Fashion, at its worst, is a masquerade for the bored rich. At its best, it’s a bloodsport. Simon Cracker’s “Le Perle ai Porci” doesn’t just know that—it drinks to it, smashes the bottle and stitches the shards into a cardigan. I walked into this collection like one walks into a bar they were banned from years ago: curious, slightly afraid and fully prepared to be insulted. And insult me it did, but with such sharp, deliberate wit that I left grateful for the wounds.

There’s no subtlety here. No soft sell. The designers have taken fashion’s bourgeois rituals—beige cardigans, Chanel jackets, heritage handbags—and dragged them through the gutter, only to reassemble them with duct tape, gold spray paint and tinsel. It’s not clever for the sake of being clever. It’s a survival tactic. You don’t satirize the rich like this unless you’ve had to walk past them while they laugh on balconies. You don’t paint-on luxury unless you’ve had to pretend you could afford it.

This is fashion made from the scraps of delusion, worn by people who know the price of everything and the worth of nothing. And yet, I adore it. There’s something so brave, so wretchedly romantic, about clothing that dares to mock the very system it exists within.

Fake Gold, Real Grit

Now this, my dear reader, is what happens when Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss” gets cornered at an East Berlin flea market in 1987. Burnt gold edges slash through a gridlocked blazer that clearly knows it’s pretending to be rich—and loves the irony. I adore the oversized white boutonnière slapped on like a passive-aggressive insult to minimalism. The trousers are cropped to just the right awkwardness, and the acid-yellow graffiti Dr. Martens? A smiley face for your sins.

I would absolutely wear this as-is. Maybe swap the inner shirt with a ratty band tee for a club night where no one talks but everyone judges. This outfit is a bitter laugh in a smoky room full of Birkins. It gets it.

Boardroom Delinquent

Birkin bags as a print motif? Delicious. Especially when screen-printed like crime scene evidence onto a dad cardigan. The blue shirt underneath is innocently tucked in, but the pleated skirt and chunky hoop earrings? Pure, grown-up rebellion. This look reads like a Catholic school dropout who interned at LVMH and left with receipts.

I wouldn’t change a single thing for a woman either—maybe just throw on an unwashed trench coat and light a cigarette. It’s styling for those who know what irony smells like. And it smells like mothballs and generational debt.

Collapse Couture

Where do I start? She looks like she escaped the attic of Agnes Varda’s beach house—and I mean that with reverence. Layered plaids, unraveled hems and that saccharine blue wrap draped like a fabric accident from 1894. The bag once wanted to be Hermès, now it just wants to be understood.

There’s something devastatingly honest about this. The coat swallows her, the skirt splays like it’s trying to remember joy, and yet—she walks forward. I’d style a woman like this for an art opening where the wine is warm and the compliments are lies.

I like how it is styled. It’s chaos with a thesis.

Saint Laurent at the Suburban Mall

The top says “pinstripe banker’s ghost,” the skirt says “leather pencil fantasy” and the shoes—confetti fever dream—say “she killed Santa Claus and wore his spirit to Milan.” There’s a Birkin tee underneath, slightly distressed like a distant memory of capitalism.

Everything here is wrong, which is exactly why it works. It’s business casual for a dominatrix who got bored with tech bros and moved to Bologna. I like how it is styled, though I might add a necklace made from shredded receipts. The outfit makes a mockery of sophistication. Bravo.

Poor Little Rich Nerd

This one’s giving you: heiress roleplaying as an intern. The Chanel-by-way-of-Jacqueline Susann jacket. The librarian-glam floral scarf. And those cotton candy pink heels, which I must say are offensively good.

She’s dressing for brunch at a retirement home, but one where all the residents were ex-Vogue editors who got fired for being too honest. I like how it’s styled. For another woman, I’d slick the hair down and add a lipstick shade called “Financial Trauma.”

This look is a satire with sharp teeth.

Gold Leaf and Velvet Sin

Argyle and garlands of golden flora? This is suburban Christmas meets pagan bacchanal. The coat’s oversized like he stole it from someone richer, but the velvet shorts and printed bag scream: “I no longer care.”

This look is not flattering. It’s challenging. I like how it is styled. I’d wear it just as it is, walking into a gallery opening where everyone’s pretending to know who painted what. The bag printed with a fake luxury sketch? A wink, a jab, a protest.

Holiday Wreckage

Tinsel neck ruff. Patchy yellow skirt. The sweater looks like it’s been through three breakups and a house fire. And yet—it struts with the confidence of someone who knows they are not supposed to be liked.

There’s genius in this mess. It’s dressing as performance. I like how it is styled. If I saw a woman in this, I’d assume she either makes experimental films or was kicked out of MoMA for laughing too hard. The irony isn’t subtle. That’s the point.