Great Love - Dior AW19
Updated: May 10
Image: Girl in Style illustration of Dior AW19
The painting was removed from the study. Silently, gracefully (and without her consent), life continued with no trace of him. Had he been a ghost? She hunted for his reverie; disallowed to pine over the Artwork hung upon the tartan encrusted wall above the mantlepiece.
Like mania, the tenor of their interaction consumed her. Without warning, some wayward energy had tugged her hair like a naughty boy in the school yard that evening, ‘pay attention,’ it warned as he’d entered.
An unwavering epiphany; the greatest of nuisance. She rarely swore and yet had adopted a new mantra along the lines of “fuck off”, followed by his name which she repeated to herself every time the thought of him popped into her mind.
She wore scarlet, her body bound by corset. And the train of her skirt, wide open, floated around her legs as if to make the force of her presence even more tenacious as she grappled a glass of champagne (shoulders sharp in defiance).
Of course, his entrance had been gentle and cool. Meandered like a wave but so mighty was the mere fact that the ocean grew loud with rage. She couldn’t swim. In him, the unity was more exacting than an equation, yet effortless; unlike an artist attempting algebra.
These parties were constant and nothing. Their Estate was old and worn and tired. And him? Much less of a bore, stood watching from afar as though all of the patience in all of the world would be enough for her to yield.
But instead it ensued that dreams of their past lives (which they’d surely shared) hushed by her intolerance for weakness. Truthfully, she’d known instantly but pushed this aside with grand assuredness that it was indeed a fluke.
She did the only reasonable thing left to do: cut him off at the source and remained hopeful that he’d continue to pursue her anyway.
In this instance, the empty tartan wall rather inspired her. In fact, just the next day did her tartan trousers precede her as the guests embarked on their morning walk. And in conversation too, she remained remarkably present despite her mind conjuring stories of what it would be like if his car pulled up in the driveway at that very moment.
In her vigour, she was, nevertheless, soft. The ‘chosen child’; her grandiose notions of sharing such weight of legacy with someone equally heroic proved too fantastical to be worthy. Unreasonable, yet it was these precise illusions that had survived her the most insurmountable of blows:
Real love knows no bounds, has no reason; wants for nothing without limitations. It both kills you and gives you life for it is whole and angry and full of contradiction with the exception of just one: it is never cold.
Yes, she did the only spirited thing left to do: cut him off at the source to see if he would join her above the ridiculously high bar she’d set.
She wondered whether he’d fulfil the prophecy, the greatest challenge of them all: Great Love. The most inconvenient, fierce and simultaneously wondrously grounded.
After all, she was tired and slightly wavered in her belief. By ‘semi-heroic’ was no longer a musical score she could live; another of her raucous melodies to sing to. Rather, it was a black hole that instilled in her the fear of almighty. For her to save him, he needed to save her.
“Aren’t you fearless?” She asked aggressively.
You see, despite the paradigms that existed between our heroes was another commonality: their inevitable armour (hers happened to be Dior). As they both rode aimlessly around on their white horses, it became apparent that two heroes needing to be saved meant neither would surrender.
Instead what was for certain was that which showed itself to her in plain sight. She retreated thus into an un-magical land called ‘logic’.
Still, she sat by the fireplace beside the empty tartan wall; a sip of cognac and a heavy heart hummed, “come for me, my love. Over lifetimes we’ve loved each other but in this one, we’ve met. If only, we had the courage to believe we could meet such Great Expectations’.
To create the 'exceptional' cannot be achieved without, in equal measures, near-illusionary dreaming and the tenacity, relentless doing, a pinch of logic (just a pinch) and belief that you can bring it to life.
Dior's AW19 collection both with the classicism of its tartan (hence the nod in our story) and romanticism of free-flowing frill is evidently the result of aforesaid. And certainly, Maria Grazia Chiuri conceives what Christian Dior himself did - the understanding of Art; the passion and thrill to create it and the smarts to take something beautiful and honour it completely.
What else contemplates the trueness of 'Great Love'? And though our heroine might be wavering slightly in her stance, something tells me; she might indeed be the most fearless of them all (in that dress, certainly).
Girl in Style