Everyone can be the best of show at Simone Rocha FW26

Rosettes flail around the body at Simone Rocha’s FW26 — like someone who just won every equestrian ribbon in existence and pinned them all like Girl Scout badges. Opulence is mandatory here. At Simone Rocha, you own everything, and yes, every showpony prize can be yours.

The collection drifts through eras with a melancholy twist. Satin emerald ballgowns puff like monstrous bulbs, combined with adidas’ track jackets and three-stripe motifs. Coats and furs catch the breeze just so, evoking the sensation of strolling down a Parisian boulevard in the 1920s or 1940s, hair and ribbons mid-gust.

Equestrian language runs through the collection. Perry Ogden’s Pony Kids (1999) — images of modern Dublin youth with their own horses — gives you the template: raw youth spliced with old-world glamour. Masculinity and femininity share the same stable, prize ribbons pinned and supersized, rosettes blown up into gowns that thrash theatrically in the wind. Bombers are worn over schoolgirl pleated skirts, paired with historical-looking bras (pink satin, full cups, no lace! Surprisingly, for Simone). The Adidas collab is pure brand crossbreeding: sugary track pants turned granny‑panties, track jackets ballooned at the sleeves, and pink-and-red sweetness everywhere.

Creamy lammy coats channel Anastasia‑level Russian princess energy, yet slouched grey leggings remind you this is 2026. Hand-me-downed, found, dressed, and distressed: clothes are loved, lived, and repurposed. Wild, brushed curls blow freely in the wind. Fur stolas and grey wool peacoats add winterish weight while beaded embellishments on the shins add a touch of whimsy, beautifying a body part mostly ignored. 

The boys aren’t spared the romance. They wear soft knits, kilts (a nod to Celtic heritage), lace boiler suits, and double-breasted blazers deconstructed and ribboned, some trimmed with fur. The same slouchy socks — occasionally with tiny garter belts — blur any remaining lines between his and hers.

The green gowns dominate my memory: scarab-like, peat-green, shiny like emeralds, sack-like drop-waist taffeta dresses swell outward, large bows anchoring the silk before it balloons into something almost monstrous.

It wouldn’t be a Rocha show without an egg-like construction somewhere — those crinolined volumes orbiting the body, protective and slightly ominous, as a bird guarding more than just precious chicks inside her feathers.