It is dead, they say. There is no point in denying this fact, they say. Nobody reads little bits of soul and more uncomfortable questions anymore, they say. The choice to believe or not to believe this fact, to agree or not with these statements, undoubtedly gives rise to an endless debate. Fortunately, I don't care.
I don’t do it for anyone else, no matter how sentimental, clichéd, or exhausting that may sound. I do it for the child in me, eternally in love with books, dance, theater, performances, and music. I do it for the woman over forty, sitting on a sofa on a rainy November day, a short coffee in hand, smiling as she rereads these passages. I do it because it calms me, forces me to listen to myself, to discover, to summon courage. I do it for the dream of the ever-indecisive teenager, born into a hurried world and full of big, unquestioned prejudices.
I am not, however, hypocritical. I crave — at least a little — appreciation from those who may, or may not, find themselves among my circle. Appreciation that opens doors: to meet people, learn customs, visit exhibitions, share stories and smiles. The lack of false modesty is always more attractive than its presence. That is how I met the curly-haired boy, with a baritone voice, extremely pretentious in the kitchen and almost always badly cut — loyal to his barber more than a president to his country. He — a rare exhibit of sincerity in today’s young generation. Me — an overwhelming modesty, tinged with sarcasm.
The question “why?” has followed me constantly, like a shadow, ever since high school. Now, in the Timișoara space, a mere caress has transformed “why?” into “well?” Well, what? A lonely “well” tossed out, trying to mimic interest in continuing a conversation. In this environment, I seem to embrace that little question “why?” more warmly. It no longer haunts me from behind — I take it by the hand, walking beside me, growing increasingly friendly with it. Yet sometimes, like a weary host impatient to escort her guests, I let it wait while I go for a walk, refusing to answer. But whether I like it or not, I always return, faithfully, to that “why?” — my own bad barber.
Why am I writing these lines then? I realized it is for me, not for
them. I realized that I enjoy it, that thinking and writing
simultaneously feels almost natural. Then? “Never let oneself be
corseted by the era and its dictates: this is one of the main
concerns of a couturier.” This is how Bertrand Stabley speaks of
Jeanne Lanvin in his book 24 Fashion Designers.
Jeanne Lanvin
- the founder of one of the oldest fashion houses in Paris and a
lover of history and visual art without precedent. Her relentless
ambition can only inspire. This was also the effect she had on me,
because, being human, we need daily doses of inspiration, madness,
beauty, and humor. Perhaps, gradually, from madness, we will give up
our barber. Or perhaps not….
-AE
