The Schiaparelli codes are unlike any other house's codes in luxury fashion — not because they are older or more numerous, but because they are by nature surrealist rather than classical. Shocking Pink: the color Elsa launched with the Mae West perfume bottle in 1937, still the house's most immediate identification. The Keyhole: originally designed by Elsa as a clasp on a handbag "to bring an aura of mystery to this everyday object" — now present as a motif throughout Roseberry's collections on bags, bijoux, shoes, buttons, and embroideries. The anatomical gold: Roseberry's own contribution to the vocabulary — golden nipples, golden lips, golden noses, golden ears, golden hands deployed as jewelry and embellishment with the same formal logic as Elsa's lobster. The measuring tape that encircled the Shocking perfume bottle appears as a decorative element on shoes and accessories. The trompe l'œil that launched the house returns in every generation of Schiaparelli, because it is not a technique — it is a philosophy: the conviction that what you see is not what is there.

Spring 2025 — titled "Future Vintage" — was described as simultaneously contemporary and classic, built on the conviction that the most durable fashion is always the fashion that feels both of its moment and ahead of it. The closing three looks walked in vibrant shades of yellow, blue, and green, covered with hundreds of hand-painted buttons: a detail more reminiscent of haute couture than ready-to-wear, applied to garments that were technically prêt-à-porter. Braids were held by models like whips, recalling the velvet ropes outside nightclubs. A knit skirt in sea foam green and bright blue carried dual textures — shellacked fabric fading into suede — invisible to any eye that was not looking directly for it. The keyhole appeared on belts, on shoes, on chokers. The gold surrealist details were present throughout — but discerningly deployed, as Roseberry has learned is the Schiaparelli method: the detail that surprises rather than overwhelms, the joke that lands because it was not announced.

For Fall 2025 couture, Roseberry organized the entire collection around one historical moment: June 1940, when Elsa Schiaparelli left Paris — the city she loved and had come to call home — and boarded a ship for New York as the German occupation began. It was the end of a revolutionary period in fashion and the beginning of something uncertain. "Conceived entirely in black-and-white," Roseberry wrote in his collection notes, "I wanted to ask whether we can blur the line between past and future: if I deprived these pieces of color, or any notion of modernity, if I focused obsessively on the past, could I actually make a collection that looks as if it was born in the future?" The answer — presented in black and white garments of extraordinary technical precision — was yes. The collection was a meditation on what is lost when a house closes and what survives it, applied to the moment when Elsa herself crossed an ocean and wondered what would remain of everything she had built.

Schiaparelli's ready-to-wear applies to daily life the same surrealist formal intelligence that governs the haute couture — translated into wearable silhouettes without surrendering the precision or the conceptual charge. Roseberry's ready-to-wear vocabulary includes structured tailoring with anatomical curves, the gold jewelry and metalwork that he has established as the house's contemporary signature, upcycled denim treated as a luxury material, and the material experimentation — unexpected fabric combinations, trompe l'œil surfaces, dual-texture constructions — that connects his practice to Elsa's own interest in what fabrics could be made to pretend to be. A client told Roseberry recently: "People don't buy Schiaparelli, they collect it." He sees this not as a commercial observation but as a description of what couture-level intention produces — objects that exceed the category of clothing and become, over time, something that requires the word collection to describe.

Elsa Schiaparelli's relationship with the Surrealist artists was not a marketing strategy — it was the creative method itself. Dalí brought the lobster, the shoe, the tears. Cocteau contributed a jacket with embroidered faces whose profiles formed a vase in negative space. Man Ray photographed her and made her his model. Giacometti designed jewelry. Together they produced garments that were simultaneously fashion objects and Surrealist works — a category that had not existed before and has not been occupied with the same conviction since. The shoe hat was inspired by a photograph Dalí's wife Gala took of her husband with a woman's shoe balanced on his head. The lobster dress was worn by Wallis Simpson on her honeymoon and photographed by Cecil Beaton for American Vogue in an eight-page article. When Dalí proposed adding real mayonnaise to the lobster, Schiaparelli said no. She understood the distinction between art and food.

Schiaparelli's haute couture is presented each January and July in Paris and has become, under Roseberry, one of the most attended and most discussed shows of the couture calendar. Fall 2024 — titled "The Phoenix" — opened Paris Couture Week with a collection organized around Elsa's own capacity for transformation: the phoenix as the figure who reinvents herself repeatedly without losing what she was. Archive references were embedded throughout: a "shoe corset" calling back to the Dalí collaboration, embroidery borrowing from the 1938 Zodiac collection's Apollo of Versailles cape. The models moved slowly, hips punctuating each step, expressions "unreadable save for a sense of confidence" — the Schiaparelli walk, which is not a model's walk but an artist's walk, the pace of someone carrying something that requires attention. "Each piece is clear in its silhouette and its technique," Roseberry wrote. "Each design seeks to catch the eye and hold it."