It’s at a bookstore table that we meet for the first time. Hedi Slimane is not only a photographer. After he studied literature, political science, and art history, he was a talented tailor and today is also one of the most famous fashion designers, in touch with most of the Parisian creators like YSL and Christian Dior. But in fact, I don’t care. The only thing I really care about is his diary. Slimane gives me, with a kind of insulting diffuseness, his diary of large-size shots of an everyday reality that nobody but his acute vision can see. Some of these make me think of the universe of Hunter S. Thompson, a black and white world, sometimes as dirty as a paragraph of Easton Ellis, but more often as bright as the Californian sun.