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.

Today the space is splendid, without bridle or spur, but above all without restraining our spirit. Like two angels tortured by an implacable silk of organza, in the crystal blue of the morning. Oh, What a beautiful Mexican Amazon! Her young forehead radiates with pride, and the pleasure burns her feet with the happiness of galloping in such a place. Amazons born as daughters of “La Caballera” by Mario Luraschi’s Warrior Nymph, it’s not something you can make up. In the past, they lived near the Rio Grande and here they are alone to defend our poet of Haute Couture, Franck Sorbier.

I keep in my heart the tenacious imprint of the Maestro of Haute Couture, a French cultural exception, of which he remains to this day the sole custodian. You are a Great One, Sir, and no one will be able to take your place, so be it. Continue reading