Is Paris Burning?

For the first time since Courreges lifted hemlines two years ago -- thus ushering in the ye-ye look and youth cult that nearly blew haute couture as well as skirts sky-high -- there was news aplenty last week from the big high-fashion houses of Paris. Out to prove that ye-ye is only soso, 36 top designers presented new collections for spring and summer, striking out in all sorts of new directions.

Behind the scenes, there was a sense of crisis. Increasingly, big dress designers are realizing that the days when couturiers could focus on turning out stunning, handcrafted dresses for the wealthy few are drawing to a close; the new challenge is designing ready-to-wear fashions for the millions. Still trying to hold the line is the Chambre Syndicate de la Couture Parisienne, the industry's governing body set up to stop plagiarism, keep showings exclusive, and control publicity-release dates. In insurrection against the Chambre are growing numbers of young designers who see their future in the mass market and are willing to walk right out of official haute couture to reach it.

Even before the showings began, Esterel, Feraud, Lapidus and Launay were expelled by the Chambre Syndicale, and Scherrer and Heim suspended --all because they released photos of their models in advance. In the future, more designers are likely to follow suit. Explained Cardin, who has already resigned: "The couturier who has chosen to dress millions of women rather than 5,000 privileged ladies scattered around the world needs to have his collection talked about in order to support his ready-to-wear line."

Bloomers & Space Suits. This civil war among the pincushions did nothing to keep away 850 journalists and 550 buyers, for whom Paris is still a prime laboratory for new ideas. And they found plenty to report. Not that skirts were longer; Feraud's hemlines, for instance, ranged from three to five inches above the knee, and hardly a dress in any of the showings could be worn by a woman over 35. "All that's missing in these collections is diapers," snapped one conservative couturier. But on the principle that when skirts keep going up, something must come down, designer after designer rediscovered shorts, called forthrightly "les Bermudas." For daytime, Esterel showed shorts worn with knee socks; for evening, Madame Gres let them peek through a floor-length skirt slit to the hip like a half-peeled banana. Crahay at Lanvin blossomed forth with frilly organdy bloomers under flaring, tentlike little-girl dresses, and Castillo even tried an evening tunic with sheer pantaloons. Carrying exposure further, Paco Rabanne whipped up see-through dresses made of ostrich feathers and transparent plastic disks.

Cardin, who has also branched out into men's fashions, fielded his corps of boy and girl "cosmonauts" in jumpers and welders' helmets for the third season, as if to insist that they will really make it to the moon. His newest touch was wide, wide vinyl "space belts," which gird the torso from belly button to bosom bottom, zip up the back.

Africa inspired Marc Bohan's Dior collection, which included a long series of "safari suits" with patch pockets, shoulder straps and wide buckle belts and, for evening, bare-shouldered, body-hugging "boubou" sheaths in jungle prints.

Breastplates & Elephants. Not until the next to the last day did the star of the season emerge. He was Yves St. Laurent, 30, and he opened up the fashion front in all directions at once. First he brought back the Marlene Dietrich look of the 1930s with mannish, gangster-style pants suits. Considerably softer and more popular were his skirted and vested long-jacketed suits in pinstripes, worn with wide neckties and slouch hats. For his ostentatiously feminine customer, there were short, flaring dresses with demure white "Claudine" collars and cuffs. Then, for evening wear, St. Laurent followed Bohan into Africa with a theatrical vengeance wild enough to make any Watusi woozy.

Out came the mannequins in Bambards and "robes des tropiques" with bare midriffs showing seductively under long chains of wooden or glass beads. Around nearly every model's neck was a Ubangi collar, and there were yard-high hairdos over fine wire, including one spiraling braid shaped like an elephant's trunk. For fun, St. Laurent had even outfitted some dresses with pointed, wooden breastplates eight inches long that not only resemble primitive African sculpture but are guaranteed to keep the opposite sex at a distance.

The final day was reserved for Andre Courreges, the man who launched the short skirt. Other designers grew rich copying Courreges, while he sulked and nearly went broke. Now, with fresh financial backing, a new futuristic white-on-white salon, and a ready-to-wear boutique, Courreges was showing a new line for the first time in two years.

Actually, it was mainly a remake of 1965, without the crisp skimmer hats. Mid-calf-length tennis socks worn with flat, one-button strap shoes replaced the famous white boots. Hems were precisely where Courreges had set them before--six inches above the knee--and he even gave up avant-garde adhesive closings for old-fashioned buttons. Having invented the line of his time, Courreges seemed to have little more to add.

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