I’ve been meaning to write about Feu de Vénus for a while now; I came across the brand a while back—probably during one of those late nights spent lying in bed, phone hovering over my head, scrolling endlessly to some feed—and was captivated first and foremost by the name. Feu de Vénus, French for “Fire of Venus.” Immediately evoked are desire, passion, power—not connotations of sex or “sexy,” interestingly enough—which makes the brand story just as important as the designs produced. What drives a particular brand or specific design probably matters more to me, as a consumer (and not just as a writer seeking a topic): what you wear and who you wear is telling of the person (your self, hopefully) you wish to portray to the rest of the world.
It matters because nuances are significant—in fact, they matter more because they’re perceptible only to you—and it’s especially salient for something as intimate as lingerie. Part of the reason why I love lingerie so much (and have been writing about it more lately) is because of that intimacy. It’s so personal, so physically close to your self that it’s essentially never made visible to the public eye, and therefore never falls under public judgement. You have more freedom in choosing what you wear underneath, regardless of occasion or propriety, because on a day-to-day basis, it’s one of the few things you can truly wear for you, and only for you.
But I digress. Feu de Vénus is memorable—no, striking—because of the details. There’s no doubt of its unabashed sex appeal—it’s something we’ve come to expect and an attribute we (I) look for in lingerie—but it’s not the usual overtly frothy or lace-y aesthetic we expect. It’s certainly not Myla or Agent Provocateur, but it’s still feminine. I’ve read reviews of the brand elsewhere that have described Veronique’s designs as some sort of meeting between the masculine and the feminine, but I hesitate to call it masculine (what is “masculinity” anyway, but a construct of patriarchy?) because Feu de Vénus is womanly through and through. It’s simply a different kind of femininity we’re not quite yet accustomed to—and thus call it “masculine”—because it’s powerful.
I see Feu and I think bold, sleek, and powerful first, then unabashed sex appeal second.
There are moments where a woman wants something frothy and angelic, where softness complements her features best, but what of the other moments? When she doesn’t want to be lace-y and girly and sweet? What I love about Veronique’s designs—created and constructed in Montreal (another thing I adore about Feu)—is that it offers another perspective from which we view women, lingerie, and finally, sex. This is a brand that redefines, one that a woman chooses to wear because she finds it empowering, under her power dress/suit.
And while there’s no need to reiterate just how stunning the designs are, I can’t help but to try. I find few things more beautiful than strategic juxtaposition: Feu de Vénus’ architectural lines frame the woman’s curves, the contrast accenting every rise and dip. The fabrics are rich and luxe; smooth satin soften the harder, structural shapes. Contrast is necessary, but balance is paramount for seeming antithetical things to work—Veronique does it all beautifully.
The Axelle set (bra, thong, waist cincher) is undoubtedly a classic of the collection—and of any woman’s boudoir, for that matter), with the waist cincher as the hero. Ah, the possibilities that come with versatility; innerwear as outerwear, anyone? It’s a gorgeous piece to say the least, one well worth the investment.
My favorite, however, is Ophélie set (bra, thong, suspender) in that rich, deep purple. At the risk of sound of sounding dramatic, I may or may not have swooned a little—okay, maybe a lot—when Veronique sent me the lookbook. Tell me it isn’t one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen, if not one of the most unique sets you’ve yet laid yes on. Sculptural in all the right ways, with cutouts and support in strategic places opposed by ruching and black satin bows. Perfection, in my book.
(Tell me you feel otherwise—I might not speak to you for a while.)
. . .
Shop Feu de Vénus.
xx
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