Viktor & Rolf, "Long Live the Immaterial", Fall/Winter 2002/03
Gone are the times when New York City and Yohji Yamamoto were a novelty, something unreachable. I have lost a good portion of my proverbial naivety, my notebook holding the words "I guess I'm no longer a dreamer". Perhaps the hibernation of poetic thoughts has sharpened my senses in a different way. Why are the most crushingly immense transitional places always metaphysical?
