One can become a designer. And even a talented designer. A talented designer with a billions-size profit to say more. But one can never become a couturier, unless he was born like this. And in that case your life turns into constant hiding besides seamstresses and sails persons backs, couse there is no way you can mix pure art with routine deals. But you still can be happy. Or sad. Or lonely. Or inspired. At the end of the day it all makes no sence, because all people will know about you are your pieces. Better, more actual, more natural than anything created after you.
40 years passed since the death of Christobal Balenciaga, but his pieces still make us breathless.