Sartre was right: “hell is the others,” and it’s still incredible that we managed to make oranges without pulp, seedless grapes, flours without lump, coffee without caffeine, syrup without dye and non-alcoholic beer without ever being able to make a world without a fool? Would we be able to create a Fashion Week without booby? So, we asked ourselves the question: what would be a fashion week without cephalo-abstinence?
We would start, first of all, by removing the “pest” agencies that do their work despite common sense, and even manage to send us the invitations one day after the presentation. A world without selfie of “gritty photos”, which do not take the collections but are taken to the collection. A world without rude and ill-bred photographers who fight for a place and shout in the first row by invoking the guests: “uncross your legs”.
A Fashion Week also without the bald hairdressers boys and penguin couturiers or with two left arms, it is according to. Exterminate the half worldly who come to find the soul not sister, but the rich soul that will make them live a few weeks more against service of “chelation”. A whole week without “silly conne”, nor gogo-tox so that our eye, which ends up being accustomed to the infamous and the horrible, does not end up confusing the ugly of the beautiful “tox”.
A world where homosexuals do not discriminate heterosexuals and vice versa. A world where sex toys of each other do not pass for men or women business, but only for what they are: efficient sex objects, and this is not bad. A week without those incontinent old presidents haunting the corridors looking for lifts to regain their place. The end of the cocktail ampoulé, which is modern and trendy but is the most corny of Paris since it does not express the French cultural exception; only the vision of American-style cultural expansion. Fashion without fool would also be “people” who would come by taking public transport for a week to not pollute more than reason this city saturated by traffic jams.
Without a fashion-style outlet taken in the brook, but also without these housewives, who are new customers of the houses, without these enemies of the human race, these snarling bassets, bastards of the dog of Diogenes. A day without the tireless figures of President Marrant flying over a nest of gogos, a week bloodless of all these idiots, these “cons and pavement” that form the new route of fashion.
A week of fashion reformatted for the occasion, for our greatest pleasure, to be just present to watch the show of the creators and not watch the show of the room, but the harmony is never given, she must be conquered indefinitely. A word, hi.