Dash Snow died while I was writing this editorial, which was going to be about the return to high fashion, the rethinking of the works of Helmut Newton, and the new directions in style and sensibility we’re all taking. But I couldn’t finish it. I couldn’t think about anything but Dash. I was just too sad. The shock was too violent. But Dash’s death wasn’t entirely unexpected. Everyone who loved Dash and his work knew he dealt with love — and with death. He flirted with death, edging closer and closer to it, defying it, but he always managed to reel himself back onto shore. We all knew that one day he could disappear. But he’d been in rehab recently; he was still sick, but he was getting better; and he was enjoying working again. He contributed a lot to this issue of Purple, including portraits of Rene Ricard, Brendan…