It starts with him, Polnareff, with this song that seems to be distorted endlessly by a sound-crushing machine. Like Rei Kawakubo and her post-romantic dandies, stumbling around in bowler hats as pointed as a ship's prow, with their perforated metal helmets and burgundy or Warhol yellow hair. A carefully measured wander through the night, rhyming with deconstructed tailcoats, frayed Spencers, tuxedos meant for an apocalyptic cruise... Each silhouette is an excuse for diversion, for trompe l'oeil reinvention, breaking all the conventions of genre.
“Love me
Please love me
Je suis fou de vous
Vraiment, prenez-vous tant de plaisir
À me voir souffrir? ”
Photographers insult phone carriers, the night lights up with brocades and metallic sections; and once again the dancers float in their soot-coloured costumes, some jackets with black sequins scattered across the back. Finally, here they are again, embossed, meringue-like jackets, for an immaculate parade on the edge of all possibilities. The way the great designer brushes against the shadows, blends into the night, plays at letting herself be engulfed by the fabric in order to master it, is in itself a lesson. A refrain to ponder. Is it not the one that haunts all designers?
“Si j'en crois votre silence
Vos yeux pleins d'ennui
Nul espoir n'est permis
Pourtant, je veux jouer ma chance
Même si, même si
Je devais y brûler ma vie
Love me
Please love me…. ”
L.B.
