A world where the stain of cigarettes on breath is socially acceptable, where diary entries are told between passes of a shared bottle. Stefano Gallici presented his fall 2026 collection inside the Couvent des Cordeliers, formerly Ann Demeulemeester’s longtime venue before her departure in 2013.

Dear Night Thoughts unfurled with a poet’s fluidity. Youth and rebellion were rendered through antique house codes draped over modern silhouettes. The house that was once built on severity seemed to exhale.

Gallici approached the legacy of Ann Demeulemeester with care and reverence. The codes were there: the elongated line, black and ivory, the sense that every look might belong to a musician who has just stepped off stage. Shirts slipped off shoulders, waistcoats hung with looseness, and tailoring felt softened by time.

Denim worn through decades, sanded pale at the knees, and scribbled upon. These were juxtaposed with high-necked jackets and languid shirts that trailed behind the body. Velvet appeared next, washed to a softness, absorbing the dim convent light in bruised shades of jewels and midnight.

Florals, dainty and ghostlike, appeared on sheer blouses, and narrow floor-length skirts draped loosely around the waist. Meanwhile, coats—rested, creased, and softened as if borrowed from exes or salvaged from tours—were cinched at the gut and adorned across the top.

Hair fell into eyes; scarves trailed, boots scuffed from stone, and sneakers stained with mud. Young people lingering after midnight, reluctant to let the night end, looking for a place of belonging. Looking for Gallici’s Demeulemeester. 

The soundtrack played with post-punk melancholy, evoking the same cultural orbit that has long been affiliated with the house. It’s impossible to speak about Ann Demeulemeester without acknowledging the artists who shaped its early presence—figures like Patti Smith, Jim Morrison, and Billy Idol who graced the runway.  

In many ways, Dear Night Thoughts is a letter to youth itself: not the glossy youth of the status quo, but a quieter, lonelier version, one where everything feels intimate.