Silence burns along the edge of my breath, the gleam of metal in your eyes reflects it: Down the Avenue de l’Opéra, through folds of night stitched together by electric light, we walk as if we were meant to be. Marietta, in this relentless Haussmannian order, the quiet dissymmetry of your dress moves me; in this static Apollonian perfection, the flow of your silhouette inspires me. It’s because of me, you said, this experiment with a Japanese dressmaker; it’s because of me your wardrobe no longer reflects the person you feel yourself to be. Look! Swaying to your walk, the dynamic imbalance of black drapes its spartan elegance around your body. Slung over your shoulder, the flowing lines of your beggar’s bag are a mise en abîme of your body. Who is the man who thus imbues form with emotion, shape with idea? Strawberry red are your lips, strawberry red your ankle boots; side-swept is your hair, sheer its flaxen fall. Are you happy with the self your new dress brings to the surface, are you happy with this possibility of who you can be?
Your soft boots are silent on the tarmac, no click-clack measures your stride. Now, as we wait at the intersection, what is it that sets our interlocked hands swinging? Can ideas ever be as palpable as pirouettes, mental images as immediate as movement? May dance rescue us when ideas deplete the world, may we seek refuge in the erotics of knowledge! Onward! Look how your boots sculpt your movement, see how each step you take renews a moment of being! Behind you, your coat, your cloak, your cape—what is it?—catches the breeze. Paradox and contradiction, question answering question, the work only valid through the life it conveys: That is the message your movement relays. Who is the man who so artfully investigates your moving body, who is the man who so sensually envelopes your intimacy? Yamamoto. Yohji Yamamoto.
Was it his freedom that inspired you to supersede the dualisms of fashion—individuality and conformity, sex and success, man and woman—and refuse the game of the shifting erogenous zone? Was it his freedom that made you accept that black doesn’t distract, that the face is the site of the soul, that in the serenity of your beauty you are free? Aye, was it his freedom that made you approve the red on my lips when you’d kissed me under the arcade?