I Shared My Closet with a Therapist—Spoiler Alert: She Was Interested in the Leopard-Print Coat.

      Eugénie Trochu is a Who What Wear editor in residence recognized for her impactful work at Vogue France and her Substack newsletter, where she shares insights on emerging trends, her straightforward perspective on fashion and style, along with her personal reflections. She is also in the process of writing her first book, which delves into fashion as a realm of memory, imagination, and transformation.

      L.’s office resembles the Pinterest board of someone perfectly at ease—akin to an Architectural Digest feature that has perhaps gone a tad overboard. The space is entirely white, minimalist, almost clinical, accented by pops of color intended to "warm up the environment." A striking red painting, perhaps too vibrant, hangs behind the sofa. An abstract sculpture rests on the coffee table—its form indecipherable, possibly resembling a hand, a shell, or an organ. I've often thought that doctors, therapists, and dentists (including my gynecologist) have an oddly literal taste in art: overly symbolic and just a bit too on-the-nose.

      The chairs are evidently designer pieces, though I can’t specify which ones. They sit too low to be comfortable yet cost too much to slouch in, creating furniture that makes you conscious of your posture the moment you take a seat.

      Regarding L., she always sports impeccably tailored trousers. Not stiff raw denim or traditional suits, but rather a middle-ground style: slightly masculine and meticulously curated. She's clad in neutral cashmere, elegant and fine, and accessorized with a dark stone pendant that appears spiritual without veering into hippie territory. There’s an intellectual beauty about her—the kind that exudes, “I’ve undergone ten years of analysis. Have you?”

      She’s a therapist who lives in my building, but thankfully not my therapist—otherwise, that would be an ethical dilemma. We often bump into each other in the stairwell, chatting about everything and nothing, and that day I impulsively said, “You know, I’d love to have my wardrobe analyzed.”

      She smiled, naturally—a slow grin, part amusement, part analytical interest. Then, caught in my own words, I added, “Do you want to see it?” A moment of silence followed, and she replied, “Why not?” Instant regret washed over me. Yet, a month later, there I was, in her bright white office, unpacking the contents of my wardrobe as if revealing a secret. She cautioned me, “I’m not going to analyze you. Just observe,” which, coming from a therapist educated in the works of Lacan, Anzieu, and Manon Garcia, suggested a different approach.

      First came the fabric: a 1960s floral print reminiscent of both a sedated grandmother and a Jacques Deray film set. L. gazes at the dress's photo and remarks, “It’s like a piece of upholstery that decided to stroll.” She was correct. When worn very short, with two tiny braids framing my face and slender sandals tied at the ankles, the dress enters a peculiar zone: neither sexy nor innocent, just overtly eccentric. Its colors clash and overwhelm visually. “The print signifies the overflow, everything unspoken, manifested on your body,” she explained. This felt truer than anything else. The wallpaper dress serves as my textile dialogue. It speaks for me, perhaps too loudly, too flamboyantly, and too humorously—a dress that doesn’t listen but always has something to express.

      The white suit required movement to truly appreciate.

      In reality, it channeled a Chanel aesthetic on the brink of chaos. The long white tweed blazer was exquisitely tailored, almost formal—yet it was not. Underneath, it was very short. And as for the shoes? Monogrammed platforms, colossal and almost scandalous, the type of heels that transform walking into performance art. Upon arriving at the Chanel cruise show in Monaco, I felt caught between Le Rocher and the 8th arrondissement—this look’s paradox being that it was excessive yet cohesive. White can redeem all. Tweed exudes sophistication. Poor taste becomes socially acceptable when adorned with the Chanel name. Perhaps the setting contributed to the coherence: white contrasting against a gray sky, palm trees, railings, and waves behind—it was slightly absurd, thus perfect, reminiscent of a fashion campaign in self-parody.

      When I shared the photo with L., she laughed. “That’s the real you—the one who enjoys flirting with the absurd while always managing to pull it off.” She was spot on. It might be my hidden talent: maintaining composure in outrageous shoes, appearing as if I know precisely what I’m doing. Even when I don’t.

      The AmfAR Gala at Cannes was a significant occasion, a genuine spectacle.

      Guests donned monumental gowns, sparkling jewels, and million-dollar smiles.

      "Collective beauty rituals often