I find myself writing this only days after returning from Milan, where the air—still weighted with the residue of late-summer humidity and the faint, persistent tremor of industry anticipation—felt almost eerily aligned with the release of Lord Piana’s latest campaign. It is a campaign that, for reasons both aesthetic and personal, has already been described by several contributing editors as “a soft revolution,” the sort of work that slips in quietly but lingers long after the typical commercial cycle has moved on. And perhaps that is because this particular campaign, photographed by the ever-unflinching Mario Sorrenti, manages to negotiate a delicate balance: a reverence for craft, a contemplation of power, a renewed commitment to transparency, and—most of all—a celebration of the clothing models who give silhouette and spirit to the brand’s evolving identity.

There is something almost startlingly intimate about Sorrenti’s lens in this context. One model, who asked to remain unnamed, told me that “Mario speaks in whispers,” a comment made half in jest but fully indicative of his method. “He watches, he waits, and then he takes the picture just before you think you’re ready,” she said, adding that the experience felt less like a shoot and more like “being witnessed.” This is the sort of language normally reserved for therapy sessions or long-form memoirs, and yet it has become increasingly common in conversations around Sorrenti’s work. His capacity to extract sincerity from a tableau specifically engineered for luxury messaging is, in itself, a study in contradiction—and perhaps the very reason he was chosen for a campaign expected to redefine the brand’s emotional register.

The models—an ensemble of established names and emerging talents—carry the collection with a composed brilliance that feels almost defiant in its quietude. Among them is Sofia Leclerc, whose career has been punctuated by both triumph and turbulence, including a now-infamous couture show in Paris during which she walked only hours after learning of a close friend’s passing. When I reached her for comment, she was characteristically measured. “This campaign reminded me why I started,” she said. “The clothes have a seriousness to them, almost architectural, but Mario insisted we bring our personal histories into the frame. He wanted the weight. He wanted the imperfections. He said, ‘Don’t smooth anything out.’ And I trusted him.”

Trust—the elusive currency of the fashion world, where power imbalances have historically thrived in shadow—seems to sit at the center of this campaign. It is not insignificant that the shoot took place in the wake of renewed discourse around misconduct allegations in the modelling industry, conversations that have, once again, forced agencies, editors, and creative directors to interrogate the systems that have long protected those at the top while silencing those at the bottom. One styling assistant described the atmosphere on set as “unusually calm,” noting that Sorrenti’s presence imposed “a kind of groundedness,” as though the entire team understood the necessity of creating a space that was not only creatively generative but also fundamentally safe.

This heightened awareness did not dull the artistic ambition—in fact, it seemed to ignite it. Sorrenti’s photographs are imbued with a stark luminosity that recalls his early work yet feels decidedly more reflective, as if softened by the accumulated knowledge of decades behind the camera. The models are posed not as mannequins but as living archivists of their own experiences; their bodies form a visual dialogue with the garments, which are presented less as commodities and more as artifacts of craftsmanship. One image, in particular, has already circulated widely among industry insiders: a close portrait of Leclerc wearing a camel wool coat whose tailoring borders on monastic. Her expression—somewhere between exhaustion and revelation—has been described by one senior editor as “the emotional thesis statement” of the entire campaign.

What distinguishes this campaign from its predecessors is not merely its aesthetic sophistication but its capacity to acknowledge the broader, more complicated landscape in which it exists. There is an undercurrent of resilience running through every frame, a subtle tribute to the countless individuals who have continued to work—often quietly, often invisibly—through an era defined by upheaval: the lingering aftershocks of #TimesUp, the reexamination of abusive legacies, the pandemic that reshaped working conditions in ways we are still grappling with. One could argue that fashion, for all its celebrated creativity, is an industry perpetually negotiating calamity, and yet this campaign suggests something almost radical: a desire to move forward not through denial, but through reflection.

In an open message shared with the internal team, Lord Piana’s creative director wrote, “This campaign is not about perfection. It is about precision—of craft, of emotion, of intention.” The distinction is telling. Perfection is static, a myth the industry has clung to for far too long. Precision, on the other hand, allows for humanity—its inconsistencies, its fragility, its brilliance.

And brilliance is exactly what emerges from Sorrenti’s final cut: models who are not merely styled but seen; garments that feel less like objects of desire and more like vessels of history; photographs that, for all their controlled artistry, pulse with the raw, unedited energy of real lives unfolding just beyond the frame.

It is, in its quiet way, a campaign about change—not the explosive, headline-making kind, but the steady, conscientious shift that begins within the people who choose to do the work differently. And in that sense, it may be one of Lord Piana’s most significant offerings yet: a testament not only to craft, but to care; not only to beauty, but to the growing conviction that beauty must no longer come at the expense of those who create it.