Once, as a young aspiring fashionista, I went to Paris Fashion Week for the first time. I was 15 and accompanied by my mother. Before leaving I had printed out the official calendar from Paris Fashion Week’s glamorous website, and ticked off all the shows I wanted to attend with a red ballpoint pen. The most coveted show was, for me, back then, the Dior one. I believe it was the first collection by the then newly-appointed creative director Maria Grazia Chiuri, post-Raf Simons. I stepped up to the show’s designated venue, little me facing a colossal mirror-clad structure, by, I later learned, Bureau Betak.
The structure was placed in the cour carrée, the iconic courtyard of the Louvre. The facade reflected this historic site in the heart of the city. Gasp! I was amazed. Camera flashes from street style photographers hit the mirror wall panels and bounced back at bloggers, influencers, and over-the-top industry figures like a large reflector. Editors-in-chief and celebrities passed by the crowds and went inside. To see and be seen. Somewhere between a panic attack and Stendhal syndrome, I was already amazed by the show, even before entering myself, and even before the models and clothes.
My mother waited outside in the cour carrée with a cigarette in her hand as I snuck into the show—without invitation. I ran through the entrance, passed the uptight black-tie security guards, into long tubes that made a tunnel, which opened into a large spaceship-like hall, with stepped seating. The guests were already seated as security ran after me. Go, go, go! The lights dimmed just as I hid in the back row, camouflaged behind someone’s large, lavish hat. Lights dimmed. Guards stepped out. Models stepped in, onto the runway through a sequence of arched apertures, wearing grandiose habits. Showtime! As soon as it was over, the lights went back on. People left the premises in a hurry, likely to make it to the next one, or to get ahead of the taxi-lines that occupied the entire city during fashion week.
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