Milan opens tomorrow. The women who built it arrived a week ago, dressed identically.
Black, flat, hair up
Nothing on the hands, nothing at the ears, nothing that can catch on a zipper or vanish into a garment bag.
So you can be found in half a second
Backstage is a crowded room. Black is how someone who works there is identified by a person with no time to ask.
Something you could climb a fence in
Fourteen hours kneeling on concrete to pin a hem, carrying a rail up a service stair, crouching behind a curtain.
Defined by what was removed
Nothing to hold, nothing that slides, nothing that creases on the floor. Each small management costs attention.
Crouch down. Stand up. Adjust nothing.
Run it tonight on three things you own. Almost nothing passes, and the ones that do are what you already wear.