It was inevitable, and yet what a delicious charade it is. Jacquemus, the little pisutu, is returning to the sea, not to reflect upon anything, that would be asking far too much, but simply to stage, once again, his favourite set: the one that costs a fortune in logistics and delivers ten times as much in publicity.

After a few seasons in which Simon Porte pretended to embrace Parisian austerity with a conveniently timed minimalism, just long enough for the fashion press to make the trip, he is diving straight back into what has always been his most profitable commodity: the South of France as a sales pitch, sold by the square metre like prime real estate, or rather, in Corsica, the Turistu fantasy.

Because these are no longer fashion shows. They are real estate ventures. A beach, a sunset, a handful of models arranged like parasols, and suddenly a collection boils down to a single advertising syllogism: the Island of Beauty looks just like my clothes, therefore buy the South… and swallow a slice of pungent Brussu cheese to help digest this kindergarten-level fairy tale.

And this winter comes Jacquemus Beauty, presented as the logical culmination of a universe already overflowing with sand and golden light. The brand’s imagination has been compressed into photogenic packaging, ready to be consumed the way one devours a McDonald’s meal: quickly, attractively, and without giving too much thought to what is actually inside.

Jacquemus has turned summer nostalgia into a recurring business model, and it takes a certain kind of unapologetic cynicism to repeat the trick with such confidence, season after season, beach after beach, as though there were only one coastline on Earth and it had to be sold back to us every single year from a slightly different angle, like yet another Scimitu.

And that, perhaps, is the true hallmark of this rather impoverished era: on one side, a fashion house that has elevated marketing above almost everything else; on the other, houses that cultivate silence the way great estates cultivate fine wine, allowing time to accomplish what others entrust to public relations.

Jacquemus lights up the beach so people will remember it. Others pursue the very same goal through entirely different means: to exist without endlessly repeating themselves.

The real question, my dear friends, is whether we are still looking at a fashion house that dresses silhouettes, or merely one that sells postcards, led by a couturier who neither knows how to sew nor how to draw. Then again, this is fashion. And when even the President himself cannot sing, why should that surprise anyone?

FM