Friday, June 13th, 2025 – a day of luck and Eros, in Le Rove.

I arrive on still-unknown ground, in the land of Maison Catanzaro.
The petites mains are hard at work — everything is ready.
It’s buzzing, bustling, rustling.
In search of the rare gem, the unmatched one.

Multiple exhibition spaces: mostly black...
“Black — the color nothing can prostitute,” as the Other would say...

The space of last chances draws me in, tempts and teases:
I glimpse golden backs, faces and hands buried in garments,
and follow intrigued duos, stealing snatches of their amused remarks.

It’s buzzing, bustling, rustling.
The remaining unique pieces cry out with urgent need for adoption!
Prototyped creations, left for loyal followers —
to slip into and never take off again...
The pursuit of perfection, from every angle —
From the creator to the creation,
to the wearer and their desire.

It’s a transmission.
It’s a story of skin and love etched deep.
And about those rare gems, I hear fabulous whispers.
My literary ear tingles, my heart shivers, my pen pulses.

Of a bodysuit, a dress, a catsuit —
a collision of the senses, of decency and decadence.
“I want, I love, I touch.”
A blow of possession.
“I’d never seen it — but I recognized it. Instantly.”
A love at first sight.
“Did you see it?” “I felt it.”
A hit to the senses.

We’re close to the atelier, brimming with fabric...
The shelves are overflowing and talkative,
the rolls wait patiently,
the scissors are growing restless,
and the disjointed mannequins hold hope.

The walls have stories to tell
It’s hot, and people are beautiful.
Summer, freedom, and warmth make people beautiful.

I overhear:
“Who stole my stepladder?”
— A sudden urgency to reach the unreachable star.
“Does it exist in L – L for ‘love’?”
— A stroke of luck to find the size that fits, the style that delights.
“That X-sized dress would suit me. I want it so much. I’ll wear it tomorrow.”
— A spark of anticipation.

Arms filled with red hangers and clipped treasures, we layer on the try-ons and head upstairs.
We hope the moment will be perfect — to glorify the skins that are the target of every gaze.

We strut past the Catanzaro Women, who’ve inherited the eye that elevates.

In between fitting rooms, bowls of sweets, and tangy treats,
we burn with desire — somewhere between calories and bursts of laughter.

There they are: the colorful new pieces the Maison has been teasing us with for weeks on their posts and stories.
We hunt for golden gems among the instant favorites —
dazzling summer looks, close to the sea, ready to escape.

You enter the fitting room alone, with the sizes you hope for, avoid, or secretly dream of.
Silence, shyness, and daring.
A strict gaze… and a flicker of desire.

You come with a friend.
You comment, share, critique, and love.
Laughter rings out — the joy of seeing yourself free.
Free to be yourself, behind the curtain, or center stage.

Charlotte observes, advises.
“May I look? Is it okay? I’ll just measure quickly. Marielle, do you have a tape measure?”
Mistress of choice. Master of exact measurements.

“This is your size. You look beautiful.”
One says…
Silence is golden, and a compliment is a diamond.
“There’ll be just a centimeter more here.”
adds Antonella — the lace-sorceress of happiness.

The petites mains return garments to hangers.
The smiles of Marie, Sandra, Marielle, Maëlys shine, anticipate, respond, race, reveal.

Lovely mouths ask for size two. Lovely bodies hesitate to choose.

Three in a fitting room, the red vinyl of a catsuit peeks out from the side,
multiple feet spill beneath a grey curtain — and laughter erupts.

But at 6 p.m.,
“Boutique’s closed.”
announces the mistress of ceremonies.

Saturday, June 14th, 2025 – market day, a day of beautiful encounters and impromptu exchanges.

At Maison Catanzaro, people come alone, as couples, in groups.
They choose, share, copy, “steal” pieces from one another and reunite in the fitting rooms. Some bring in beloved garments nearing the end of their life — hoping to give them just a bit more time. Vincent receives the precious bag and promises to try. Like a treasure worth preserving.

“I’ll try to fix it.”
A gesture of love, mastery, and hope.
To fix, to welcome, to smile, to enable, to promise.

We talk about last night’s parties, we revisit memories,
we describe the tough awakening — but we’re here.
We speak of the luck of being together again, like a family bound by shared colors.
A bond is born.
An era of connection.
“We were right to come.”
A realization.
“You really have to look, closely.”
A truth.
“That one, I was obsessed with it last year. That’s it, I’m so happy to find it again. Every time, I say I’m done… and then I’m back again. New purchases.”
“Shall we stop here? Are we good?”
A new beginning.

And then, we meet the family.
Patrice walks in, proud to witness his daughter’s work.
He crosses the room, eyes to the ceiling — just checking if the neon lights are working...
The care for luminous detail, for the company proudly entrusted to his Charlotte — discreet and ever-present.
In the simplicity of each gesture,
the harmony of an orchestral organization.

I’m in the heart of purchases, conversations — and I observe.
It’s the same aesthetic, human, and daring ballet as the day before.
So now it’s time for words — against the ache, as we knew it would be.
I cast my pebbles into the pond:

“Maison Catanzaro, in one word, is…?
And in a counter-word, what becomes of it?
What are you thinking of — right now, spontaneously, instantly?
What memory surfaces if I remind you of what you once told me?
And after today, this evening, this family — who do you pledge to?
Give me your pebble, your own, so I can carry a piece of it too...”
The poem – a towering monument to memory – begins to take shape.
It tastes like Proust’s madeleine.
The building is boutique, boudoir, salon —
a space of conversation, exchange, and tenderness.
A cabinet of curiosities and souls.

We’re ready for the evening…

Saturday, June 14th – Jaï’s, Marignane

The guests arrive — all names on the list.
Their looks are already approved by the hosts. It’s obvious.

Bodies are unveiled, adorned in the previous day’s or morning’s favorites.
A natural, effortless runway. The story of the brand written on our skin.
It glows, it lifts, it sculpts, it exalts.
The aesthetic promise is kept.

An ode to the creators,
a tribute to the father, quietly present, his smile — also — discreet.
A gift to the Italian tailors, smiling from their high perch on the stage.

Welcomed by the sound of chill electro beats,
we sense the beach nearby,
the city’s whisper, and the distant pulse of fetish lovers.

The cocktail is divine, the dinner-like apéro masterfully orchestrated
by a hyperattentive, ever-smiling Vincent.

Glass in hand, smile on lips, witty words on minds — the guests laugh.

Fetish artisans showcase their craft — leather, stainless steel, and bold ideas.
The world of fetish is being forged: it is always a hymn to pure creativity.

Amid glitter and disco balls,
we test the handcrafted paddle,
the sting of a crop,
the whistle of silence —
just as we’d try on a scent, a fabric, or a glove.
And then — the runway begins.

What a declaration of love from the models, friends, family, and not-so-dark trouples…
Perfectly choreographed, no lull — every second spent marveling at: the vibrant fluorescent line, the red collection, the datex and amorous vinyl,
the fabulous XY family.
Applause, smiles, camera flashes. Ola!

Alba and Eskal miss nothing, spinning through the crowd.
Vincent clutches the mic with eager hands.
Charlotte dances between shadow and spotlight, making the evening unforgettable for all.

And then — the golden finale:
the two sisters, hand in hand, dazzling in their flawless fits. Beauties!

So we dance.
So we gaze, we eat, we toast.
So we love.

And I sign, for those who want it, the first volume… A heading toward Gynarchy… The second… A heading toward Lust… Out of sync, but not really…

So we dance.
So we gaze.
So we love.

This word family, I hear it whispered, shouted, offered — to anyone and everyone, in every direction.

Yes…
When Patrice confides that his greatest reward is the bond between his two daughters walking the runway together;
When their radiant mothers shine with pride, eyes shimmering with emotion.

A freedom: I see it — in life, in laughter, in song.

When guests hug, connect, and speak closely — far from any imposed distance once deemed necessary.

And me, I scribble notes, slip through the crowd, eavesdrop…
and fall under the charm of: a countess with no costume, a mistress stripped bare, a feathered dancer, a bearded Dom, a bold vendor, a moonlit organizer, a poetic modesty, an extravagance with no excess.

They label places like this "glittered superficiality".
They label routine life "dull superficiality".
But isn’t depth simply daring to look beyond what first meets the eye?

The search for a family of tailors unlike any other…?

When I Hear Maison Catanzaro...

During the open house days,
mouths open slightly at the sound of the name Maison Catanzaro,
and each guest chooses a single word.

I wrote them down, one by one,
on a white stone,
in black ink. From these carefully chosen words,
tailored and lovingly embroidered beyond measure,
flow memories,
emotions pour out,
promises arise,
commitments unfold…

When Maison Catanzaro is written collectively,
after the heartfelt testimonies of Charlotte, Antonella, Vincent, and the brand’s many lovers, it gives birth to three radiant days, a fabric and a skin-love.

You gave me a word: Catanzaro
Its counter-word becomes: dull boredom.
From this word emerge hours spent hunting fabrics,
tiny notions, forgotten treasures.
A memory returns: a dusty attic corner in Italy.
Through your word, I commit to always reinventing sexy.

You gave me a word: sexy
Its counter-word becomes: delicate elegance.
From this word blooms a suspended, sultry moment.
A memory returns: hours stretched in the scent of fire.
Through your word, I commit to burning again, in-body.

You gave me a word: sultry (soufre)
Its counter-word drips into silent blandness.
From this word, passion rises—and above all, sharing.
A memory returns, one that belongs to just us.
Through your word, I commit to respecting our quiet intimacy.

You gave me a word: silence
Its counter-word cries out the urge to scream through the gloom.
From this word comes a dubious outfit, a ruined night.
A memory returns: disagreement, the longing for harmony.
Through your word, I commit to perfect accord.

You gave me a word: perfection
Its counter-word drips into death by frustration.
From this word, the thirst for creation rises.
A memory returns: the pride of a bold red neckline.
Through your word, I commit to the artistic line.

You gave me a word: artist, moved by creation.
Its counter-word is: Nothing left at all.
From this word rises a sound, a breath, a taste.
A memory returns: fittings filled with pleasure.
Through your word, I commit to continuing endlessly—creation as emotion.

You gave me a word: emotion.
Its counter-word holds no shiver, no invention.
From this word arises a meeting in rays of dreamlight in Le Rove.
A memory returns: happiness between lashes.
Through your word, I commit to choosing the originality of being myself.

You gave me a word: originality.
Its counter-word is the bleak dullness of sameness.
From this word, the desire to define nothing anymore, drunken with it.
A memory returns: all memories blending.
Through your word, I commit to exception.

You gave me a word: exception.
Its counter-word is pure absence.
From this word bursts sex appeal, the miracle of style.
A memory returns: the strength and power of one evening.
Through your word, I commit to sharing.

You gave me a word: sharing.
Its counter-word, unmatched, is a brilliance that shines alone.
From this word, childlike excitement of giving arises.
A memory returns—and cascades—memories begin to blend.
Through your word, I commit to loyalty.

You gave me a word: loyalty.
Its counter-word, always and again, is gynarchy.
From this word emerges the fabulous meeting with my first Mistress.
A memory returns: blurred eyes, wet suns.
Through your word, I commit to servitude—made real.

You gave me a word: my reality.
Its counter-word is that same hopeless sameness.
From this word, the urge to define nothing anymore arises.
A memory returns: all memories blend.
Through your word, I commit to exception.

You gave me a word: originality
Its counter-word holds only the dream.
From this word bursts the color red—of fire, of atoms.
A memory returns: the longing to be oneself.
Through your word, I commit to loving myself.

You gave me a word, a verb, an emotion: to love myself.
Its counter-word grows even louder than euphoria.
From this word rises the thrill of a vibrant runway.
A memory returns: being one's own Muse, one’s own doll.
Through your word, I commit to wearing my chosen outfit with pride.

You gave me a word: pride.
Its counter-word is nothing but black—shining, dominant.
From this word appears a pair of worn-at-the-knee trousers.
A memory returns: a metamorphosis.
Through your word, I commit to pleasure—a return to self.

You gave me a word: silk.
Its counter-word is the weight of labor and effort.
From this word emerges the urgency of discovery.
A memory insists: the call to return with each new season.
Through your word, I commit to living in glamour.

You gave me a word: impudent glamour.
Its counter-word is stifling classicism.
From this word bursts a stolen kiss, a sexy indecency.
A memory rises: the rebellious freedom of every XY soul.
Through your word, I commit to painting gentle madness into my life.

You gave me a word: my life, my family, and subtlety.
Its counter-word becomes hideous vulgarity.
From this word arises the meeting between Mother and the creator...
A memory insists: on the runway, and let it shine!
Through your word, I commit to being present—in the name of all my kin.

Antonella, Charlotte, Vincent, the Triopudique, Cadéesse, Marie, Pat, Diane Alba, Madame-Monsieur2, Guillaume, Cendrine, Baptiste 83200, SandySavoie, Louve, Poupéelh, Exalt, Laeti, Aude and all the Catanzar’lovers…