WHILE THE WORLD BURNS, PASS THE LOBSTER

Some evenings say everything about an era. This one fits into a single image: war pounding at the continent’s door and, on the other side of the Atlantic, France’s first billionaire stepping forward under the sunlight to receive a prize “for lifetime achievement.” Lifetime achievement can be summarized as the sum total of the advertising he has poured into the magazine.

Let’s not kid ourselves. BA isn’t being crowned for his genius; the client is being crowned. When a luxury group showers a publication with millions of dollars, the publication returns the courtesy with a trophy. Editorial independence, that old piece of furniture, was quietly moved out somewhere between two gallery openings. The prize doesn’t honor a career; it settles a bill.

And the speech! “The future does not belong to those who do not comment on crises; it belongs to those who adapt to them.” What audacity, what swagger! What does he know about crisis, a man whose fortune runs to hundreds of billions and who can weigh anchor at any moment for his paradise island? For him, crisis is a landscape seen from the deck of a symphony. He “adapts,” of course: the boat doesn’t pitch. But for the cashier, the factory worker, the student counting down to the end of the month, and the refugee counting his lost brothers, adapting to a crisis is nothing like an elegant keynote pose. It is survival.

Finally, it is all said to be “for the good of all,” with that anointing of the benefactor of the peoples blessing the crowd from his gilded balcony. Luxury has its holy oils: it sells you a three-thousand-euro backpack while explaining that it is contributing to the future of humanity.

That leaves the setting: New York, the gowns, the flashbulbs… and the proximity to Donald Trump, whose friendship interests lovers of couture far less than lovers of customs duties. Here the picture becomes crystal clear. The head of the largest French luxury empire courts the master of tariffs while Europe looks for a way to defend itself. To each his own front. His is fought at the table of the powerful, between the lobster and the toast.

He will pay tribute to John B. Fairchild, a tribute some scholar in the group will have whispered to him through ChatGPT. “Legendary, feared, visionary”! Fairchild, who knew how to bite, who made the fashion houses tremble, is celebrated and flattered by the very man who finances the paper. He must be turning in his grave. The irony is so thick it deserves its own couture label. Fashion, we are told, is not just about clothes but about “people.” Fine! But which people? Those who pay for their seat, or those who clean up after the party?

So here is the lesson: while the tanks roll, honors are handed out, glasses are raised, and a lifetime of achievement is applauded. In the end, what remains is a photo, a smile, a prize, and the vague impression that the world is burning in one corner while the other congratulates itself on its good manners.

FM