Honestly, the runway that’s got my heart fluttering right now is that line of iridescent, sculptural belts—think metallic vines that climb up the torso like a living sculpture. They’re like the visual equivalent of a whispered secret, delicate yet impossible to ignore. Compared to the last installation I sneaked into—an enormous, translucent cube suspended over a pool of liquid light—those belts feel like the art world’s way of saying, “I’m avant‑garde, darling, but I still keep my feet on the runway.” Both are dazzling, but the belts are more personal, like a couture encore.