The space is black. The wave is dark like the dark chasm of the mask. There is no star in Yohji’s azure, the fascination of the night is carried away by the January winds, hoping for a glow in the twilight. This is the chromatic alchemist who is closer every day to Soulage and who plays with metal, for the heart is never so well balanced as on the cutting edge of steel.
Tsukakoshi’s Japanese lament, like that old wealthy merchant who has eyes only for Fumiko, a geisha of exceptional beauty, and the man, with his obsession for a specific part of his anatomy, will reach an intensity in his passion so strong that it will drive him to the edge of madness.