Above the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in Paris, an assistant leads me along a winding corridor of glass cubicles into an entirely white room. This is the office of the editor of French Vogue, but how one might do any editing in it is beyond me. There are no flatplans on the wall or overflowing in-trays. There isn’t even a computer. Instead, there is a desk, two chairs, some white roses, a white scented candle, three white books and an unnervingly aggressive black-and-white Robert Mapplethorpe print of a woman’s quivering

Above the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in Paris, an assistant leads me along a winding corridor of glass cubicles into an entirely white room. This is the office of the editor of French Vogue, but how one might do any editing in it is beyond me. There are no flatplans on the wall or overflowing in-trays. There isn’t even a computer. Instead, there is a desk, two chairs, some white roses, a white scented candle, three white books and an unnervingly aggressive black-and-white Robert Mapplethorpe print of a woman’s quivering