. There's more focus on the sauce, cooking, and finding products — and less on creativity, if I can say that. On getting creative even within the context of bistro classics: When you want to do a steak, typically you'll put seasonal root vegetables on the side or put a sauce with a little twist. Now we're thinking, let's just do a good old-school French peppercorn sauce. We have really good French fries and a good New York steak. It's just a tasty plate of steak frites, and it's one of our most popular dishes on the menu. We worked hard on the jus for the roast chicken to make it clearer and lighter. It's also one of our main dishes. Caesar salad is everywhere in France now, so we used endive to make it more Frenchy. We stack the endives for a beautiful and modern presentation. It's a taste that we all know, but we elevated it. On dealing with the daytime business in Hollywood: With Francois, we had a strong start; people were coming from Santa Monica and Silver Lake to try the pastries. But we don't have a lot of people in the neighborhood who want to enjoy a good croissant on a daily basis. We're actually selling more coffee and breakfast burritos, so we had this problem on weekdays of throwing stuff away. We stopped the pastries and just kept them for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. People are waiting now and coming for coffee and pastries. It's funny because people are choosing cookies over croissants — they seem to have almost the same calories. On changing from a destination to a neighborhood favorite: I'm hoping that the area and the overall economy will get better. The whole world is suffering, Los Angeles is suffering, and Hollywood even more. I believe if you keep building it and keep it consistent, and make adjustments, you can make it through the storm. We need to stay alive during difficult times, and hopefully, it gets better. The thing that saves Mr. T is the regulars. They love this place and the team. The food is good quality — it's not Michelin star, but we use farm-to-table products and it's tasty for what you get. With music and ambience, you can have a good dinner. Initially, we were getting people coming from Santa Monica and the Westside to have an experience, but we didn't have that many regulars. Now with the new menu, we have items that get people coming every weekend or every two weeks. I feel like if we keep building with our fans, we should be fine.
Yahoo
2 days ago
- Yahoo
When a Nasty Habit Is Part of Your National Identity
The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here. On my first weekend living in Paris, I decided I had to learn how to smoke, and quickly. I sat in the dismal studio apartment I shared with a roommate and lit up Gauloise after Gauloise until my face turned a shade of chartreuse. I was an exchange student in the mid-'90s, and this was the intensity I applied to most activities that held the possibility of transforming me into the person I wanted to be. Parisians smoked, and if I aspired to be a Parisian, which I desperately did, then I would smoke. By the end of the weekend, I could sit in a café with a cigarette dangling from my lips like a shorter, swarthier, coughier Jean-Paul Belmondo in Breathless. When I learned recently that France will soon ban smoking outside—banishing it from under lonely streetlamps and on park benches, where a last puff could be shared between lovers—it seemed that some essential part of French national identity was ending. If you are forbidden from lighting up in almost every social situation, then smoking, mon ami, is effectively illegal. Russians have their vodka. Americans have their McDonald's and AR-15s. Japanese have a concept called karoshi, which apparently means 'working so hard that you die.' Every self-respecting nation has a fatal habit that helps define it—a guilty pleasure its citizens indulge in despite the scoffing of foreigners, and because doing so almost proves that their identity is worth dying for. The French—Sartre and Bardot and Gainsbourg and Houellebecq—have their smoking. 'I drank the coffee, and then I wanted a cigarette,' thinks Meursault, the antihero of Albert Camus' novel The Stranger and, after the Little Prince, likely the first French person in literature many students of the country's language will encounter. 'But I wasn't sure if I should smoke, under the circumstances, in Mother's presence'—he's sitting vigil over her dead body. 'I thought it over; really, it didn't seem to matter, so I offered the keeper a cigarette, and we both smoked.' [Read: The allure of smoking rises again] Before I go much further, let me be clear: Cigarettes will kill you. I'm old enough to remember a 13-hour flight during which I experienced the slow asphyxiation of being stuck in the smoking section. The world does occasionally improve, and fewer people dying of lung cancer is certainly one of the ways. But nostalgia does not come with health warnings. What was most alluring about cigarettes, besides the notion—okay, the fact—that I looked cooler holding one casually between two fingers, was the quality of time that opened up in the space of a smoke. It's been a while—maybe 20 years—since I've touched a cigarette, but what I still remember, more than the nicotine, is the sensation of pressing 'Pause.' For the few minutes it took a cigarette to become ash, I had nothing to do but enjoy the silence or the chat I was having outside a bar. These moments of idle nothingness—or acute presence—are a source of nostalgia for me in part because they belong to the aimlessness of youth, and because our phones have since become a constant portal to somewhere else. But they also make me wistful because this sense of time out of time feels so very French. Think of the languidness of a French meal, with its aperitif, entrée, plat, fromage, dessert, café. Or the nation's incredible shrinking workweek—now 35 hours, by law—in favor of more leisure time for love affairs and philosophical debates. Or the month of August, when no one is around. Or strikes, when everything stops. Or the years it takes to make good cheese and wine. Or that glorious description of the concept underlying the country's internet-privacy laws: 'the right to be forgotten.' This whole cultural preference seemed to have been hand-rolled into every cigarette. Smoking was like a type of punctuation—life's em dash—forcing me to slow down, and putting everything else in relief. Sartre once contemplated quitting (really), but he couldn't bear what that would do to the rest of his existence. 'I used to smoke at the theater, in the morning while working, in the evening after dinner, and it seemed to me that in giving up smoking I was going to strip the theater of its interest, the evening meal of its savor, the morning work of its fresh animation,' he wrote in Being and Nothingness. 'Whatever unexpected happening was going to meet my eye, it seemed to me that it was fundamentally impoverished from the moment that I could not welcome it while smoking.' [Read: An innocent abroad in Mark Twain's Paris] This is an eloquent description of a severe addiction. Smoking is a disgusting habit, and I don't miss it, not really. But I do worry a bit about France. What Sartre was articulating—a life of enjoyment, of savoring those evening meals and the theater and mornings spent lost in thought—can be hard to come by in our world. Did smoking help those moments materialize out of our otherwise hectic lives? Maybe. For the French, I always sensed that smoking, even when its dangers were well known, was almost an illustration of existentialism. The act seemed in some way to distill the central idea of that most French of philosophies: True freedom is terrifying because it means taking responsibility for every single choice we make. But not taking responsibility is worse—it is to live in bad faith. Smoking, that controlled flirtation with death, is the perfect test of this proposition. You know it's bad for you; you do it anyway, fully aware that you are taking your fate in your own hands. Maybe this is also why the cigarette has always signified rebellion—especially for women living in cultures bent on circumscribing their choices. Even as our cultural mores and our health standards evolve, the cigarette retains this symbolic power. A blueberry-flavored vape (currently exempt from the new law) could never carry all this meaning. That Godard-and-Truffaut version of France that I'm pining for was obviously already a thing of the past even when I lived there. And that past is even further in the past now. A little less than a quarter of the country's population takes a drag every day. And young French people, thankfully, are not buying my romanticism—the trend line curves downward more dramatically for them. As for the new law, which carries a 135-euro fine, a survey of French people (conducted, I'm imagining, over zinc countertops and demitasses) found that 78 percent said they were happy to be done with cigarettes in public places. Maybe they're tired of the 2 billion butts that collect on the streets of Paris every year. That might convince me. These days, when I'm feeling sentimental, instead of smoking, I'll just mainline a film from the New Wave era, such as Godard's existentialist drama Vivre sa vie. Anna Karina is there, playing Nana, a woman who leaves her husband and becomes a sex worker (strangely, a common storyline in French movies of the period). She is sitting in a café, puffing away. 'I think we're always responsible for our actions,' she says. 'We're free.' Free to do any number of things, she says, dreamily invoking the Sartrean credo as smoke curls around her black bob. She is free to close her eyes, to be unhappy. And she takes responsibility for this. 'I smoke a cigarette,' she says, a mischievous smile on her lips. 'I'm responsible.' Article originally published at The Atlantic
Atlantic
2 days ago
- Atlantic
Is France Even France Without Cigarettes?
On my first weekend living in Paris, I decided I had to learn how to smoke, and quickly. I sat in the dismal studio apartment I shared with a roommate and lit up Gauloise after Gauloise until my face turned a shade of chartreuse. I was an exchange student in the mid-'90s, and this was the intensity I applied to most activities that held the possibility of transforming me into the person I wanted to be. Parisians smoked, and if I aspired to be a Parisian, which I desperately did, then I would smoke. By the end of the weekend, I could sit in a café with a cigarette dangling from my lips like a shorter, swarthier, coughier Jean-Paul Belmondo in Breathless. When I learned recently that France will soon ban smoking outside —banishing it from under lonely streetlamps and on park benches, where a last puff could be shared between lovers—it seemed that some essential part of French national identity was ending. If you are forbidden from lighting up in almost every social situation, then smoking, mon ami, is effectively illegal. Russians have their vodka. Americans have their McDonald's and AR-15s. Japanese have a concept called karoshi, which apparently means 'working so hard that you die.' Every self-respecting nation has a fatal habit that helps define it—a guilty pleasure its citizens indulge in despite the scoffing of foreigners, and because doing so almost proves that their identity is worth dying for. The French—Sartre and Bardot and Gainsbourg and Houellebecq —have their smoking. 'I drank the coffee, and then I wanted a cigarette,' thinks Meursault, the antihero of Albert Camus ' novel The Stranger and, after the Little Prince, likely the first French person in literature many students of the country's language will encounter. 'But I wasn't sure if I should smoke, under the circumstances, in Mother's presence'—he's sitting vigil over her dead body. 'I thought it over; really, it didn't seem to matter, so I offered the keeper a cigarette, and we both smoked.' Before I go much further, let me be clear: Cigarettes will kill you. I'm old enough to remember a 13-hour flight during which I experienced the slow asphyxiation of being stuck in the smoking section. The world does occasionally improve, and fewer people dying of lung cancer is certainly one of the ways. But nostalgia does not come with health warnings. What was most alluring about cigarettes, besides the notion—okay, the fact—that I looked cooler holding one casually between two fingers, was the quality of time that opened up in the space of a smoke. It's been a while—maybe 20 years—since I've touched a cigarette, but what I still remember, more than the nicotine, is the sensation of pressing 'Pause.' For the few minutes it took a cigarette to become ash, I had nothing to do but enjoy the silence or the chat I was having outside a bar. These moments of idle nothingness—or acute presence—are a source of nostalgia for me in part because they belong to the aimlessness of youth, and because our phones have since become a constant portal to somewhere else. But they also make me wistful because this sense of time out of time feels so very French. Think of the languidness of a French meal, with its aperitif, entrée, plat, fromage, dessert, café. Or the nation's incredible shrinking workweek—now 35 hours, by law—in favor of more leisure time for love affairs and philosophical debates. Or the month of August, when no one is around. Or strikes, when everything stops. Or the years it takes to make good cheese and wine. Or that glorious description of the concept underlying the country's internet-privacy laws: ' the right to be forgotten.' This whole cultural preference seemed to have been hand-rolled into every cigarette. Smoking was like a type of punctuation—life's em dash—forcing me to slow down, and putting everything else in relief. Sartre once contemplated quitting (really), but he couldn't bear what that would do to the rest of his existence. 'I used to smoke at the theater, in the morning while working, in the evening after dinner, and it seemed to me that in giving up smoking I was going to strip the theater of its interest, the evening meal of its savor, the morning work of its fresh animation,' he wrote in Being and Nothingness. 'Whatever unexpected happening was going to meet my eye, it seemed to me that it was fundamentally impoverished from the moment that I could not welcome it while smoking.' This is an eloquent description of a severe addiction. Smoking is a disgusting habit, and I don't miss it, not really. But I do worry a bit about France. What Sartre was articulating—a life of enjoyment, of savoring those evening meals and the theater and mornings spent lost in thought—can be hard to come by in our world. Did smoking help those moments materialize out of our otherwise hectic lives? Maybe. For the French, I always sensed that smoking, even when its dangers were well known, was almost an illustration of existentialism. The act seemed in some way to distill the central idea of that most French of philosophies: True freedom is terrifying because it means taking responsibility for every single choice we make. But not taking responsibility is worse—it is to live in bad faith. Smoking, that controlled flirtation with death, is the perfect test of this proposition. You know it's bad for you; you do it anyway, fully aware that you are taking your fate in your own hands. Maybe this is also why the cigarette has always signified rebellion—especially for women living in cultures bent on circumscribing their choices. Even as our cultural mores and our health standards evolve, the cigarette retains this symbolic power. A blueberry-flavored vape (currently exempt from the new law) could never carry all this meaning. That Godard-and-Truffaut version of France that I'm pining for was obviously already a thing of the past even when I lived there. And that past is even further in the past now. A little less than a quarter of the country's population takes a drag every day. And young French people, thankfully, are not buying my romanticism—the trend line curves downward more dramatically for them. As for the new law, which carries a 135-euro fine, a survey of French people (conducted, I'm imagining, over zinc countertops and demitasses) found that 78 percent said they were happy to be done with cigarettes in public places. Maybe they're tired of the 2 billion butts that collect on the streets of Paris every year. That might convince me. These days, when I'm feeling sentimental, instead of smoking, I'll just mainline a film from the New Wave era, such as Godard's existentialist drama Vivre sa vie. Anna Karina is there, playing Nana, a woman who leaves her husband and becomes a sex worker (strangely, a common storyline in French movies of the period). She is sitting in a café, puffing away. 'I think we're always responsible for our actions,' she says. 'We're free.' Free to do any number of things, she says, dreamily invoking the Sartrean credo as smoke curls around her black bob. She is free to close her eyes, to be unhappy. And she takes responsibility for this. 'I smoke a cigarette,' she says, a mischievous smile on her lips. 'I'm responsible.'
