A new breath rises through the corridors of Montaigne, where the threads of Dior still resonate. It awakens to welcome an eighth designer: Jonathan, the islander with a dawn-like gaze, who will forge his vision from the trembling archives and the golden ashes of the New Look.

With a unified vision, a mind that holds both man and woman in a single haute couture consciousness, he will hem ambiguity like a faille collar, weaving masculine and feminine into a fabric of echoes.

Paris awaits the designer like one watches for a comet. It will witness the birth of future silhouettes — pure lines where the surreal dances among collapsing confetti, and flowers bloom across genderless jackets.

Power murmurs in the folds of fabric, while Delphine shapes enthusiasm into strategy. In the ateliers, hands are alive — the future wears the face of a boy with headbands, an artisan of lucid dreams.

Anderson, child of subversive pleats, a student of the poet — as if a new messiah were returning art to life through cut and form.

Codes will become shifting structures, icons will be turned into vessels of storytelling. For here, fashion is writing, and fabric, a language. Anderson speaks through couture as one composes a poem — by hand, by instinct, on the edge of vertigo. He does not draw to please. He draws to speak.

Welcome, Anderson.

FM