We all know that the lucrative accessory and fragrance lines stamped with a designer's name support the international ready-to- wear industry but, at last week's Paris collections, this message was hammered home to the point of no return. Piling everything but the kitchen sink on to a model's slender frame - the shoes, the bag, the belt, the sunglasses - then plastering the lot with logos to the point that the clothes themselves were all but obscured from view is not what fashion needs right now.



Valentino sent out one handbag after another. Louis Vuitton added monogrammed visors, baseball caps and even umbrella shields to its already predominantly accessory-led range. The Christian Dior logo was back with a bang; the house also came up with a new handbag, pair of boots and a scarf print for the season. What does it matter that the latter looked more like classic Hermes? Celine's accessories appeared to hail from Brobdingnag: bigger, better and, well, more brash than ever before.

To make matters more unpalatable still, the first Paris season for the next millennium seemed, at times, so hung up on the late Seventies/ early Eighties as to be lacking inspiration entirely. This was not only apparent in the omnipresence of aforementioned logos, but also in the trashy over-exposure of flesh, disco-diva silhouette, predominance of gold plate and prevalence of killer heels everywhere.

There were, happily, exceptions to the rule. Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garcons was on typically innovative - if at times also typically opaque - form. Models, their hair teased into crowns of ringlets, their feet clad in pointed slippers sprouting sprays of leaves, resembled fairy princesses for the 21st century. There was more than a touch of the deconstructed Toulouse Lautrec showgirl: ruffled collars and underskirts also paul smith,Abercrombie and Fitch,dsquared which looked as if they had been crafted out of crepe paper were as pretty as a picture, finishing gauzy fabrics and a narrow and unashamedly feminine silhouette.

Comme protege Junya Watanabe came up with the finest offering of his career so far. This was both an exercise in the technological advancement that preoccupies Japanese designers - all the fabrics were newly developed for the show and waterproof - and charming throughout. To the strains of a Karen Carpenter medley, and the shower of rain that cascaded from exposed pipes running the length of the catwalk, models came out in neat, Sixties-style shift dresses and oversized headscarves, as well as skinny tailoring with just enough stretch to make them a pleasure to wear. An extraordinarily gifted craftsman, Watanabe effortlessly incorporates back- packs and bonnets into dresses, capes into skirts and handbags into jackets, all in a way that never seems overworked.

Yohji Yamamoto, as always, went out on an idiosyncratic limb. His was a masterclass in tailoring. Curvy jackets crafted in interfacing boasted tacking-stitches tracing darts and seams. These looked sweet but never sickly, teamed with overblown calico skirts - quite the most glamorous toiles in fashion history. Towards the end of the show, the designer relaxed his message and sent out Thirties- inspired cocktail suits in liquid satin. Moulded to the body in a web of complex seams, these were, quite simply, sublime. Oh, and the only accessories on display were feather parasols which will, needless to say, never go into widescale production. Yamamoto's more reasonably- priced second line, Yohji Noir, his Ysaac accessories and money- spinning fragrances continue to facilitate his main line quietly and without fanfare, and, most importantly, without ever compromising the integrity of the clothes.

Martin Margiela's appointment as designer-in-chief at Hermes, one of the greatest status labels of them all, was made without fanfare more than two years ago. His collection for the label was, once again, equally understated - clothes for women who spend their days rambling the French countryside with not a care nor a Kelly bag in the world, dressed in clothes that whisper luxury rather than scream it. There was the perfect cashmere jumper and/or honey coloured coat, an immaculately cut pair of trousers and just the pair of espadrilles - in softest leather, not grubby old canvas - to see the Hermes customer through the summer. Margiela shows this collection on women of all ages, safe in the knowledge that Hermes is unlikely ever to inspire a youthquake. It looked all the better for it.

The designer's own line was conceptually more ambitious, but no less accomplished. Oversized jackets and coats, worn over equally voluminous cotton skirts and sweatshirts made for refreshing viewing, surrounded as they were by the sea of itsy-bitsy bikinis and skirts that barely grazed the thigh on less women-friendly runways. These may set the flashbulbs popping, but perform little other function than that. Come the spring, Belgium's greatest designer's collection will no doubt be available in smaller sizes for those who would rather not be swamped by their clothes for the sake of an argument, albeit a politically-correct one.