AP ¬ Royal Academy of Fine Arts Antwerp ¬ Fashion Department

Laure Severac

(France) laure.severac@hotmail.fr


Catwalk pictures


(or how did elso, my wife, my life write me a dear john letter)

I woke up this morning feeling odd and exhilarated at the same time. It was you and me, there on this peculiar stage, we would have broken all boundaries imaginable of what love is! A bunch of dandies, wearing suitable neatly shaped tailors, dainty cardigans, cozy jumpers and over-sized picturesque pullovers, were gathered here to glorify our WE — holding your love for me a little higher, you had blended a zany variety of forms and textures. From the romantic to the ethnicization of myself, you had shaped it within this fallacious theater of discord. Love and desire were remained double-knit with alpaca in playful colored fabulous landscapes, while I was blowing your job.

You have spread words around, to whom wanted to hear it, that claimed your unconditional love for me, whereas you have been knitting boundless your own fantasma of alterity, stitching diaphanous veils on the most dainty woolen balaclava. As if the visage was a simulacral signification for you. As if you wanted endlessly to negate the nature of the significant in the Elso. Besides, you have endeavoured to yarn the representational desire for your beloved as being multiple, unfixed realities, interstitial futures of possibility. Begone for my side, you have been sliding on the surface of a love story scenario — by designing my feeling for you, within this formal entity as it could have been a glamorous tribute to your own love? You have dreamed the Elso's mannequin, glimpsing with an embroidered vivid poncho with your face painted in it and soon big in Japan.

I don't know, what can I do. What else can I say, it's up to you… We are now one, just me and you, becoming the pluralisation of "I". But I can't go on ! Take off this mono-glasses my dear pygmalion, and stop to use my face to reflect your own contemplation for the sake of seeing. I did not mean to hurt you, and it is regrettable, but I have to make you cry because you did crossed that line. I never dream that I meet somebody like you… comes to be remembrance of my inconceivable love, and neither I wished to wake up from this illusionary falling in love. However, it is time to change the rules of the game and I will rather prefer to play womanish perilous chess than unsexy hazardously bowling with a fagged womanizer wearing a moustache. Don't start something you can't finish baby. Your balls are certainly strong enough to kick my pin, but you did fashion this wicked game in porcelain — unable to shoot, let's then fall, before it falls apart!

Forever yours,