Paris Couture Week was a predator. It moved on a calendar of its own, indifferent to the rise and fall of mortal empires. While the digital world was still ablaze with speculation about VÉCU, the real world of buyers, editors, and clients was already turning its gaze towards the January runways. We had less than three months to create an entire collection from scratch. Three months to build a legend.
The pressure was immense, a physical weight in the air of our loft, yet it was a clean pressure. It was the strain of creation, not the toxic corrosion of being erased. Our days were a blur of draping muslin, of heated debates over the precise shade of charcoal, of Anja’s sharp commands to the pattern cutters echoing off the high ceilings. There was no time for gossip, but the outside world h
