The Eiffel Tower will always and forever be the guardian of Saint Laurent 's nights. And of the women who confidently and brazenly walk through the gardens of the Trocadéro. Twice a year at the Paris Fashion Week show. Or every day, on the occasion of that non-occasion that is the flow of life in Paris. Which remains the European dream par excellence, age-old, difficult not to desire, at least once in your life. A feeling that rhymes with every Saint Laurent look from the Yves years to today, in the Anthony Vaccarello era. A couture era that is a certainty, ça va sans dire, parallel opposite to the uncertain times we live in.
Spring Summer 2023 for the forty-year-old designer looks behind mirrors of dark, material, shielded glasses, like those that could be worn by two lovers walking quietly a few streets away from the deafening chaos of the Tour. She dressed in clothes in impalpable non-knit, mauve or caramel, he stole a leather trench coat from her that looks like a sculpture by Boccioni. The moonlight only touches that falsely forgotten bracelet on the enormous cuff of an enormous, sumptuous, beautiful coat. That accessory tells, inanimately, without saying anything, Moroccan adventures, Central European raids, lives lived until the last tick of the clock, or click of a phantom stiletto. It almost seems as if the foot is floating, arched, in nothingness. Only an attentive eye sees from the hem of a tulle sarong, a sandal that leaves every centimeter of skin exposed. The pedantic, anxious yet damned hypnotic voices of the soundtrack choirs dear to Vaccarello, echo at the opening and closing of the show, among the iron voids left by Monsieur Eiffel. The techno beats that envelop the central part of the show will take care of softening, so to speak, souls and bodies. The one where long animal print dresses and exposed lingerie remind the world that Paris is worth a mass. And its church is pointed, and shines every hour for only a minute.