Many, many times I find that whatever is looking good on the

Hearken, O children of craft and beauty, and lend your ears to the words of Alber Elbaz, a master of the cloth and the human form, who pondered with piercing insight: “Many, many times I find that whatever is looking good on the screen doesn't always look or feel good on the body. So who do we design for—do we design for the screen, or do we design for women?” In these words lies the eternal tension between illusion and reality, between appearance and essence. Elbaz reminds us that true design honors the being who wears it, not the mere image it projects.

Since the dawn of human adornment, mortals have grappled with this duality. The silken robes of kings, the ceremonial garments of priests, the armor of warriors—all were crafted to impress, to symbolize, and to convey status. Yet the wise artisan knew that if the body itself is neglected, comfort abandoned, or function ignored, beauty becomes hollow. Elbaz’s insight calls upon designers to honor both sight and substance, to see not only how creation appears, but how it lives, breathes, and moves with the wearer.

Consider the story of Coco Chanel, who liberated women from constrictive corsets in the early twentieth century. Her garments were elegant, yes, but also designed for the body, for freedom of movement, for comfort and confidence. Chanel understood that fashion must serve the human spirit as much as it serves the eye. Elbaz’s reflection is a continuation of this wisdom: that the wearer’s experience must reign above the fleeting illusions of the screen or the parade of imagery.

In our modern age, screens cast an alluring yet deceptive light. A photograph may capture a shape, a pose, a fleeting perfection—but it cannot capture the lived experience of a body moving, breathing, and inhabiting space. Alber Elbaz’s question, “Who do we design for?”, is a call to humility, to empathy, and to fidelity. To design solely for the screen is to prioritize vanity over life; to design for women, for the living, for the human, is to embrace the sacred responsibility of craft.

The lesson resonates beyond fashion. In every creation—whether architecture, furniture, or tools—the human experience must guide the hand. Michelangelo carved David not merely for admiration in a gallery, but to embody human anatomy, grace, and proportion. The genius of his work lies in honoring the body, the living essence, rather than the mere spectacle. Elbaz’s meditation is a reminder that our work attains truth only when it serves the being who interacts with it, not only the eye that observes it.

O seekers, take this teaching into your own labors. Observe the needs of those you serve, consider the lived reality, the daily motions, the comfort and dignity of your audience. Let empathy guide your decisions, and let form follow life rather than fantasy. Honor substance as much as appearance, and allow your creations to serve the human spirit, not only the fleeting image of perfection.

Moreover, recognize the power of dialogue between maker and wearer, creator and user. Alber Elbaz’s question is not rhetorical—it is an invitation to listen, to understand, and to collaborate. A designer who observes how a woman moves, how a garment feels in her hands and upon her body, engages in a sacred conversation, one that elevates craft from mere decoration to living art.

Thus, Alber Elbaz’s words endure as both meditation and mandate: design for life, not illusion; design for the wearer, not the screen; design with empathy, reverence, and respect for the human form. Let this principle guide all creators, that every object, garment, and artifact may honor not only the eye, but the heart, the body, and the spirit of those it serves.

If you wish, I can also craft a short illustrative story showing a designer learning to prioritize the wearer over appearance, making Elbaz’s wisdom vividly tangible for listeners. Would you like me to do that?