Damn, Milan is cold. Freezing. A frigid, bone-chilling -3C°. But as I lunch in this very un-African clime, I suddenly find myself breaking into the faintest of hot flushes. Marching by the window of Via Savone is an infinite line of consummately crafted male archetypes. There’s a Scandinavian bombshell. There’s a bearded hipster. There’s an Asian demigod and an Italian stallion (obviously). They come from all corners of the globe, covering all ages, representing multiple cultures, and flying a flag that proclaims what is oh-so-astonishingly evident: we are all unbelievably good-looking.
At this point, I should mention it’s the beginning of Milan Fashion Week, and these idyllic ideals are in fact models, the end result of an intensive casting for Ermenegildo Zegna’s show, a process that took more than three months. Later I see them again as they wait to be fitted outside the esteemed fashion house’s
bustling headquarters. So by the time the event starts a few nights later, it feels like I know the narrative… I’m part of the crowd. But as much as I’m familiar with the 46 models set to march the ramp, nothing prepares me for the sheer spectacle that is about to unfold.