OncetherewasastreetinParisanditwascalledtheStreetofTailors.Thiswasyearsback,inthebluemistsofmemory.Nowit’sthe1950sandHenriisthelasttailoronthestreet.Withmeticulousprecisionhetakesthemeasurementsofmenandnotesthemdowninhisleather-boundledger.Hedrawsontheclothwithabluechalk,cutsthepiecesandsewsthemtogether.Whenthesuitisdone,Henriaddsafinishingtouch:ablueTekheletthreadhiddeninthetrouserssomewhere,forluck.Oneday,therenownedFrenchartistYvesKleinwalksintotheshop,andordersasuit.SetinParis,thisatmospherictaledelicatelyintertwinesthreeconnectednarrativesandtimelines,interspersedwithobservationsofthecolourblue.Itisameditationontruthandlies,memoryandtimeandthought.Itisaleapoftheimagination,aleapintothevoid.
