The designer’s new collection

How much someone’s fortunes can change in a day. This morning, Gustave was doomed. It was already April, and he still didn’t have a creative director for his Valencia label. Though it had a century of couture heritage and the ateliers had the savoir-faire to realize any vision, no one wanted to touch Valencia with a ten-foot pole after a series of scandals over the last year: S&M dolls for children, photoshoots that played with themes of war, and most critically, offense taken by the Chinese market over leaked messages. Industry insiders claimed that the brand was the touch of death for anyone’s career. The shares of the parent company were rapidly devaluing and his father seemed to increasingly favour his brother for the next chief executive. He needed a home run.

He just had lunch with Hedi, begging him to take over: “look what Lagerfield was able to do with Chanel! Imagine what a feather in your cap that would be!” Hedi had categorically refused. Then, his phone rang. It was his personal assistant.

“Artemis wants to meet you.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, his agent just called, and he’s in Paris. He wants to have dinner.”

Artemis was a modern renaissance man: a classically trained dancer who rose to fame for his music, and then started producing mind-boggling works of art that fetched eye-popping sums of money. He was born as Arthur, Arty to his friends, used Artemis as his stage name, but seemed to be favouring Art as a mononym, as if he was creative expression itself. Importantly however, Art was a vocal critic of the fashion industry. He was known for wearing his own designs, which consisted of shoes made of cut up handbags, tarps, and sleeping bag coats made of real sleeping bags. When asked about them, he would say that everything else he could buy was merely overpriced. Gustave wondered what he wanted to talk about.

It was a short dinner. Art wanted the creative director position for Valencia, with demands. Unlimited expense account, unchecked creative direction, and total secrecy during work. At this point, Gustave was desperate enough to give it to him. Sure, he had no experience, but neither did Pharell. He was American, but so was Tom Ford. Plus, he wasn’t even gay: there were too many gay men in fashion now. And perhaps he would turn to the existing employees at Valencia for guidance. Gustave had a great team there that was not only ready to execute on whatever vision someone had, but also understand existing markets trends, and copy them. Valencia could survive on its own for another season. All it needed was someone at the helm, someone eccentric and famous, and Gustave could build a team around them. Art’s profile checked all the boxes.

Art returned to Paris two weeks later, after concluding his world tour.
“Some of you think that I’m here only for the branding opportunity, after hearing the comments that I’ve made about fashion. I can assure you that could not be further from the truth. I’m going to take this opportunity to design a line that makes sense, and shows what I can bring to the world of fashion.”

If Gustave thought Art could be controlled, he was completely wrong. Art fired over half the existing team, and brought in his own employees, mostly artists from his sound and visual collectives. He made everyone sign strict non-disclosure agreements, and worked in absolute secrecy. All visitors, media, corporate, or industry, were banned from the atelier. Music could be heard at all hours of the day, and the windows that weren’t blacked out often revealed strobe lights.

The press wasn’t happy. They weren’t given anything to write about, so they started speculating. Over the next half year, Art was sequentially accused of hosting drug-fueled raves, turning Valencia into a sweatshop powered by migrant workers, and running an underground gambling ring. The markets also started speculating. Stock prices of the parent company fluctuated wildly, as did inventory of existing products: people were scared that Valencia would no longer exist. The next show in February would decide whether Valencia had a future. Gustave’s father was getting worried, and so Gustave was getting worried. He asked for a meeting with Art.

“So, how’s the fall-winter collection going?”

“It’s going well. We’re on schedule.”

“Can I see a few pieces?”

“They’re not ready yet.”

“Do you need any assistance with supplier contracts or contacts for show?”

“Nope, it’s all under control.”

“What about themes or influences?”

To this, Art smiled coyly.

“I think the primary motivation is the emptiness of the industry.”

“That’s good! Is that something you’re willing to talk about during an interview?”

Art was on the cover of Vogue and Harper’s in consecutive months after that. It seemed like Valencia’s name still meant something, as well as Gustave’s favours and the intrigue behind Art. Despite his recalcitrance to discuss specifics, Art was more than happy to pontificate about fashion. He discussed the industry’s wastes and excesses. He lamented the tired designs and lack of true originality. And Art’s statements about the new line were increasingly bold, prophetic almost. According to him, the new Valencia line would be transparent, exposing the hollowness of the industry, and providing a resetting point. And the press ate it up. He had become the golden child of the industry.

As Gustave celebrated the new year in Dubai, watching fireworks, he smiled. Art turned out to be a good bet. He was an intriguing media-trained outsider. He had just received a phone call from his father congratulating him on his choice. Gustave was a happy man. The show was only a month away now, but thanks to his PR masterstroke, venues were begging to host, and models were clamouring to walk. At this point, no matter how much anyone hated Art’s new collection, there was nothing they could say. Who would go against the industry?

Couture week had finally arrived. The buzz around Valencia’s new campaign was heightened when the venue was revealed as the Grande Palais. Gustave attended the rest of the show’s in his father’s portfolio companies. Boring venues, boring designs. He could tell that the industry was restless as well. Valencia’s show was on the Monday, near the end of the week. Everyone wanted to see what Valencia would do before passing judgement on trends and designs.

The lights flood lights came on in the Grande Palais. Gustave looked around. Aside from the runway and the lights, the Grande Palais was entirely barren. A blank canvas for the clothes, Gustave thought. The music started. Gustave wondered if Art had written something for the show, but the song continued starting. For a minute, it was just bass and snare with no discernable melody. The crowd whispered a little. Then the first model walked out. There was a collective gasp. She was naked, head to toe, no underwear, no shoes, no pasties. She arrived at the end of the runway, struck a pose, and walked back. Out walked the next model. She was undressed the same way. And the next. Then the next. Until at the end of the show, Art walked out, bowed, then walked back.

The next day, the reviews were out. And they were spectacular. Valencia had completely upended the fashion industry. The tired old house had redefined itself as a leader and ahead of its time. Some speculated that the models were wearing animated screens that made them look naked, others talked about nanofabrics so thin that they were transparent to the naked eye. Art was unavailable for comment, which only made his earlier comments stand out more. He was the new thing, in charge of the old thing. How much someone’s fortunes can change in a day, thought Gustave.