We are living in Clearly Unromantic Times—Here’s How I’m Creating a Dreamy Wardrobe.

      Monica Ainley is the UK Editor in Residence for Who What Wear and a fashion and culture writer and broadcaster based in Paris. She co-created the influential podcast Fashion: No Filter and the cultural podcast Fanfare. Additionally, Monica writes Mon Review, a weekly exploration of aesthetics, literature, and contemporary rituals. Recently, an odd inclination has taken over a previously minimalist section of my fashion mindset. To be honest, it’s been brewing since the pandemic. I've lost the desire to dress as if I’m going to spend my day staring at a screen. In fact, I’ve developed a kind of aversion to it. During lockdown, I promised myself that once we were free, I would never wear a dull outfit again. Yet, as AI subtly permeated our lives, I found myself attracted to intricate fabrics and prints that showcase human craftsmanship. When further global turmoil erupted mid-fashion month not too long ago, my romantic destiny was cemented. In these strange, uncertain, and profoundly unromantic times, fashion feels like a source of optimism and a means to occasionally escape.

      My British grandmother often reminisced about how, during the war, she and her peers were fixated on stockings. “In the Wrens [the Women's Royal Naval Service], we discussed them incessantly,” she once recalled. Small luxuries, like silk, seams, and color, were significant. It was the psychology of softness acting as a protective shield. Throughout history, fashion has fulfilled this role during tumultuous periods. Consider Marie Antoinette, the original trendsetter of history. Sent to Versailles as a teen and ensnared in an unhappy political marriage, she curated a complete aesthetic realm around herself, complete with powdered hair, lightweight gowns, and elaborate pastoral fantasies at the Petit Trianon. Excessive, undoubtedly, but also a form of escapism. As an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum reevaluating her legacy opens, it’s worth pondering whether for the former Queen of France, fashion was a means of protection as much as indulgence.

      In French, the term "sublime" is often used freely. Attend Paris Fashion Week, and it’s a word you’ll frequently hear, murmured in appreciation in show lines or backstage after a particularly stunning collection. Like in English, it denotes something elevated but also holds deeper philosophical meanings. Originating from the Latin sublimis, meaning lofty or elevated, the idea was famously analyzed in the ancient text On the Sublime, attributed to Longinus. In this text, the sublime illustrates artistic expression so powerful that it overwhelms its audience with awe. Centuries later, Immanuel Kant expanded this thought, suggesting that the sublime occurs when we encounter something so immense or impactful that our imagination struggles to grasp it.

      For the Romantic poets like William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, this experience thrived in nature: towering mountains, fierce storms, expansive skies. It represented beauty, tempered by scale and danger. Nature transformed from merely a pleasant backdrop to a commanding force able to humble human observers.

      Perhaps this is what we are yearning for today. We live in a screen-centric era, primarily indoors and sadly lacking in windswept hair. We occasionally crave a long walk up Arthur's Seat. But we may also desire a touch of romance in our attire. After all, who in literary history dressed with more flair than Lord Byron? The Romantic intrigue with nature’s emotional power resonated on this season's runways. Fashion designers across the capitals captured a spirit reminiscent of the landscapes themselves. At Dior in Paris, Jonathan Anderson presented his autumn/winter 2026 show inside a greenhouse in the Jardin des Tuileries, featuring water lilies inspired by Claude Monet—a dreamlike stroll through flowers and water. In London, designers like Simone Rocha and Erdem explored a softer, more gothic romanticism, incorporating gauzy fabrics, lace, and shadowy florals, reminiscent of wandering through a garden at dusk.

      On the whole, the Paris schedule gravitated toward something more elemental. At Hermès, Nadège Vanhée-Cybulski examined the tactile language of nature through earthy hues and subtly rugged materials. Meanwhile, at Louis Vuitton, Nicolas Ghesquière transformed the runway into a rolling green landscape, with models weaving between sculptural mounds resembling abstract hills. The atmosphere felt vaguely pastoral; fashion's interpretation of a William Wordsworth scene, where nature appears monumental.

      At Dries Van Noten, a brand I have long admired, the spirit of escape felt youthful and restive: clothing that seemed fit for a romantic escapade into the wilderness; a blend of coming-of-age fantasy and the great escape. Somewhat chaotic, like our university outfits, yet infused with mature sophistication and a slightly playful take on femininity. I found myself yearning for this blend of beauty, awe, and emotional intensity that the Romantics termed "the sublime." So affected by these influences, I began envision