A cold draught seeps into the hall of a crowded space in Place Vendôme, the long white curtains that closed the backdrop wrinkle as floating waves of fabric, announcing the quiet aerial dance that would have started a few minutes later.

Thin and light as swishing leaves, the elegance of Ann Demeulemeester softly enchants the eye of the public, emphasizing those classic elements that made her signature from the earliest beginnings, beating the time and its perpetual flow. The ephemeral harmony of elongated shapes, full of ethereal and chaste beauty, finds its complementary half in the high and stifling roughness of thick leather belts, found in austere elements borrowed from military uniforms, infused with a graceful femininity that constantly changes, without ever losing her identity. The soul is wrapped in asymmetric layers of silk, hiding itself behind a game of structure and deconstruction, which intriguingly veils its fragile and fluid inner essence. The slow movement of a feather that floats into the wind is crystallized in the long pins that pierce the bowler hats as if they were arrows, conferring to the draped tunics the charge of continuously drifting in the air in its place, ideally reproducing the movement of something that falls, brushes against the ground, and then takes off into the air again.

With her incredible fine perception, Ann fills the holes and the lacks of a cold and anesthetized present with her silent, romantic and silghtly nostalgic poetry; while the somber, deep, voice of Nick Cave pushes the sky away.