Une petite histoire.
At around 2PM today just outside the Hotel Crillon, I dropped my phone. It wasn’t my fault: I saw Alber Elbaz (Lanvin,) sitting at a restaurant wearing Carine Roitfeld-esque Star Wars shades, looking like the most majestic living specimen to grace the European Union.
It was a small drop. A tap, if you will. But when I bent down to pick up the device and found that the screen had gone black and blue–the sort of “technical glitch” that all but assures you there will be no saving point, I shrugged. After all, I’d let out a giant, “je t’adore, Alber!” and he reciprocated the sentiment. (Wouldn’t you? If only to shoo the yelling American girl?)
In ten minutes I’d head into the Tuileries for the Valentino show I’d very much been anticipating–after three years as an intern/assistant, the full circle that left me sitting at this show was still hard to grasp. And without a phone, instagramming would render effectively impossible. I stopped to think about this concern and felt sorry for myself. On the one hand, I was sad–I knew the collection would at very least lend insight into the Spring wish-list my footwear cravings would mock up. I could have had the opportunity to photographically jot that down, unobstructed view et al.
On the other hand though, it was just Instagram. Shouldn’t I have spent more time worrying about a potential rescue plan had I been kidnapped or stabbed in the left ovary?
I was left to do nothing at my seat once I arrived–the realities of my social awkwardness were hard to mask without something to tap on. I looked to my left, looked to my right, waved hello at some familiar faces that likely didn’t find mine all that familiar and then my seatmate took my, well, his seat.
Yes, Patrick Demarchelier and myself were seated in the same spot. In my mind’s eye, this was Valentino’s way of asking me to sit in his lap and though I wouldn’t do that, I would let out a giant yell starting in a quick, “je t’adore” one more time.
He wasn’t all that keen on incessant phone checking which seemed to work in my favor on this one occasion. For just this moment, I could agree and sympathize with the romance of his ostensible strive to preserve real interaction. (Here imagination gets the best of me.)
And when I watched the show through the lens of my eyeball and not camera, the fairy tale I knew Valentino would be came to life. It was real.
There were lucite rock studs and Cinderella wedges crafted for people who hate shoes but enjoy a high instep. Plastic rain coats, minaudieres, jackets at shorts length, laser cut leather detailing and the quintessential touch of Valentino’s…panache.
Moral of the story: I’d tell you to text me something interesting, but I will not get it. Instagram hiatus or social experiment number two, rather, seems to be officially in tow.