I would like to say to people, open your eyes and find beauty

Host:
The fashion studio was bathed in late afternoon light, spilling through high industrial windows like honey. Dust motes danced in the golden beams, swirling gently above unfinished sketches, pins, threads, and rolls of fabric spread across the floor like fallen rainbows. The room smelled faintly of chalk, leather, and perfume — the alchemy of creation.

At the long cutting table stood Jack, sleeves rolled up, a half-smoked cigarette trembling between his fingers. He wasn’t smoking; he just needed to hold something fragile. His gaze was fixed on a dress form draped in scraps of denim and lace — an odd, daring combination that looked more like rebellion than fashion.

Across the room, Jeeny sat cross-legged on a stool, sketchbook on her lap, charcoal smudges on her fingers. She watched him with a mix of curiosity and tenderness — the kind of look one artist gives another when she knows he’s on the edge of something brave or broken.

Jeeny: softly “Jean Paul Gaultier once said, ‘I would like to say to people, open your eyes and find beauty where you normally don't expect it.’”

Jack: half-smiling “Yeah. That sounds like him — the pirate of couture, turning sailors’ stripes into art.”

Jeeny: grinning faintly “He never saw beauty as polite. He dragged it out of the alleys and put it on a runway.”

Jack: quietly “Because real beauty doesn’t ask for permission.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. It doesn’t sit in galleries — it walks down the street wearing scars and confidence.”

Jack: taking a slow breath “Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing. I’ve been chasing perfection when I should’ve been looking for truth.”

Host: The light flickered across his hands, tracing the pale dust of chalk and the faint callouses that spoke of patience and failure. A thread hung loose from the fabric — trembling, alive, imperfect.

Jeeny: softly “Gaultier never made art for beauty’s sake. He made it for honesty. That’s why his clothes made people uncomfortable — they were mirrors.”

Jack: quietly “And mirrors don’t lie.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “No. They just show you what you’d rather not see.”

Jack: looking at the mannequin “So maybe beauty isn’t about harmony at all. Maybe it’s about friction — the tension between what we expect and what dares to exist anyway.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s it. He found beauty in contradictions. Punk and elegance. Masculine and feminine. Shame and pride. He turned rejection into revelation.”

Jack: quietly “And that’s why his work lasts — it tells the truth about being human. Messy, defiant, alive.”

Host: The sun shifted, throwing long shadows across the studio floor. The dress form seemed to come alive — a figure half-born from scraps and faith.

Jeeny: after a pause “You know what he really meant by ‘open your eyes’? He was saying — stop being lazy. Stop waiting for beauty to present itself in a perfect frame.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. Because real beauty doesn’t arrive announced. It hides in rust, in wrinkles, in noise.”

Jeeny: softly “In the overlooked and the discarded.”

Jack: smiling faintly “In the forgotten corners of our own hearts.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. Beauty’s not a standard — it’s an act of attention.”

Jack: after a pause “And maybe the people who can still see it are the ones who haven’t given up on wonder.”

Host: A train rumbled faintly in the distance, shaking the windowpanes. The fabric on the table fluttered slightly, like something alive reacting to the heartbeat of the world outside.

Jeeny: softly “You ever notice how Gaultier dressed his models like stories, not statues? He didn’t want perfection walking — he wanted humanity strutting.”

Jack: smiling “Yeah. His beauty had blood in it.”

Jeeny: quietly “And humor, too. He found the divine in the absurd.”

Jack: nodding slowly “That’s courage — to love what others laugh at. To say, ‘Yes, this is beautiful,’ even when the world disagrees.”

Jeeny: softly “To turn mockery into masterpiece.”

Host: The room glowed with the last breath of daylight, the gold now deepening to amber. The threads, fabrics, and mannequins looked almost holy in their imperfection.

Jack: quietly “You know, I used to think beauty had to impress. Now I think it just has to express.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. Beauty’s not about symmetry — it’s about sincerity.”

Jack: softly “And sincerity doesn’t care if it’s liked.”

Jeeny: quietly “It just wants to be seen.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe that’s what Gaultier was really saying — beauty isn’t something we create; it’s something we finally notice.”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. It’s already here — in the cracked, the crooked, the brave.”

Host: The city lights outside flickered on, one by one, casting a faint reflection on the glass — beauty blooming in a thousand small, electric flowers.

Jeeny: softly “You know, it’s easy to find beauty in sunsets and art galleries. But try finding it in a junkyard, or in the eyes of someone who’s broken — that’s the real challenge.”

Jack: quietly “And the real reward.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because that kind of beauty doesn’t just decorate — it redeems.”

Jack: after a pause “Yeah. It gives meaning to the ruin.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. It says, ‘You’re still worth looking at.’”

Jack: smiling faintly “That’s love disguised as art.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe all great art is love in disguise.”

Host: The rain began, tapping softly on the skylight above them — a gentle percussion against the rhythm of their thoughts. Jack picked up the denim-and-lace garment again, his hands steady this time.

Jeeny: smiling softly “So what do you see now?”

Jack: quietly “Something alive. Something that shouldn’t work, but does. Something that feels... honest.”

Jeeny: softly “Then it’s beautiful.”

Jack: after a pause “Yeah. And maybe that’s what I’ve been missing all along — not the perfection of form, but the courage of truth.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “That’s Gaultier’s gospel.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Beauty as rebellion. Honesty as style.”

Host: The studio light dimmed, leaving only the reflection of the rain shimmering on the floor. The room was quiet again — the kind of quiet that follows revelation.

And as the night folded gently around them, Jean Paul Gaultier’s words lingered — not as fashion advice, but as a manifesto for the soul:

That beauty is not luxury,
but perception —
a choice to look deeper,
to find meaning in what the world ignores.

That the divine often hides in the discarded,
the unconventional,
the raw.

That to truly open your eyes
is to see not what is perfect,
but what is true —
to find radiance in imperfection,
and dignity in the flawed.

Because art begins not when we design,
but when we notice.

And those who dare to look
will find beauty
everywhere the world has stopped believing it exists.

Fade out.