It takes nerve to christen a brand. Some choose discretion, elegance, a subtle reference. KidSuper, on the other hand, went for the gaudy glare of a “SUPER” promise. But what is truly super here, other than an inflation of ego and a caricature of half-digested creativity?

This is a shrill advertisement for a world that confuses genius with tomfoolery. From the name alone, everything is clear: a fashion that struts around under the pretense of boldness. “Kid” stands for regression, “Super” for excess. One can almost hear a child dressing up as a superhero with scraps of garish fabric.

And all the while it claims originality, it becomes nothing more than a grotesque masquerade where bad taste is elevated into a deliberate statement. Colors thrown without restraint, distorted silhouettes, clothes that look more like workshop tinkering than anything resembling Vilmorin’s couture.

Fashion, they say, is supposed to make us dream. Here, it grimaces. It piles up, overloads, diverts without finesse. But behind the glitter of irony remains only one impression: that of a brand that chose to call itself “Super” merely to hide the fact that it is banal in its noisy ugliness.

In the end, KidSuper does not celebrate fashion. It deforms it. It does not sublimate the ordinary, it uglifies it. Its name was a promise. It has become a confession.

FM