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The Death of a Mannequin
In wool or in silk, moiré or sequins, the idol
was in bad form.
On the evening of the show, strangely awkward, she
tore her dress and turned out her socks, vaguely distressed. Panicking
suddenly, she left her boots in the wings and, labriously packed
into a bridal gown, was on the verge of fainting into the arms of
an unknown gentleman dressed in black. She lay down in the dust
of her dressing room and fell asleep in saintly Chanel.
It was the ultimate special effect by Madame Thanatopraxie.
They collected her linens, folded her shirts, and
left her in a simple fitted coat of pine.
Private fashion show.
Christian adorned her in extravagant earrings, Jean-Paul
delivered a couple of witticisms, Yves cried a lot, Karl took a
She had become “that something or other that
has no name in any language”.
(trans. Kim Marohn)