It's back-to-school, damn it. Damn, because when you have to get ready to put your hands, feet, neck and whole body into a new year, you have to be prepared or, on the contrary, completely relaxed to stand up and face an opponent that may seem out of proportion.
At some point in our lives, we all come across a work of art. A record, a film, a band, a painting, a book, an author. It can be instantaneous, it can take time, it can be dazzling or insidious.
Like every season, the whole of Paris waits impatiently for Patricia Blanchet's new collections. And instead of putting themselves under insurmountable pressure, the Team takes the opportunity each time to surprise everyone by bringing out models that are each more stunning than the last. But it's the names that Team Blanchet give them that always arouse curiosity. Let's meet the finest team since the Dream Team.
Exactly 80 years ago, seventeen-year-old Marcel Ravidat, an apprentice mechanic, discovered the entrance to the Lascaux cave thanks to his dog chasing a rabbit.
I'm told I was granted a trial. But it must have been a speedy one, because when it took place, I was still in a deep coma caused by the police officer's rifle butt, which melted over me like margarine in the Sahara sun.
When I emerged safely from house-sitting at the Parker and the heat wave had subsided, my first instinct was to slam back a drink.
Palm Springs was a vague indication, but if I went by what his mother had told me, it wouldn't be long before I could get my hands on him. All I had to do was frequent luxury hotels, posh dance halls and old-lady bars to try and locate him.
Patricia is the reason the world keeps getting a little rainier.
Warm up the popcorn and chill your glass of white wine to enjoy the world's best Newsletter.
Before each new collection launch, like a monk, wearing my most beautiful pumps, I set off with my team in search of the holy grail, divine inspiration, hoping to be struck by lightning like the tree of life split in two by the gods of Olympus.
While my parents were busy tearing each other apart over what to do with their lives, at the age of eighteen I took matters into my own hands and decided to perfect my English by spending a term in California with the money I'd earned selling cheese at the market on Boulevard Richard Lenoir, near Bastille.