Courtesy of Thierry Mugler and Vogue Runway
Fair warning: bare chests and nipple piercings ahead.
During the last few years, we've grown remarkably comfortable with naked dressing. Just last year, Bianca Censori made headlines at the Grammys in her scandalous sheer moment. Jacquemus sent a model down his Fall/Winter 2026 runway holding a wine glass strategically positioned in front of a bare breast—a styling choice for the show, as the dress itself is a perfectly conventional two-strap design (I found it on Moda Operandi and checked). The "naked dress" has become almost routine—another red carpet checkbox, another attempt to generate buzz through skin.
Nothing says "we're all so normal about naked dressing now" like a runway wine glass doing the job a bra used to do. Jacquemus Fall/Winter 2026 collection, modaoperandi.com
And yet. When Chappell Roan stepped onto this year's Grammy red carpet in a custom dark red Mugler gown, I couldn't look away. I still can't stop thinking about it. Not because it showed skin—we've seen plenty of that—but because this particular dress carries something else entirely. Something older. Something sacred.
A Dress Designed for the Gods
It reads less 'sexy' and more 'myth.' Like she's mid-procession and you're not sure whether you're allowed to look... but you can't look away. Pierre VAUTHEY/Getty Images
The gown Chappell wore reimagines a design Thierry Mugler created for his Spring/Summer 1998 couture collection. That original was black, crafted from light muslin, and—here's the part that still stops me—it was quite literally hung from the model's nipple piercings.
In a 2023 interview with Hunter Shires, Erica Vanbriel—the model who wore it on that 1998 runway—shared the story: "I had my nipples pierced and I guess the word spread very fast. Next thing I knew, Thierry said 'I have a dress for you and I'm going to hang it off your nipples.' Thierry got really excited, and then I got really excited. He was aiming for a Greek goddess style."
Greek goddess. The second I saw this dress, I knew exactly what it was reaching for. Didn't need to read a single interview—the reference hit immediately.
The Temple Aesthetic
This isn't a "naked dress"—it's a relic: fabric that barely exists, pearls that read like an offering, and a presence that makes the room go quiet. Courtesy of Thierry Mugler and Vogue Runway
What makes this dress different from every other sheer gown and strategic cutout isn't the amount of skin it reveals—it's the way it reveals it. This is clothing that exists in a different register entirely. Think less "red carpet provocation" and more "ceremonial vestment."
The dress showcases the beauty of the female body while accentuating the beauty of skin itself. It's flowy, airy, and it drapes—that particular quality of fabric falling softly, almost matte, refusing to compete with the skin beneath it. The plain color is essential; we cannot imagine a goddess wearing plaid or paisley. The fabric serves the body. Not the other way around.
Looking at this design, my mind goes to ritual clothing. Sacred garments meant for temple ceremonies. The image of a high priestess preparing for communion with something divine. Hecate keeps coming to mind—goddess of the moon and magic, moving easy between our world and the Underworld. There's something about this dress that channels that same energy: powerful, liminal, existing between worlds. These are clothes meant for gods, not mortals. Not for everyone's eyes.
This reading explains why the footwear matters so much. In every successful styling of this dress, the shoes create a barefoot illusion—delicate sandals, barely-there straps. Wedges or chunky platforms would destroy the effect instantly. You cannot be an ancient deity in block heels. The bare feet ground the look in something timeless and otherworldly.
Another thing worth noting about this design: it sidesteps the usual conversations about body type entirely. Curvier body, leaner body—the dress accommodates both. And breast size, honestly? Irrelevant. You might push back on that, but try actually picturing different bodies in this gown. It would look stunning on more of them than you'd expect. That draping, that fall of fabric—it adapts to whatever form it adorns, celebrates it. The point isn't fitting some specific silhouette. It's channeling the essence, the feeling, that sacred quality Mugler designed it to evoke.
Three Versions, Three Approaches
The OG version has that specific 90s couture mood: quiet, dark, impossibly poised... and somehow even more intense because it doesn't care if you like it. Courtesy of Thierry Mugler and Vogue Runway
The 1998 Original: Erica Vanbriel wore the black version with a flowing cape, a multi-strand pearl necklace, and theatrical, voluminous hair. It could have read as ridiculous—it didn't. The drama matched the context (a runway show, a couture collection), and nothing competed with the dress's central innovation.
"I distinctly remember the silence when I stepped out on the runway," Vanbriel recalled. "It was very serene, and you could hear people talking about it as copious cameras flashed in my eyes. It was a little bit nerve-racking, and I remember thinking 'oh my goodness here I am with my boobs out.' But on the other hand, it is Mugler—it's sexy, it's hot, it's daring, and it's out there. Mugler had my back, you know?"
Here the dress stops being a black omen and becomes a nude mirage. Less gothic temple, more celestial ballerina. Fashion.mugler.com
The Spring 2026 Revival: When Miguel Castro Freitas, Mugler's new creative director, revisited the design for his debut collection, he created a nude version with thong sandals—honoring that barefoot illusion beautifully. To my eye, the foiled star embellishments didn't quite belong on fabric meant to disappear into skin—but that's just me. This version also lacked the cape that accompanied the 1998 original, losing some of that ceremonial, processional weight.
If the runway revival flirted with the idea, Chappell commits—deep wine chiffon, dramatic drape, and that cape doing the holy, cinematic work. Instagram/@chappellroan
Chappell Roan's Custom Moment: Here's where it gets interesting. Chappell's version restored the cape that the SS26 runway had dropped, bringing the design back to its full ceremonial potential. The dress, the cape, the red carpet grandeur—everything was in place for a definitive goddess moment.
When Beautiful Elements Don't Speak the Same Language
It's stunning—and slightly chaotic. Like three different mood boards fighting for the custody of one dress. Instagram/@chappellroan
I want to be clear: every individual element of Chappell's look was beautiful. The creative work that went into it—and there was clearly a full team of professionals collaborating on her image that evening—shows in every detail. Those cascading Pre-Raphaelite curls. The theatrical eye makeup. The intricate temporary tattoos covering her torso and back, their color perfectly matched to the burgundy chiffon and her auburn hair. The ornate gold choker. Each piece, examined alone, was genuinely lovely and clearly crafted with intention.
But a great outfit isn't a collection of beautiful things. It's a unified message.
The dress says "temple priestess." The styling said... something else. Those tattoo designs pulled from medieval imagery, lace patterns—her tattoo artist specifically mentioned medieval references as inspiration—and included the word "Princess" on her back. The jewelry read as colorful and princess-like. The mermaid hair, while stunning, pulled toward fantasy rather than antiquity.
What I see here: artistry, talent, the creative fingerprints of many professionals. What I longed to see: one thread pulling it all together. Instagram/@chappellroan
To my eye—and I'll freely admit this is just one reading—the goddess line got lost somewhere in the visual noise. That clear, sacred, ancient-world thread the dress was pulling? Buried. You might see it differently, but from where I stand, the dress wanted to transport us to Mount Olympus while the styling kept us at a renaissance faire. Both are valid aesthetic destinations, but you can't arrive at both simultaneously.
The styling this gown really wants, at least in my view, would lean into quiet reverence: hair loose and undone, nails bare, feet naked or nearly so. The one exception? Jewelry. Not delicate modern pieces, but something ancient-looking and heavy with gemstones—the kind of adornment you'd imagine on a high priestess mid-ritual. That would only amplify the sacred energy. Everything else should recede, echoing what we'd see in a Roman statue or temple fresco. Let the dress be the thing you can't stop looking at. It doesn't need help being dramatic—it needs space to breathe.
Why This Matters
I'm genuinely grateful Chappell Roan wore this dress. Whatever my thoughts on the styling choices, she brought Mugler's extraordinary 1998 design to millions of people who might never have known it existed. Someone scrolling through Grammy coverage might have experienced an aha moment. A sudden inspiration. A glimpse of what fashion can be when it reaches beyond trend cycles toward something genuinely transcendent.
In a landscape saturated with naked dressing—where showing skin has become almost mundane—this gown reminds us that revelation can still feel sacred. That there's a difference between undressing and unveiling. That the right design, with the right intention, can make us feel like we're witnessing something we weren't quite meant to see.
The dress that hangs from a piercing isn't shocking because it's revealing. It's shocking because it's divine.
