The day before I left to go to Paris to take the last shots of Fashion Week, I was at the bar at Boulevard. Editor Monique came to me just before the official press release with fresh news: Marc Jacobs would be leaving Vuitton. Thinking quickly, I texted my Vuitton-friend, Annemieke: “I know nothing”, was her reassuring reply. I was completely out of the loop about this major bit of fashion news. Something, I would normally find a real shame but now was happy about. I didn’t think anymore about Marc and the possibility he might leave. Well, yeah. I tried not to think about it.

The next day, I took the Thalys to Paris and a taxi to my hotel in St. Germain. The invite for the Vuitton show was waiting for me in my hotel room. Along with a gift from the Vuitton family. So you see? Nothing to worry about.

Even so, I had a strange feeling on Wednesday morning. As if I was soon about to witness a historical moment. I decided to capture everything and photographed every VIP and wannabe that paraded the Louvre’s Cour Carrée. I got so carried away that I almost forgot the time. 9:55! And the Vuitton show is the only one in all those in the fashion weeks that starts on time.

“ Vite, vite, allez’, screeched the strict gateman.

I scurried in. But Miranda Kerr who arrived three minutes after me, was met with closed doors. I ran into a throng of desperate fashion people that were trying to gain access through the only door that was still open. Backstage! The show had begun- too early! We were met by a huge screen. I saw a black stage. The carousel, escalators, a hotel corridor with rooms, the station clock. All the key elements of previous shows. A peep at the setting and the poignant music was enough. This was the opus magnum. Marc was about to leave the building. It somehow gave me comfort. Backstage, elbow-to-elbow with other fashion folk, we shared a look, sighed and gazed on at all the beauty that unfolded before us. After the show, I hung around the square. It sounds dramatic, but it felt like a funeral where you didn’t want to leave the burial place. When everyone had left, we drank coffee at café Ruc. And there we found Saskia de Brauw, who had just walked this historic show. I told her about the screen and the ATMOSPHERE and asked her what outfit she had worn because I had that annoying screen in front of me and couldn’t see everything. I also asked her how it felt to walk in such a historic catwalk.

“Oh well, for us it’s very different. We’re focused on our work; we’re in the moment. I was wearing the swimsuit; then I walked again- in my bare arse.”

Long live a sense of perspective. And thank you Saskia. Now, I can go on again.

A day before I left for Paris -to take the last shot of fashion week- I was on bar duty at Boulevard. Just before the broadcast, editor Monique came to me with fresh news. Marc Jacobs would stop at Vuitton. Keeping in mind the principle of hearing both sides, I texted my Vuitton friend Annemieke. I know nothing, was her reassuring text. The broadcast ran late, causing my fashion news to fall through. Something I would normally find very unfortunate. Now I was happy about it. I no longer thought about Marc and a possible departure. Well, I tried not to think about it.

The next day I took the Thalys to Paris. And a taxi to my hotel in St. Germain. The invite for the Vuitton show was already neatly waiting for me in my hotel room. And also a gift from the Vuitton family. See? Nothing wrong.

Still, I had a strange feeling on that fateful Wednesday morning. As if I felt that I might soon witness a historical moment. I decided to capture everything and photographed every VIP and wannabe that walked the Cour Carrée of the Louvre. I got so caught up in the moment that I almost forgot the time. 09:55! And the Vuitton show is the only one of all the fashion weeks that starts on time.

“Vite, vite, allez” shouted the strict gatekeeper.

I rushed inside. But Miranda Kerr, who arrived three minutes after me, found a closed gate. Meanwhile, I rushed into a stream of desperate fashion people towards the only gate that was still open. Backstage! The show had started. Too early! We gathered around a large screen. I saw a black stage. The carousel, the escalators, the corridor with hotel rooms, the station clock. All key-elements from previous shows. A glance at the setting combined with the mournful music that played was enough. This was the opus magnum. Marc was about to leave the building. Somehow it gave comfort. So shoulder to shoulder backstage with other fashion people. We shared a look, sighed and gazed at all the beauty that unfolded before us.

“Oh well, we experience it very differently. We are focused on our work, on the moment. And I wore the swimsuit. I walked again in my bare ass.”

After the show, I lingered in the square. It sounds undoubtedly exaggerated but the comparison with a funeral and not wanting to leave the burial place was there. When everyone had really left, we drank coffee at café Ruc. And there we met Saskia de Brauw who had just walked this historic show. I told her about the screen and the CONDITION and asked her which outfit she had worn. Because I hadn’t been able to see that due to that annoying screen. And how it felt to walk in such a memorable parade. “Oh well, we experience it very differently. We are focused on our work, on the moment. And I wore the swimsuit. I walked again in my bare ass.”
Long live the relativity. And thank you Saskia. I could go on again.