A stroll along the quays of the Seine is a delight! The body relaxes, the mind escapes and the hum of the bateaux-mouches mingles with the rattle of the waves on the quayside. Lovers embrace and swear eternity, a promise that the night will surely swallow. But how to conceive a work of art in an inconceivable world? It seems insurmountable, and I’m sure that if you were to bake a banana cake at Le Meurice with Baron Hans Gunther Von Dincklage, the world wouldn’t be any worse off.

They’re all like that, fashion people; misanthropes, but all you’d have to do is find the valve and they’d deflate in five minutes. As much a taste for the false as for the true, the idea being to make no mistake, and that day on the cobblestones, not a cloud in the sky reflected on the Seine.

To move the couturiers on my generous chessboard, with this poetry of the word that drives me and that is not contagious, is to thumb my nose at fashion as a whole. Viard would have liked to be an artist, but she’ll always be her mother’s creation.

FM