YSL GOLD, A SINGULAR AFFAIR

There is a metal to which men have surrendered their reason, and which women wear like a secret of light: it is gold. It seems to hold an empire over human souls that nothing could ever destroy. On that particular evening, Paris had paid it homage.

Under the darkened sky, the great city of Lutetia shone with a singular brilliance. The Iron Lady, that immense sentinel keeping watch over generations, rose into the night, robed in light as if in golden lace. It was at her feet, under the direction of Anthony Vaccarello, that the House of Saint Laurent had summoned the world of fashion.

Then the women appeared; they advanced slowly, like apparitions emerging from a dream. Gold enveloped them from head to toe; it flowed over their shoulders, followed their movements, and shattered into a thousand fires with every step they took. There was something solemn, almost religious, in this procession, as though the wealth of men had wished, for a fleeting moment, to transmute itself into pure light.

Yet, amid these brilliant flashes, another presence asserted itself: that of the skirt. After so many seasons where trousers had reigned supreme over the feminine silhouette, the skirt seemed to return from a long exile—was this a sign to be read? Perhaps? Vaccarello seemed to remind us that fascination does not always reside in strength or armor. It can arise from a more fragile motion: the brush of a fabric against the leg, a cloth that accompanies the stride, a silhouette that reveals itself by degrees in the half-light.

Woman was no longer hidden behind the garment; she seemed to be reborn from it, and the designer, who delights in defying expectations, had this time called upon all the splendors of light to his aid. The venue resounded with radiance, and the famous faces of Hollywood thronged there, like courtiers around princes in days of old. Yet, amidst this glittering assembly, it was still the garment that illuminated.

And while the whole of Paris gazed upon this golden retinue, a voice accompanied their march, that of Charlotte Gainsbourg. The song drifted up into the night like a memory, and, for a few brief moments, it seemed to me that fashion, light, and music were but one and the same thing: a fleeting dream of beauty suspended above the city.

FM