lean, mean lovin' machine; Nicolas Taralis forgoes froufrou for a more streamlined spin of feminine charm.

Byline: Sally Singer

One of the unexpected kicks of the Paris collections is when young designers make you suffer for their art. You find yourself, late at night, searching for a spot near the dance floor of an obscure seventies disco. There's a fog machine, models with glittery Angie Bowie eyes, and a bare-chested boy catwalker dazed and confused by his role in a womenswear event. When the show ends, the cast comes out and does it all again, just because. Such was the case with Nicolas Taralis's spring 2005 collection.

But as the smoke cleared on that October night, Taralis's clothes stood in wonderful counterpoint to the knowing bad taste of the presentation: crisp blazers in lightweight wool chintz or slick cotton; easy men's-inspired trousers with cummerbund waists; shirts of the thinnest voile; slinky silver ...