Difficult to put the A.P.C. collections (forty in twenty years) into words, these clothes, discreetly suiting the occasion, giving a fleeting demeanour, adding glamour to dusk, and they simply look like those who wear them, mostly impalpable, half dissident and half trend setter, urban evanescent and wanderers full of idiosyncrasies. It’s as though there was a virtuous circle between the atmosphere of the boutiques and those who are used to going there. The lighting is soft, nothing is offensive. We are here between brackets; no slashing quotation marks will disturb this universe, this white wall, this wall of guitars. Here we are mere partners, and we have agreed being so. No banners which come as labels, no shiny hymns. This is the way a myth builds up, weaved from all the details a period has to offer (a bob, a reefer jacket, a pair of trainers, a pair of shorts) and this is all so fresh (a schoolboy’s cape, dancing shoes, a smock). Like a casually whispered secret.
