It is like a sun that suddenly breaks through the clouds to reveal a landscape where a city flooded with light in a second transforms everything without changing anything. Haute Couture transforms not reality, but the perception we have of it. At the first show, sometimes, suddenly, it bathes us with an irresistible ray, and with such force, that it makes us irremediably happy like a prick of the happiness needle. And there, apart from all aesthetic considerations, it makes your reality vibrate. This is how beauty and emotion come together in the evidence of a life sublimated by a dress that some people call the “Garment” but, forgive them Lord, they do not know what they are saying.

Beauty is enough to give meaning to this passing life. But, unfortunately, we live in a world where the beautiful and the ugly merge and we do not have the capacity to separate them, because some Men of the Court, who constitute it, wish to draw some substances that life imposes on them just to change their car. Haute Couture, for a week of a brief moment of happiness like a furtive orgasm, will give me the strength to continue; a point that is not “g” but of festoon. Haute Couture, like a medicine against the rest of this world that kills to kill and, after killing, doesn’t even say sorry anymore.

Haute Couture, for a moment of happiness and oblivion of bad days, lights up the sky of despair and, then, for a week, my nights are filled with dreams and the sweetness of the presentations of Franck Sorbier, Josse, and many other little known people who deserve it a hundred times more than the supposed Good Samaritans. I will swirl in a haze of warmth and happiness for a week, and when, at the end of the week, I walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts, the fever will subside and I will wait, patiently, for the winter solstice to be reborn again.