The lobotomized imagination, already in the case of Saint Laurent, he thought Celine was a sophisticated lady of the upper middle class who had undergone a genetic manipulation of botox with a bohemian. Really, the 70s shine with pink chiffon dresses, blue buttoned heels and blazers with a trench coat and the classic plaid jacket, spread over the past two years by Alessandro Michele at Gucci.

The bourgeoisie of Parck Avenue, with their hands in their pockets, in jeans, basketball, shirts open to miscellaneous medals or a bourgeois fashion post 60 from the great century.

The leather jackets and scarves of Loulou de la Falaise, Yves Saint Laurent’s iconic muse coming out of his latest “Detintox-Botox” treatment, fans of the designer will surely appreciate, but, for us, Slimane’s signature is still linked to the memories of the years when Paris was the epicentre of this glamour and celebration, and when Saint Laurent was the cornerstone of fashion but with collections that were created in the workshops and outside nightclubs.

Slimane or Celine-man, like her friend Rousteing, never create a real collection other than a remix of the years they’ve never known, thinking that old-fashioned fashion journalists replaced by low ceiling bimbos, the same ones where when you see a glow of intelligence in their eyes you realize that you’re looking at their ears.

These two designers often forget that they are only stylists and that a designer creates fashion. Thus a career is not a hundred metres but a long-distance race, and the hardest thing will be to last and renew yourself, as Franck Sorbier has done every season for thirty years.

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