“The street and me is a love story. 1971 is a great date because, finally, fashion took to the street.”

I don’t at all search for an ideal woman, but several ideal women.

Seeing Cubism paintings at the Beaubourg makes me very happy and also old films.

I prefer to shock rather than to bore through repetition.

I love black because it affirms, designs and styles. A woman in a black dress is a pencil stroke.

The most beautiful makeup of a woman is passion. But cosmetics are easier to buy.

What is wonderful about my art is that dream and reality can become one. There is just one step between the two.

If, in ready-to-wear, a garment is manufactured according to standard sizes, the haute couture garment adapts to any imperfection in order to eliminate it.

Fashion is like a party. Getting dressed is preparing to play a role.

To be beautiful, woman enough to have a black sweater, black skirt and walk arm in arm with the man she loves.

Anyone who reaches for great expression has to be careful of the ridiculous.

I participated in the transformation of my era. I did it with clothes, which is surely less important than music, architecture, painting but whatever it’s worth I did it.

A woman’s wardrobe shouldn’t change every six months.

I have always believed that fashion was not only to make women more beautiful, but also to reassure them, give them confidence.

I like to watch the way a model moves in my clothes, the way she gives them life, or if they are wrong, stillborn, the way her life rejects them.

My name will be written in fiery letters on the Champs Elysees.

Each model I have represents a type of ideal women to me.

When I go onstage and am performing the way I want to… I finally feel like myself.

I would like to express the thoughts of a man who, having finally penetrated the partitions and ceilings of little countries, little coteries, little sects, rises above all these categories and finds himself a child and citizen of the Earth.

It’s nice to finally be my own person.

First you forget names, then you forget faces. Next you forget to pull your zipper up and finally, you forget to pull it down.

The wise man does at once what the fool does finally.

We get so much in the habit of wearing disguises before others that we finally appear disguised before ourselves.

And then when they finally do get aboard, it’s the last place they want to be. It’s harrowing. That is the horrible irony of a refugee’s life.

Finally, the scariest thing about abuse of any shape or form, is, in my opinion, not the abuse itself, but that if it continues it can begin to feel commonplace and eventually acceptable.