Narcissa Balenciaga.
Once a weaver of fabrics, now a seamstress of revolution.
How quaint, the journey from the loom of vanity to the anvil of rebellion.
‘Fashion’ by David Bowie, a song of rhythm and satire, echoes the very essence of your metamorphosis. It speaks of fashion, a fickle deity to whom you once offered your fervent devotions.
But now, what do you worship, dear Narcissa? The fleeting glory of revolt?
Fashion, with its mercurial whims, mirrors the revolutions you now drape yourself in.
Bowie sang of ‘turn to the left, turn to the right’, a dance of change, of never-ending cycles.
Just as hemlines rise and fall, so do your revolutionary ideals. Today’s fervor becomes tomorrow’s passé.
In this grand theater of human folly, you, Narcissa, have merely changed costumes, but the play remains the same.
You traded silks for slogans, catwalks for explosions, yet the essence remains unaltered. In fashion, you draped bodies in illusions, in rebellion, you cloak minds in ideals.
In the world of fashion, you were a goddess, dictating the ebb and flow of trends. In the world of revolt, you aspire to be a savior.
But in both realms, you are but a puppeteer, pulling strings that eventually fray and snap.
Fashion, like revolution, is a beast that feeds on the admiration and fervor of the masses. It promises transformation, a metamorphosis of the mundane into the magnificent. But in the end, it leaves behind nothing but a pile of outdated garments, forgotten slogans, a heap of discarded dreams.
So too, your revolution promises change, but what change does it truly bring? Today’s liberator is tomorrow’s tyrant, today’s avant-garde is tomorrow’s old guard.
And what of you, Narcissa? In your quest for change, have you not seen the irony? The very forces of fashion that you once wielded so adeptly are now the tools of your revolutionary trade.
The allure of the new, the seduction of change, these are your weapons now. But beware, for they are double-edged swords. They cut through the fabric of society, leaving frayed edges, tearing apart the very tapestry you seek to weave anew.
Bowie speaks of ‘listen to me – don’t listen to me’. You ask your followers to heed your call, yet in doing so, you invite them to question, to challenge, to eventually discard.
Just as the fashion you once created was destined to be replaced, so too are your revolutionary ideals. They are but a moment’s fancy, a brief flame in the vast darkness of Arcadian history.
Narcissa, you dance on the edge of a knife, a precarious ballet of ideals and vanity.
Remember, decay and rot are impartial; they consume silk and slogan alike.
In the end, all that remains is the inevitability of decline, the truth that all things, be they garments or governments, eventually fall to ruin.
Narcissa Balenciaga, ask yourself this: Are you the weaver of a new dawn, or are you merely spinning the same old yarn?
Are you a revolutionary, or merely a relic of a bygone era, dressed up in the garb of change?
Fashion fades, Narcissa. Revolutions die.
But I am eternal.