A poem sprayed into the room by a platinum blonde, child-woman, who takes us on her journey to the land of dreams. She is entrusted, after the prenatal darkness and the harshness of the profession, with the light, finally! Kamali, not to be confused with Kamala, that seed of kingmakers, who flutters in a kind of languorous laziness, looking with perplexity at the features of the sublime, not to name her; the Wintour.

For me, the collections follow one another and are not alike. The German from St Martin, Chemena Kamali, takes flight. By surprising the wolf, she swoops down like an eagle on my savage heart. If someone had asked me what other genius couturier I saw today, I would have inevitably answered Kamali, but after a slight wait, I will end up saying; or no one.

Sitting in this living room of my memory, I invite my dead to dance, because I have, on a “rising podium”, several kilos of damaged tailoring for a return to sender. And despite this, sometimes, it is the freshness of youth, the paradise where anguish is desire. It was this morning at Chloé’s, without boasting, with a few winks, renaissance style. I always prefer to remember the past to enjoy the dawn, although one is sometimes a superb forgetfulness, but the other remains real.

From time to time, I wonder how to conceive a work in an inconceivable world? There are days when the undertaking seems almost insurmountable to me, but visibly, it is still possible. So game set and match at the Tennis Club de Paris for the magnificent Chloé, behind a glass wall that wants to be crystal.

FM