A gazar scarf wrapped around a bare chest, covering the breasts. The black chiffon skirt flows like the Seine at twilight. We present you STEPHANE ROLLAND latest collection.
To you, Paris.
A black and white by Brassaï and Prévert’s pen.
Enough to make my pencil glide over my sketchbook.
To you, Paris.
The pages flow, the body takes shape, and the story begins.
Paris at night.
Leafless trees, bronze sculptures, alive.
A shoulder, very square, a sleeve, very straight.
The pavement is gleaming, footsteps echo.
A black suit, half tuxedo.
Some black tailored dresses, always black and androgynous, with organza cutouts.
Mysterious Paris.
Hidden Paris.
Long hooded coat in black velvet and satin, bare chest, adorned with sapphires.
I cover, uncover, forbidden things.
Windows of light. Brassaï captures intimacy.
The dresses are cut out, dancing.
Insolent
A gazar scarf wrapped around a bare chest, covering the breasts.
The black chiffon skirt flows like the Seine at twilight.
Diamonds are bright headlights in the fog.
Movements! Soaring! Paris stirs! A party!
Private. Always.
A white wrap stole clipped with two jonquil diamond brooches. Low black crepe skirt.
Evening pyjamas, kimonos, and caftans embroidered over transparent organza pants.
Long ink-sequined tunic dress embroidered with white porcelain cubism.
Diamond jacket over long black knit dress and a rain of feathers… or feathers of rain.
The birds of Prévert, again.
Incredible giant black satin collar from which the body escapes, a shoulder, an arm, a breast.
“I am as I am.
I am made like this.
When I want to laugh
Yes, I laugh out loud.”
Long black crêpe backless sheath embroidered with silver and giant satin white Arum flower.
“I am made to please.
And can’t change anything…
My heels are too high.
And my waist too curved.”
I read Prévert and my hand loosens.
Corolla bodice,
Bubble jacket,
Circles, lines in the air, the pen glides. Takes flight.
Knit dresses with cutouts and sparkling skirts that propel,
wing beats of a black bird.
The quays.
Paris illuminated
Paris shines,
Paris enamoured.
Voila, my winter collection: black, pure essence, ink-stained whites, drawn as one writes, under the distant
gaze of two poets.
