THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS-HEDI SLIMANE-Feb. 2004

JUNE 29, 2003. On a warm Paris evening, a black Peugeot rolls up to Bercy, a slablike sports arena currently being transformed into a temple of postnuclear chic. The Peugeot stops at Porte 27 and leaves off Hedi Slimane, who enters the arena loose-limbed and relaxed. CLOTHING RACKS, ironing stations and makeup tables with mirrors framed in lightbulbs now fill the vast acreage where hockey games are usually played. Trailed by his lieutenants kris Van Assche and Sabisha Friedberg, Slimane moves through the passage-ways looking side to side, his translucent blue eyes the size of shooter marbles swiveling around sadly in their sockets. As he issues crisp greeting in French to the technical people hauling and checking equipment, he wears his considerable power lightly : The fine-boned melancholy coupled with ripped jeans and his signature hip haircut (long on top, buzzed on the sides and in back) creates an intriguing contrast—sort of Camus as club kid. Striding toward the staging area where the catwalk is located, Slimane parts some heavy curtains and goes through, allowing them to fall in the faces of Van Assche and Friedberg, who exchange a wordless glance as if to say, « That’s our genius ». Never rude intentionally—just very focused and always moving forward.