Fashion That Passes

Short hair is in. The British restaurant at the Exposition des Arts Décoratifs is in. Blue is in. Joan of Arc is in. Crossword puzzles, the novels of Pierre Benoît, belote, appendicitis, mahjong, and many other things are in.
Long skirts are no longer in fashion. The American-style mustache is no longer in fashion. Tango is no longer in fashion. Whist is no longer in fashion. Puzzles, poodles, Bernstein's pieces, the Spanish flu, nativity scenes, and many other things are no longer in fashion.
And first of all, what is fashion? It's a fleeting infatuation with someone or something, a contagious disease, a custom that suddenly springs up among a group of individuals, develops, grows, and dies.
Who makes fashion? Everyone. You, me, an organizer, a newspaper, a couturier, a clown, an association. It's born as mysteriously as it disappears.
Nothing is easier than starting a trend. Walk down the street and look up. Everyone will look up. Decree that the elevator is a harmful instrument, and that the stairs are a complete sport, and everyone will climb the floors on foot.
Why is fashion so fleeting? Probably because it's based on nothing more than the desire to be like the neighbor, to go wherever it's chic to go. Humanity is a vast flock of Panurge's sheep. It lets itself be guided by any leader, without even knowing him. But the day everyone has gone to the same place, all it takes is one individual to declare:
"This is becoming too common. I'm leaving."
And the fashion immediately dies.
Because fashion is stupid. Human beings standardize their desires until they realize it's ridiculous to act like everyone else. They are told:
"It's elegant, it's original to do this or that."
To be "on the bandwagon," they follow the movement. The Russians are in fashion. Have you seen the Russian ballets, the Cossacks, the bat, the Russian nightclubs, the roller coasters? And to immerse themselves in Russian up to their necks, until they're fed up with it.
Nothing is sadder than a fad that passes. The term "out of fashion" is cruelly melancholic. We burn what we loved, and the song that was all the rage for two months and that everyone hummed is now nothing more than an old-fashioned tune whose chorus makes you smile.
Are there fashions that never die? No. There are some that last five, ten, twenty years, or more. You've always played bridge or belote, but your parents only played bézigue and manille and thought these games would last forever.
For fashion rarely has genius inventions. Masterpieces are never fashionable; they don't attract unreasonable and quickly faded enthusiasm. They take centuries to establish themselves.
Yesterday's fashion, today's fashion, tomorrow's fashion, the fragility of a taste that rests on nothing, a momentary whim, a charming folly that passes, breaks, and tires—you are but a word.

SERGE VEBER.