Alberto Caliri’s time at Missoni feels less like a series of hard resets and more like one long, ongoing sentence. Each show picks up exactly where the last one left off—no plot twists, no dramatic pivots, just a few carefully chosen additions that quietly make the whole thing richer. “This show starts where the previous one left off,” he said, plainly. “I’m partial to consistency.” Which, in a fashion landscape addicted to whiplash, feels almost radical.
Caliri knows the Missoni archives like muscle memory. After years inside the house, he doesn’t treat its history like something fragile or sacred—more like something lived-in. He opens drawers confidently. Pulls references without dusting them off too much. Less archivist, more trusted insider who knows exactly what still works and what doesn’t need explaining.