The Golden Concorde — by Filep Motwary

As I recall it my t-shirt soaked in sweat felt like I dove into a lake with my clothes on. I shut my lashes again and I see it all, as if my eyes were wide open. I dream of Paris and life somehow transfers to the "city of light."

Via Concorde? I am not sure.

It's one of those days when us people move like birds in search of one's nesting: towards the ideal place to lay the eggs and presume an existence which will albeit only last a season. The same allowed lifeline fashion has before designers present their new incarnation. Dutifully I'm there too, as if I exist through this semi-annual repetition. 

Friends and faces pass before me. They look stranger in reality than in magazines. From afar, grungy Miss Day takes my picture. She waves a gloved hand as I draw one final salute. I wonder where she is heading. Seeing Her Majesty is a rare privilege indeed.

A bunch of Boys-in-Margiela force the crowd in attendance. Everyone, myself included, fixes an admiring eye at them. What do I feel? A hint of envy for their youthful skin, their forceful vitality, their coveted invitation for being at the right place the right time.

Or is it pure admiration?

Time disappears fast and in less than a moment this wonderful frivolity will take place of pride in memory. I might or might not be able to testify to that. Oh well…

I walk through the hallway. A woman greets me, asks for my pass (how the hell does she know my name?) and tells me to follow her. She points to my seat and surprise; I am front row. “How weird!” I hear a voice behind me. I sit keeping my sweaty hands carefully placed on my knees. My camera is hanging from my neck and my bag rests against my tapping feet. 

On my right, Carine nods “Hello.” On my left Anna's voice enquires after my mother. “She is fine,” I say and turn my head up to the ceiling counting to ten. Opposite, the seats are packed with mermaids and sirens that carry strange names: Daria, Coco, Raquel, Kinga, Lara, Natalia, Sasha, Hannelore….For a moment it feels like I only exist in a spell. How fortunate these women are, how beautiful and spotless, sitting there slapping bewitching smiles left, right and center. 

The lights go dim and Hussein's voice announces: “The show is about to start.” In this dream I'm wearing red, my hair is long and I have the most perfect teeth.

Hussein’s voice is up again informing us that the show is cancelled because “summer ain't coming” God just told them via Skype “the world shall be stuck in winter for a while.”

“So what are we gonna do now?” asks Carine.

“Let's be patient,” says Anna.

Soon the room resembles a scene of a bloodless massacre. Something out of a picture by Delacroix. People cry invisible tears, a horde of women powder maniacally their noses or plug their eyebrows to oblivion. Anna’s hairdresser and his team retouch the hair as she is placing a phone-call to God demanding that he should at least change his mind for a season. He ought to have told her, for Couture's sake.

Carine is already out smoking "a la Française."

What a mess! So, no summer for a while…

I make my way out with Jo Calderone’s arm wrapped around mine.


Proposed by Dandyakuza on Monday 06 September 2010 at 01:39 PM

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