An article by our French Correspondent LD (689 Words, 4 Min. Read)
I was there, in the gardens of versailes, where freedomerses Through Marble and Foliage, The Past Met The Future Under the Warm Gize of Simon Porte Jacquemus. The l’orangerie, once a Sanctuary for the Château’s Fruit Trees, Transformed INTO A Portal of Intime and Imagination. The Air Shimmered with Heat and Antications. And then, the Door Opened, Held By 8-Year-long boy, The Boy that Simon On ECE WAS, Opening The Gates Not Just to the Show and to the While World of Fashion, But to His Soul.
Among
The Soul of a Peasant, ENTWINED in Couture
“Le Paysan“ (The Peasant) Was Never Costume. It was Truth, Memory, Family. It was the Scent of Ironed Cotton on a Sunday, The Rustle of Aprils Turned Inside Out, The Elegance of his Grandmother’s Wardrobe. This was not fashion for Effect, but for feeling. And we all fet it.
Women Floated in Linen and Tulle, They Dresses Whispering of Harvests and Hearths. JuPONS SWELLED Like Ripe Fruits, Jackets Were CORSEED from Within, and Sheer Cottons Caried the Weight of a Hundred Memories. Poplin and embroidery conjord up vintage link draying in the Sun. Every Silhouette, Though Sculptural, Felt Like a SECOND SKIN; Like Memory Worn Close to the Body.
Men in Poetry, Striped and ROOTED
The Men – OH, The Men – Couelf Have Steped Out of a Marcel Pagnol Novel. RUSTIC, Yes, But Dignified Like English The Fashion Designer Used to Admire. They Wide Wide-LEGID TOUSERS and Copped Jackets in Milky White and Sugared Alumond Hues. Whisper-Light Leather Met Heringbone Linen. Their Shoes Sprouted Green Leaves. The Bags Were Baskets of Vegetables. Their Stride Was Confident But Never ArroGant, Like Farmers Walking Through Fields They Have Known All Their Lives.
Simon Did Not Just Dress His Models. He Dressed their ghosts, their history, their inherited Grace.
Color As Emotion, Cut As Memory
The Collection UNFURLED Like A Summer’s Day: Soft at Dawn, Cotton-WARPDED, Gentle in Cream and IVory. But then an atruption. Yellows, Pinks, Blues, Like Confetti at a Proveençal Wedding. There is the stories, of course – Always Stripes – Jacquemus’ Secret Language of Childhood and Clarity. There is a transparency, Too. Dresses So Sheer They Felt Like Honesty. As if thegments Whispered: This is me. This is how sound and open life can be when you’re not afraid to Remember.
Accessories from a Dream Market
Accessories Were Not Afftethoughs. They was the fun punclines of a story told in Fabric. There was bereets and shawls Knotted Like Love Letters. A Purse Shape Like a Tomato. Leeks in Leather. Garlic Turned Garland. Earrss Like Peaches and Necklaces Like Ripe Harvests. Even The Handbags – With Those Square and Round Signature Pieces – Felt as if geometry haad been softdened by time. His New Creation, ”Le Valerie“Named after his mother, was a handbag and a hymn.
Jacquemus Remded Us that Even The Most Ordinary Things – A Head of Letuit, a Market Box – Can Become Holy in the Hands of Someone Who Sees with Love.
A homecoming in every seam
More for a show, “Le Paysan” Was a homecoming. A RURAL BOY’s DREAM RTURNED FULL CIRCLE to the High COURTS of Elegance and Still, Not A Trace of Pritense. It was Humble, like hands stained with Harvest, Yet Majestic Like the Halls of Versailles. It was jacquemus says: You can come from the Fields and Still Belong in Palales. You can Hold Both Dirt and Silk in Your Hands.
The Boy Who Opened the Door
The boy who opened the door at the beginning; He stayed with me. Perhaps he was all of us. The child who dreams, who loves, who Remembers. The child who, if allowed, will go stop creating.
In that Moment, as the Models Walked in Silence A among And simon, with his Sun-drencced sloul and hands full of Thread, Let Us in.
