Hong Kong always finds you in the small things first. At Chet Lo’s Autumn Winter 2026 “Night Market” presentation at the Mandarin Oriental, it arrived in the hum of Cantonese, in the stacked tins of luncheon meat and herbal tea on the metal cart, in the blue‑patterned carpet that suddenly felt like wet tiles after a typhoon shower. For a Hongkonger based in the UK, watching this world rebuilt inside a London hotel felt quietly surreal, like stepping through the TV screen into one of those late‑night movies you grew up with, only to realise you still know all the lines.
Lo’s press notes describe the night market as a pulse rather than a setting, and the collection beats to that rhythm: dense, close, a little dangerous. His now‑famous merino wool spikes are everywhere, oscillating between armour and caress, turning bodies into moving textures that catch the light like neon reflected in rain. The opening looks in inky black knit and slick satin trousers read as street‑inflected demi‑couture – silhouettes you could imagine weaving between dai pai dong tables, except here they’re elongated, sharpened, made for being looked at rather than slipping past unnoticed.
One of the strongest exits, for me, was a head‑to‑toe black look: longline tailoring with spiked shoulder panels and opera‑length leather gloves, anchored by a lace‑covered umbrella held dead straight above the model’s head. It felt like Wong Kar‑Wai’s melancholy given form – romance, but with steel underneath. That umbrella motif runs through the collection, drawn from an intimate memory of Lo sheltering from a storm with his partner at a market stall. On the runway, it becomes architecture, a portable ceiling that turns whoever holds it into their own small pavilion amid the crowd.
The palette stays close to the city after dark: black, deep green, crimson and charcoal, punctured by shots of lacquered red and the odd metallic glint. A green two‑piece, cut like a halter top and column skirt, bristles with spikes and trailing leaf‑like fragments, carried beneath a matching umbrella. It’s part vegetable stall, part sea creature, part cosplay – exactly that Hong Kong mix of the ridiculous and the beautiful, where you can buy fresh choy sum and a fake designer bag two steps apart. Another look stretches Lo’s knit into a sleeveless cheongsam‑adjacent tabard, fastening up one side and worn over slouchy satin trousers; the silhouette feels rooted in tradition but walks with an easy, contemporary slouch.
Feathered eyewear and horn‑like headpieces nod to Peking opera and Chinese theatrical costume, framing and partially obscuring the eyes. They’re dramatic, yes, but there’s also something very Hong Kong about that push‑pull between display and self‑protection; we grow up learning how much to show and when to look away. Lo leans into that tension without romanticising it, letting the adornment mediate desire rather than simply amplifying it.
What moved me most was how “Night Market” shifts the conversation around Asian identity from explanation to invitation. Earlier collections often felt like Lo proving who he is to a Western gaze; here, the invite is straightforward: come as you are, stay as long as you like, take up space. The set extends beyond the runway into real stalls run by Asian designers, artists and makers, and partnerships with groups such as the Asian People’s Disability Alliance and Hair & Care fold accessibility and safeguarding into the show’s DNA rather than tacking them on as talking points. It’s the same logic as a real market: a community is only real if everyone can move through it.
For someone who carries Hong Kong as both present tense and past life, “Night Market” lands like a love letter written in the right language. It acknowledges the clichés – neon, steam, cramped aisles – but insists on nuance: the labour behind the fantasy, the politics behind the postcards, the joy that survives anyway. In the middle of a London fashion week that often treats “Asia” as moodboard shorthand, Chet Lo builds a space where Cantonese, street food, spikes and satin can coexist without translating themselves. It feels less like representation and more like going home for a night, then stepping back out into the cold with the smell of stir‑fry still clinging to your clothes.
