I love a woman in a tuxedo, or in a dress, who looks comfortable

Host: The atelier glowed like a cathedral of glass and silk — mirrors lined every wall, reflecting a dozen versions of beauty in motion. Bolts of fabric, champagne-colored and shimmering like water, cascaded from marble tables. The air itself seemed perfumed with ambition and quiet reverence. Outside, Paris was dusk — the city humming with the kind of confidence only art can sustain.

In the center of the room stood Jeeny, her figure framed by the soft sweep of a half-finished gown — ivory satin against her bare shoulders, her posture poised yet alive. Across from her, Jack leaned against a mannequin, arms crossed, his grey eyes glinting beneath the golden studio lights. Between them, a faint soundtrack of jazz and scissors, the rhythm of creation itself.

Jeeny: “Stephane Rolland once said, ‘I love a woman in a tuxedo, or in a dress, who looks comfortable, relaxed, happy. I'd love to dress Daphne Guinness — she has exactly that attitude.’”

Jack: (smiling wryly) “So it’s not the clothes that matter — it’s the state of grace within them.”

Host: The tailor’s shears clicked somewhere in the background, like punctuation marks on a conversation between elegance and truth.

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fashion is supposed to reveal, not disguise. It’s not about armor — it’s about freedom.”

Jack: “Funny, because the world sells it as the opposite — layers of fabric to hide insecurity. Rolland’s talking about something purer, something almost spiritual.”

Jeeny: “He’s talking about authenticity. Daphne Guinness wears her soul as easily as silk. You can see it — that comfort in contradiction. That’s real style.”

Host: Jeeny moved toward the mirror, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. The dress shimmered as she walked, catching light and shadow in equal measure.

Jeeny: “You see, it’s not the tuxedo or the gown — it’s the permission it gives the woman to simply be. Comfortable, relaxed, happy — those aren’t fashion statements. They’re confessions.”

Jack: (grinning) “So confidence is couture now?”

Jeeny: “Confidence is timeless. Couture just tries to keep up.”

Host: He chuckled, the sound low, genuine, echoing slightly off the glass. His reflection caught beside hers — his stark, angular presence a contrast to her soft, fluid grace.

Jack: “You know, I used to think style was artifice — something shallow, manufactured. But there’s truth in what he said. When someone’s at ease in themselves, the fabric becomes invisible. It’s the person you see.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox — fashion at its best disappears. What remains is the spirit.”

Host: The designer’s assistant passed behind them, carrying an armful of velvet — dark, regal, heavy. The scent of steam and dye mingled in the air, intoxicating and alive.

Jack: “And yet, the world still mistakes the surface for the substance.”

Jeeny: “Because surfaces are easier to worship. But comfort — real comfort — that’s rebellion. Especially for women. Imagine wearing power like second skin, and joy like perfume.”

Jack: “That’s why Rolland mentioned Daphne Guinness — she embodies that paradox. Strength without hardness. Glamour without submission.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She wears extremes as if they were equilibrium. There’s something divine in that — a woman who refuses to choose between tuxedo and gown, between masculinity and grace. She wears them both like languages she invented.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly, leaving the room bathed in amber. Jeeny turned slowly toward Jack, the gown moving like liquid ivory, her eyes alive with that same equilibrium she spoke of — fire wrapped in silk.

Jack: “You make fashion sound philosophical.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every outfit is a thesis about identity — who we are, who we pretend to be, who we dare to show the world.”

Jack: “And Rolland’s thesis?”

Jeeny: “That elegance is honesty — the courage to look unguarded while the world stares.”

Host: The music shifted — an old h Piaf tune, soft and melancholy. The atmosphere changed with it: the atelier no longer a workspace, but a chapel of quiet revelation.

Jack: “You think comfort is that easy to find? Most people spend their lives performing themselves.”

Jeeny: “That’s because comfort demands truth. And truth demands self-love — the rarest fabric of all.”

Host: The mirror caught their reflections together — his dark suit, her pale gown. Two contrasts balanced perfectly, like night and dawn debating over which one truly owned the horizon.

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe that’s what makes beauty — not symmetry, but serenity. The moment when nothing feels forced.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Rolland wasn’t celebrating the outfit — he was celebrating liberation. The tuxedo, the dress — both become symbols of choice, not confinement. Of expression, not expectation.”

Jack: “So the real art isn’t what he designs — it’s what the wearer becomes when she stops apologizing.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why he wants to dress women like Daphne Guinness — women who already know who they are. The fabric just helps the world catch up.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, turning back toward the mirror. She lifted her hair, fastening it loosely, and for a brief second — as the candlelight brushed her shoulders — she looked entirely unguarded. Comfortable. Relaxed. Happy.

Jack watched her in silence, the faintest trace of awe in his eyes — not for the dress, but for the truth she’d just embodied.

Jack: “You know, for someone who talks about liberation, you wear elegance like armor.”

Jeeny: (turning, amused) “No, Jack. Not armor — remembrance. Every stitch is a reminder that beauty can exist without apology.”

Host: The camera panned out, capturing the atelier bathed in the soft radiance of creation — fabric glowing, mirrors whispering, two figures caught between aesthetics and revelation.

And as the lights dimmed completely, Stephane Rolland’s words floated through the air like the scent of perfume left behind on skin:

that style is not spectacle,
but serenity;
that the most exquisite garment
is not the one that dazzles,
but the one that frees;

and that true beauty,
whether in a tuxedo or a gown,
is not worn —
it is lived.