Sabrina Carpenter wore a beaded sheer Valentino gown with cascading ruffle tiers and a pearl-embroidered bodice at the 2026 Grammy Awards.
At the 68th Annual Grammy Awards in Los Angeles, Sabrina Carpenter didn’t just dress like a nominee—she looked like a memory half-frozen in light. Her custom Valentino gown had that kind of presence: shimmering, detailed, maybe a little sugary but not soft.
Visibly beaded from collarbone to train, the dress clung in all the expected places, yet stayed playful—romantic, even clumsy in its sweetness. The upper half was sculpted, corset-style, but softened by illusion tulle and glassy embroidery that spelled out florals with no petals. Thin off-shoulder draping gave the illusion of a capelet without adding weight. Below the waist, things got lighter—seven tiers of ruffled mesh , covered in tiny scattered pearls, falling down like layered icing. It didn’t drag dramatically, but left just enough trail to count as formal.
Hair tied back. Loose pieces near the eyes. Blush heavy on the cheeks, probably on purpose. Matte lips somewhere between rose and oxblood. She skipped heavy jewelry. Just earrings, just a few rings. Let the dress overtalk—because that’s what it was meant to do.
This wasn’t a futuristic look or a deconstructed risk. It was almost defiantly referential— Old Hollywood , filtered through teenage fantasy, hemmed with TikTok modernity. A compromise between timeless and trend. And still, distinctly hers.
If Barbie ever cried glitter, this is what it might dry into.
Tyla wore a nude crystal-embellished Dsquared2 dress with a feathered train and Paris Texas Lidia heels at the 2026 Grammy Awards.
At the 68th Grammy Awards , Tyla didn’t float in—she smoldered in motion. She arrived wrapped in a soft-gold, vintage Dsquared2 gown that landed somewhere between ‘30s loungewear and early-2000s drama. Thin spaghetti straps , a low curved neckline dusted with gold crystal embroidery, and a dotting of jewels down the body—applied almost like rainfall. Deliberate. As if each placement had a personal note.
But the real chaos—the poetic kind—was at her feet. Not literally, but from them. A dense, feathered train , pale as champagne fizz, trailed out behind her like a brushed-off sentence. She held it scrunched in one hand like it’d tried to run off and she caught it mid-rebellion. That’s where the nude Paris Texas Lidia mules came into focus—caramel-toned patent leather, steep as a whisper, with that modern arch that makes the foot look impossibly long.
Neck: stacked. Pandora’s “The Together Collier” wrapped tightly. A few rings scattered across both hands. Hair in a sculpted high ponytail—messy enough to feel lived-in, not posed. Face framed by slick-edged baby hairs and curtain-length tendrils, makeup warm and bronzy, lip somewhere between gloss and balm.
There was something off-beat about the entire pitch. Not overly polished. Not ethereal. No princess story here. Just slick, glowing effort. The kind that comes from archiving references and remixing them with bite.
A dress like this doesn’t whisper timelessness—it hisses quietly and leaves a trail of feathers like receipts.
Addison Rae wore a custom white Alaïa dress with a plunging curved neckline and layered tulip skirt at the 2026 Grammy Awards.
For her first time walking the red carpet as a Grammy nominee, Addison Rae did not play it safe. She stepped out in a stark white custom gown from Alaïa , cut with that particular kind of risk that’s not loud—just sharp. Deep plunge, all curve. The neckline, more drawing than line, sank well past her navel, stopping only where the dress itself started to lose form and become shape. Pieces. Architecture as emotion.
Her gown was styled by Dara Allen, and it showed: the skirt, voluminous and uneven, echoed the anatomical pannier silhouette seen in Alaïa’s Spring 2026 collection. But instead of fanning out horizontally, the skirt swirled and pointed downward—tulip-like, yet jagged. Front longer than back in this case, contrary to the usual trick. You could tell just from the way she stood: one leg forward, hips even. Like the hem dictated her angles.
White pumps—basic, bold. Hair down, parted to the side, brushed within an inch of too perfect. Minimal jewelry, aside from a few stone-like beads trailing down her sternum, almost hidden in the plunge.
This is probably one of Pieter Mulier’s final red carpet moments as Alaïa’s creative director (his departure was just announced two days before the show). And if so, it’s a fitting exit: something technical and tender. A little aggressive in its exposure, but softened by cut and curve. It didn’t try to be the biggest look at the show. It just held still—and that was louder.
Sometimes a red carpet dress doesn’t announce an arrival—it just quietly, unapologetically, stands there and wins.
