Les sapeurs of Brazzaville and Kinshasa: taxi drivers, tailors and gardeners who, when the workday ends, transform into immaculate dandies in original Versace and Yves Saint Laurent, treated like rock stars as they walk streets of one of the poorest places on Earth. Brazzaville dresses French-exquisite; in Kinshasa anything goes, Yamamoto coats to Scottish kilts.
They fascinate me. Like art, like exploring the Moon while children starve, like wearing lipstick in besieged Sarajevo, a burst of color in the middle of misery. I see the logic, truly.