Walking into Dubai Design District during Fashion Week feels a bit like stepping into another city layered on top of the one you already know. The same skyline is in the background, the same desert air brushes against your skin, but here it all takes on a sharper edge. Heels click nervously on concrete, and a crowd gathers with a quiet restlessness. Everyone seems to know what’s about to happen, and you realize you don’t — at least not exactly. You’re here to see beauty unfold, but you’re not sure what form it will take.
The first show answers quickly. Rizman Ruzaini sends out gowns blazing in hibiscus reds, embroidered with gold, striped like a rainforest tiger. The models shimmer as if they carry humidity with them, beads catching the light in a way that makes the air look alive. It feels like staring into a postcard of somewhere far and mythical, even if I don’t know all the cultural codes stitched into the seams. HebaJasmi softens the mood with gowns in pastels — butter yellow, lavender, aqua. They float down the runway in a way that makes you forget about fabric altogether, as if the dresses are made of light. Next comes Kresha Bajaj, who seems to turn beads into architecture. Kaftans clink, trousers sparkle with each step, and then fringe sways low like curtains closing at the theatre. I don’t know the vocabulary for it, but I know the mood: opulent, delicate, daring. Three visions, all different, yet somehow part of the same story.
But shows don’t all follow the same rhythm. Lama Jouni’s presentation lasts barely ninety seconds — just a burst of jersey cuts and caps with slogans, striding confidently to Led Zeppelin. No elaborate staging, no curtain call. It feels more like a flash of energy than a show, and then it’s gone. In contrast, Jozeph and Cintia Diarbakerli bring riotous fun: feathers sweeping the floor, sequins bouncing to techno, a bride’s gown reimagined as a black lace veil. It’s part Hollywood, part Berlin, part dream. And then Xenia slows everything down with something more thoughtful, layering gauze in greys sliced by streaks of red and green, the models’ headpieces coiling like delicate ornaments. The collection is based on kintsugi — the Japanese art of repairing cracks with gold — though even without knowing that, you feel something fragile and deliberate in the clothes.
By the time Tara Babylon closes her show, the week feels like a conversation between speed, spectacle, and quiet introspection. She threads Iraq’s national rose through silhouettes that shift between eras — mini-skirts with crinolines, tea-party dresses with gloves, draped body-con looks layered with hijabs. Each bead, each petal, was hand-stitched by dozens of artisans, but somehow the collection doesn’t feel weighed down. Instead, it moves lightly, as if history itself could be carried gracefully on a runway.