The procession of “Owensgroupises” filed in line with quiet discipline, awaiting their oracle. True to his fierce singularity, his models stepped onto the still waters of the Palais de Tokyo fountains, like an ancient procession crossing a mirror of azure. Hieratic figures, draped in modern boldness, they wore trouser-boots so towering they could make the ” Burj Al Arab” blush. Thus, the swell of skirts embraced the wind of sails for shipwrecked souls.

Lingerie, in the imagination of this craftsman of darkness, sheds all frivolity to rise as an emblem. Capes of muslin, airy as seraph wings, stood in contrast to dresses hewn with the geometric axe of cathedrals of old, with metallic shoulders recalling the armor of the knight upon the Seine during the Olympic Games.

Such splendid savagery is what distinguishes the poet from the mere artisan, offering a vision of dresses brief as a breath. Coats with solemn trains, jackets tightened at the collar unfolding into the amplitude of long mantles.

Elegance, Owens’ own, stripped of any superfluous shine, rose in the sobriety of hues, in the nobility of materials, and radiated with a majesty no artifice could stifle. For even the cataracts of water and smoke, the thundering music, and the stone staircases were but the grand frame of a spectacle that glowed with its own essence.

And as the fabric of forms came to its close, the artist recalled his other sanctuary, his Temple of Love at the Palais Galliera, as if fashion, in his hands, could never detach itself from the vast resonances of the sacred.

FM