Today’s news is an interview where Paige Lorenze gives more details about the abusive relationship she had with Armie Hammer. Since the leak of the actor’s first direct messages that brought the issue of cannibalism to the forefront in early January, some two hundred women have contacted that first voice to share their horror stories and two others, in addition to Lorenze, have spoken publicly about theirs. Since then I have read 200 screenshots and dozens of news stories on the subject. The case has become natural part of the most sacred time of my journey: the couple hours that follow the early morning alarm. A year ago this would not have happened. To be fair, a year ago I wouldn’t have made it past the first headline or cared about Miss Cayman because I would have been busy with other things, those other things being plain and simple fashion and its weeks. In January we have menswear, Pre-Fall presentations and haute couture. A year ago Paris would have been a party. Today it is a place shadowed by the thread of a new lockdown and another word in the reviews about the collections presented in digital format.

Everything has changed. Everything except for fashion, because fashion goes on with its calendar even though the world has not been able to find the time to wear everything the industry brings to the stores for almost twelve months, still considers its minimal effort to be more environmentally friendly enough, still deals with the issue of diversity in a forced way and does not delve into the dirty laundry generated behind its own scenes (in the Alexander Wang scandal, reporting the facts should not have been the sole role of the specialized media).

It’s also about to be the anniversary of the last time I bought something I haven’t worn, a red Christopher Kane dress that represents everything that could have been but wasn’t. It still has the tag that proves it is new, but after all this time hanging in the closet it looks like an old picture to me. Actually, almost everything that lives within the four walls of my walk in closet seems to be made for another world and another life, because in this world and this life it is normal that my boyfriend discovers another of my domestic mania before finding out about my talent when it comes to get dressed for dinner. Recently he asked me how many clothes I do have. Just like that, out of the blue. He was hoping to get a number, but I couldn’t give him even an approximate figure. Not only do I not have an inventory, but it has always been impossible for me not to associate clothes with experiences. It’s not a jacket, it’s “the jacket I wore when…”. Well: at that moment I realized that the fashion industry is somehow hidden in my closet, with my garments and experiences of the past waiting for the arrival of a future in which the present does not place them in the penultimate place on the list of things of importance.