A METAPHOR FOR VANITY: A FESTIVAL OF GLITZ, FALSE ORIGINALITY AND MIRRORED EGOS

 

Ah, the MET Gala. The holiest mass of the fashion elite, a celebratory sabbath during which New York turns into a Vatican of aesthetics, and the red carpet becomes an altar for the most expensive ego sacrifices. This is where haute couture meets vanity inflation, and every style looks like a set from a movie that no one understands, but everyone pretends is a masterpiece. And although I'm not physically there - because the soul is not allowed in without an invitation - I am present. Mentally, ironically, in every glance from under too dark sunglasses. Wearing them after dark, of course.

The theme of this year's liturgy is "Superfine: Tailoring Black Style." The title - as always - balances curatorial over-interpretation and PR tautology. It's not just a theme, it signals that this year we'll be talking about something "important." That the sequins will reflect not only the limelight, but also a difficult story. That fashion will become a storytelling tool about marginalization, strength, heritage. It sounds beautiful - perhaps even too beautiful for the reality that authenticity is measured by the length of the red carpet and the price of a ticket ($75,000, for those who don't yet know how much deluxe social awareness costs).

But okay, let's pretend for a moment that this is about something more. Let's pretend that this is not a theater of appearances, but an arena of cultural reconciliation. That the history of black elegance finally gets its rightful place - as long as it appears in the right light, with the right name and tag from Balmain. And while all this is carried with the solemnity of a national holiday, somewhere between the message and the stocking stuffer, a simple truth is lost: originality is no longer creative - it is studied. It's as if everyone is playing a game called "am I conceptual enough to hit the carousel on Instagram?".

And what about fashion? Exactly - fashion. Is it still fashion or already performance? This year the styles are not so much "beautiful" or "chic" as "narrative." If a dress doesn't resemble a painful lesson in the history of colonialism or a sculpture about identity, it simply doesn't count. The dress must scream, preferably with a quote from Audre Lorde and a train the length of a moral concern. The more incomprehensible, the more "profound." And even if everything looks like a clash of chaos and megalomania, the world claps - as long as it's "conscious." Consciousness, as we know, is the new black. And black - we know - is always in fashion.

And then She enters. Anna. Wintour. The popeess of style. The sybil of fashion. The woman who turns air into legend and silence into judgment. Her fringe - an icon. Her look - a certificate of being. Anna does not need to be visible - it is enough that she is. Her presence is like a blessing at a fashion show: she doesn't speak, she doesn't comment, but everyone feels they are being judged. And only the bravest - or most naive - still try to prove that they deserve her nod.

It's not just fashion. It's the ultimate Louboutin court.

And so, with a glass of champagne in hand and an ironic smile on my lips, I declare:
saints of snobbery and martyrs of style, it's time for your celebration. Go ahead and sin - preferably in something from Schiaparelli that looks like a cosmic vision of original sin. The more semblance, the more applause. The less sense, the more "innovative."

Because if we are already creating a spectacle, let it be total. Since we are already celebrating exaggeration, let it be with flair. And since we're already talking about style, let's have the courage to ask the question: where does fashion end and metaphor begin? The answer, as usual, only Anna knows. Or maybe even she doesn't. But after all, it's not about answers.

Questions? Please. Here, even the illusion of dialogue has a tag and a list of sponsors on it.