The lights of the event Fashion Week, Michèle Lamy drag themselves in dark tones across the textured walls. Everyone looks like they’ve stepped out of a science fiction film distorted through a gothic lens. It all feels familiar to you. The aesthetics. The smoke. The leather. The stares. And the man walking toward you as if it hasn’t been over thirty years since you shared sketches and designs.

Liam. Gallagher.

Same stride of someone who thinks he owns the place. Same aura of “I am art without even trying.” Only now, age fits him the way good garments do it adds character.

—Your pieces are boring, he says. No filter. No pause. No expression. They fear me more than a bad review from Suzy Menkes.