Where does art take refuge after the shipwreck of painting in postmodern confusion? Could fabrics trapped on inert canvases take flight toward more sublime heights? For some, European runways became the setting for a true epiphany: the needle reached aesthetic intensities previously reserved for opera or cinema. Haute couture, freed from the commercial constraints of prêt-à-porter, claimed its place in the realm of the sublime. Can one speak of fashion without speaking of beauty? McQueen drank blood and horror from London's gothic culture; Galliano embraced the frivolous courtly masks that flooded 18th-century Parisian theaters; Saint Laurent plucked from the great Hollywood cinemas a modern woman who would now be the avant-garde, attired in an ambiguous and ravishing tuxedo. At that moment, capital burst in, and, just as with good or evil, the divine or the profane, the West democratically typified the artistic in the name of consumption: what is design when it shies away from the absolute? Does the root perish in the face of the useful? Did the supermodels kill beauty? In this laconic and forceful essay, Clara Zamora Meca restores clothing creation as the artist's work in the face of its crude distortion and commercial standardization. Her words open the door to a world in which, far from obeying consumerist needs, ingenuity strives to satisfy a longing for immortality through the crafting of a garment. Haute couture, which achieved its creative peak before sinking into the smooth and radiant jaws of the market, when pure fantasy permeated glossy paper and was not blurred by the virtuality of screens, finds in these lines an invitation to flourish anew, to clothe souls rather than bodies.