My favorite designer is Christian Lacroix, not just because his

Host: The backstage of the fashion hall pulsed like a living thing — a storm of light, fabric, and nervous breath. The scent of perfume, hairspray, and adrenaline filled the air like incense in a temple of fleeting beauty. Assistants darted between racks of gowns that shimmered under the warm backlight, their whispers merging into a rhythm that felt both frantic and sacred.

It was late — minutes before the final rehearsal. The runway, bathed in pale gold, stretched out like a dream half-awake. In the reflection of the floor-length mirror, Jack stood beside Jeeny, both slightly out of place in a world made of silk and symmetry.

Jack’s grey eyes wandered across the chaos with quiet disbelief, while Jeeny’s brown eyes gleamed — alive, enchanted.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… there’s a kind of beauty here that’s terrifying. Everyone shining, everyone trying to hold still long enough to be unforgettable.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a war fought in heels.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “In a way, it is.”

Host: A model brushed past them, the sweep of a crimson dress whispering like fire. The sound of clicking cameras bled in from the next room.

Jeeny: “Adriana Lima once said, ‘My favorite designer is Christian Lacroix, not just because his clothes are amazing and I love them, but because he’s so nice. When I did his fashion show, he was the first one to arrive there and he helped everyone.’”

Jack: “Nice. That’s not a word you hear often in this business.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why it struck me. Amid all this artifice, someone being kind feels… radical.”

Jack: “You think kindness is fashion’s missing accessory?”

Jeeny: “No — I think it’s the fabric it lost.”

Host: Jeeny turned slightly, the glow from a nearby spotlight catching her face — half-lit, half-shadowed — as if she herself were caught between the illusion and the truth.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought this whole world — the shows, the glitter, the applause — it’s hollow. People worship the image and forget the hands that stitch it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why her words matter. Lacroix — a legend, but also a man who carried boxes, who showed up early to help. That’s what she remembered. Not his fame — his presence.”

Jack: “So you’re saying humility can still exist in a place built on vanity?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise it collapses under its own mirror.”

Host: A makeup artist passed, her apron dusted with shimmer, humming quietly to herself. The murmur of conversation swelled and fell like the tide.

Jack: “I’ve seen it happen — people lose themselves chasing beauty. They forget that admiration is just applause with a short echo.”

Jeeny: “But not everyone. There are still those who see creation as service, not spectacle. Lacroix was one of them — he didn’t just dress people, he lifted them.”

Jack: “You speak like you were there.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I wish I had been. To see an artist who believed kindness could coexist with genius.”

Jack: “That’s rare. Most people think success and softness don’t mix.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they confuse kindness with weakness.”

Host: The room pulsed again — someone shouted for final call. The lighting crew adjusted the dimmers; the world turned gold. In that glowing chaos, Jeeny looked down at the fabric draped across the racks — silk, lace, velvet, colors like breath made visible.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful about Lacroix’s work? He never forgot the human body beneath it. You can tell. His clothes breathe with you.”

Jack: “You mean he designed for people, not mannequins.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it’s art — because it remembers you.”

Host: Jack looked around, his eyes softening. He could see it now — the way the assistants worked with careful urgency, the way each seamstress touched the fabric like a prayer. There was chaos, yes, but there was also something deeply human beneath it.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what amazes me. Not the clothes — the devotion.”

Jeeny: “That’s what she saw in him. A man who arrived first and helped everyone — that’s the truest kind of leadership.”

Jack: “You think that’s why she called it amazing?”

Jeeny: “Of course. The beauty wasn’t just on the runway — it was backstage, in the hands that made the impossible look effortless.”

Host: A hush fell as the lights dimmed to half. The models lined up in single file, the soft shuffle of heels echoing against the wooden floor. Jack and Jeeny stepped aside, watching as the music began — slow, swelling, cinematic.

Each model emerged one by one — draped in light, carrying with them the grace of hundreds of unseen gestures.

Jack: “You ever notice how these shows are like small universes? So much effort for moments that vanish in minutes.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes them sacred. Transience is proof of feeling.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet trapped in couture.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a cynic pretending not to be moved.”

Host: He smiled — caught. The music swelled higher, violins and synth blending in impossible harmony. Jeeny’s eyes followed the models, but her words drifted somewhere deeper.

Jeeny: “You know, I think kindness leaves a scent. You can feel it long after the moment passes — like perfume on a sleeve.”

Jack: “So you think that’s Lacroix’s real legacy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not the gowns. The grace.”

Host: The finale music faded, the applause thundered — a wave of sound crashing against the walls. The designer emerged from the shadows, smiling softly, his presence humble amid the spectacle he’d created.

And for a brief moment, the lights caught him — not as an icon, but as a man. Hands slightly stained with fabric dye, posture unassuming, eyes kind.

Jack watched, then turned to Jeeny.

Jack: “You were right.”

Jeeny: “About what?”

Jack: “That kindness is the real luxury.”

Host: She smiled, her eyes warm, reflecting the golden chaos around them. The audience rose to their feet. Cameras flashed. But for Jack and Jeeny, it wasn’t the spectacle that lingered — it was the simplicity of one truth shining through all the glitter:

That greatness, when it’s real, doesn’t need to announce itself. It arrives first.
It helps.
It listens.

And long after the applause fades, its light — quiet, human, and amazing — remains.