Franck Sorbier couldn’t start his film without paying tribute to Robert Hossein, who was a faithful friend, who saw them humming like the wings of a hummingbird, only to end up making no noise at all, because their magic often reminds us of the calm chaos of these people fighting to keep their balance, like tightrope walkers all in feathers of lightness in the deafening silence of the Paris Fashion Week that promotes young men of 23 years old with just presumed talent.
Their show sounds like caresses and glances, but all night long I negotiate with myself and with my conscience to know to whom I will wear my couture calame on the white sheet of paper. So here it is, back to the days of the fashion carnival, this magnificent place where each one wants to run faster than the other in order to attract attention. Golden threads to warp my day; a scrap of guipure shining with colors, to the dream where I can remain a child and still be free a little, childhood found in abundance by the Master’s dresses. Continue reading
And the horse rode along my page with his rider and shaded what I wrote. Slowly he turned its head, and as if it was afraid that I would read into its beastly heart, stretching out its muzzle to touch the Mexican sun. It sets off like a king playing with its eternal freedom, galloping even faster without worrying about the world around and brushing against the aficionados of Fashion Week, mixing the wind with its golden hair, but above all coming without knowing how to make Franck Sorbier’s dress undulate in the horizon of Neptune.