Listen, Sis. I’m not even sure what the hell just happened, but those Bellhops from Palomo Spain are like 80% of my feed rn. I fully missed the show, first of all, so it was like a slow creep of fully-fleshed moodboard fodder and refurbished Drag Race hashtags before I even understood what all the gays were keeking over.
And I’m fully there with you: highkey yelling and midkey chapped with FOMO. That’s rare for NYFW (Not Yet France, Whocares…) basically a snooze button before Paris.
Honestly, I don’t even know how to describe what I watched. You’re in Palomo Hotel and suddenly you’re immersed in the crescendo of a gay, Spanish aria and Wes Anderson is manually swatching the palette. There’s ruffles and flounces, bath-wear as outerwear, and lace, sheerness, and sheen and just a total gag of queer contraband. And then it’s over and the models are hugging their influencer pals in the audience like a giant it-girl inside joke you’re too desperately unmillenial to fully get.
Watch the runway finale (set to a tune by Amanda Lear) and read the rest of our review after the jump. Keep an eye out for the legendary Rossy de Palma.