The palm of the night
The only print in Charles de Vilmorin’s haute couture collection is his house monogram: a calligraphy. His name drawn with white chalk on a school slate is printed here ad infinitum on a micro-bomber no bigger than a tote bag. It is the magic slate of a fashion prodigy who arrived in the middle of a pandemic to set the ship on fire with his palette. His name drawn with white chalk on a school slate is now printed endlessly on a micro-bomber no larger than a tote bag. Lines of sight, the moment of a click. The rest of the time, his pirate hands are fidgeting, fiddling: pen caps, hangers hooks — nothing is irresistible to the one who can assemble a skirt on 80 meters of accordion pleated tulle; who can twist silk on wire to make shadow flowers bloom; who can shoot a clip in a sand quarry,
-by Colin Solal Cardo @colinsco-.
Picking up the moon; the air of nothing; amazons in the lead. In his apartment-workshop, de Vilmorin unfolds his telescopic hands. Nail prostheses signed by the 3D nail artist Rohan Mirza (@marierohanaa), just to dive into the palm of the night. Pleated taffeta, twisted sheaths, the carnivorous black contrasts with the kaleidoscope patterns of his first models. Everything leans, everything moves, everything comes together. Spikes, clean edges, animation masks and blade leaves. This black is the line on the white page; it is its shadow; it is the first gesture: “I always start with the neck, the shoulders”. A finalist for the LVMH Prize, de Vilmorin traces his history by imagining it. « Le papier, nuit blanche. Et les plages désertes des yeux du rêveur. Le cœur tremble ». (Paul Eluard, les Mains libres) @laurencebenaim @laurencebenaim