Dear Yves,
I hope this letter finds you well old friend.
It has been quite a while since we last spoke — since my fingers caressed your velvet trimmings, silk pleats and those perfectly tailored white shirts.
Remember the day we first met? Three years ago, though my admiration for you began many years prior, when I was just a little girl and my mother spoke of the golden age when you reigned as the little prince of your time. You awoke a curiosity that led me to a world where I found myself. A world that kept calling to me, even at times when I did not want to listen. A brave new world of spectacle and absolute expression. However, on that beautiful April day, our relationship somehow became much more personal as I entered a land of cobalt blue and enchanting hues. Your secret garden blossoming with mystery and a serene power imbued with eccentricity and warmth; it was playful yet sinful, wild but tamed, a beautiful reflection of you Yves, a prince of many different moods and colors. I saw you that spring day, roaming with all that awkward grace, your hair flickering in the breeze as you spoke to the flowers with that timid voice of yours. You were staring at all those humans walking in and out admiring a mystical world that was not so secluded anymore. I wondered if you were quite happy about that? You seemed a little agitated beneath your calm surface. But I understand, Yves. I’m sure even spirits need their space sometimes. Nevertheless, what a magnificent day that was. For I had never really loved Monsieur Saint Laurent, until I glimpsed Yves himself.
You know, my favorite book of all time is The Little Prince. He is embedded in the night as the essence of every dreamer. I like to believe that in each era he reincarnates himself onto different realms through certain beings to add beauty to our world. His essence suffused your art, crowning you as the Little Prince of couture. Through you, he was brought again to life in a world of beauty and exquisite creation, allowing him to express himself to a new generation. And just like him, you never really grew up. Do you remember these words? “Here is my secret. It is very simple: one sees well only with the heart. The essential is invisible to the eyes.” Well, your heart, my friend, was always as beautiful as what you made.
You know Yves, you remind me of someone dear to me, which is perhaps why I understand your struggles. Tell me, that night at Marie’s house, did you ever think you were going to meet the love of your life? I know you always had a strong intuition and a great belief in omens, but did you ever dream of a love like that? Were you ever scared of such a strong bond? Or did it feel natural to you, this sense of belonging? Jack Kerouac once wrote, “I’m a wretch but I love, love.” I can tell that you love, love just as much as I do. Rest peacefully my friend, for you have achieved the greatest accomplishment of all, L’amour fou. One prays for a love like a river, steady and strong on the surface but forever raging with mad currents beneath. People like you and me, we live for love. Perhaps creative beings are initially born to love, then everything else just falls into place.
Did you love the theater because it carried you away from a restricted reality to a limitless world? Did it free you to create garments that dreams are made of? I’m sure you loved the silver screen too—oh how I would love to watch a movie with you. I wonder which would it be? I suggest “In the Mood for Love” by Wong Kar-wai. The soundtrack is playing in the background as I write to you. I’m certain you’d enjoy it.
My friend, you were a beautiful man. You captivated all the mad ones of your time. From Andy to Jeanloup to Horst, they were blinded by the brilliant clarity that pervaded your portraits. One couldn't simply underestimate the power behind your gaze, one which reflected both darkness and light. Your favorite artist was Picasso and I can see why. As the French would say, c’est tout a fait toi. But tell me, which was your favorite portrait of all? Perhaps the one by Bernard that hung behind your desk? That was a very young Yves, an eager but intricate mind.
I’m sorry if you feel you lost me at times. I tend to have an undisciplined train of thought. But I guess someone like you would surely understand.
You hate to be criticized, don't you? Maybe because you were always your biggest critic. I guess it’s ok to feel a little bitter at times. Remember the collection that didn't do too well in 1963? I heard you went off blaming all the models, which wasn't very nice of you Yves. But honestly, I don't take criticism lightly either, unless if it is from people that have always had my best interest at heart. Thankfully, you always had Pierre for that. I guess fire signs can be pretty stubborn; we just need to surround ourselves with those who give our life the equilibrium we need to help us blossom even in our times of solitude.
I wonder, do masters always know their destiny? Catrine said you had a double personality that reflected onto your creations. I think I agree with her. But what baffles me is that it is almost like you never really knew how brilliant you were. Someone once told me that a wise man never knows that he is wise. Perhaps that is the secret of your genius. You always gave yourself the room to grow.
Remember Karl, your old friend who took over Coco’s empire? He recently opened a store of his own on the Rive Gauche. I guess you influenced him too, for you were the pioneer of democratizing fashion. The ongoing love affair you had with the streets inspired many to develop their own individuality. I have a lot of respect for Karl, but I think nowadays he has no time for dreams during his very busy day. It’s quite a shame. Whereas you my friend, were always a dreamer of both the day and the night.
You were quite loyal Yves. You always made the mad ones proud by bringing your people back to life. Your collections celebrated the Masters of the past, those untamed hearts that taught us all we needed to know about life and love. From Shakespeare to Matisse, you repurposed genius into a stunning new form: you gave their visions the ability to walk. It’s true, the mad ones should always stick together. And for as long as you lived, you did them justice.
You know, I was living in Paris on the day your lost soul was set free. I too was lost, a young woman with a wild heart in constant battle with reason. But as I matured, I realized it never really was about figuring out who I was, it was about giving my mind the freedom to constantly evolve. I owe that city so much. Even though some might consider growing up in your early twenties a little late, your city made it worth the wait. I guess I've always been a late bloomer. It’s funny now that I think of it, we both really were lost souls at the time; the difference is, as you slipped away, I awoke.
I’m sure it must have been hard seeing all your belongings scatter away in the arms of strangers. Like you, I am sentimental. Nothing breaks my heart more than the thought of letting go. However, think of it this way: a part of you now lives on in spaces bursting with life, your memory forever rising in those who interact with the objects once so dear to your heart. At first I honestly thought it was a bit selfish of Pierre, but perhaps we should try to understand that some people simply cannot live in the past. Perhaps we must respect that each individual mourns in a particular manner. We can only fight our battles with the weapons at hand. Some more powerful than others. But I find myself quite confused at times, Yves. I wonder how you would have wanted to be remembered? In tragedy or celebration? Because my friend, you were always quite a contradiction.
I often wonder what you think of Hedi. I must admit, the S and L still seem pretty lonely without their beloved Y. I guess we have to face the fact that innovation is the symbol of this era, and unfortunately I’m not living in the most glamorous of times. However, my heart is slowly warming up to him. My Saint Laurent lace-up ankle boots are all I’ve been wearing this winter, but no matter how far these boots can take me, I will never forget the Y that is so much more than a letter on a logo. Without it lies a body lacking its spirit—the Y that breathes it into life. Even though it does not exist on tags anymore, it is forever rooted in each and every thread. You probably would have found the “AIN’T LAURENT WITHOUT YVES” campaign quite amusing; I can see you smirking about it right now. Don’t you worry dear friend, people like you simply cannot be forgotten.
Sorry to take up so much of your time, I’m sure you still keep yourself busy wherever you are. The hopeless romantic in me has only one more thing to say to you Yves. These words of yours hold a very special place in a reckless heart:
“The most beautiful clothes that can dress a woman are the arms of the man she loves. But for those who haven't had the fortune of finding this happiness, I am here.”
My friend you were here, you are here and you will always be. My heart, quite torn at the moment, always feels whole on those days when I feel beautiful. Even though it is a temporary fix, I must say it helps. Thank you for not only creating beauty but finding it in each of us.
Thank you Yves. Just ‘Yves,’ without the ‘Saint’ or the ‘Laurent.’ Thank you for understanding what it is to be a modern woman.
So I end on this note:
May you forever be remembered as a mad one. The fragile little prince with enormous talent and most importantly, an enormous heart.
Thank you for being you.
Love,
L
P.S: I hope you don’t mind me calling you my friend.
