Orlando’s literary take on Schiaparelli Haute Couture Spring/Summer 2026 collection
Green finch and linnet bird, mockingjay, blackbird, how is it you sing?…
Is this a song? Perhaps. It feels more like a fugitive note, drifting from one paradigm to another – not foliage, but green symphonies; or were they the bars of a cage? I cannot quite remember. In truth, it is still too early to tell.
Last night I wore white, bulbous flowers instead of a nightshirt. I no longer know whether they were allium ursinum or trigonella alba. They were so beautiful that keeping them frightened me: how does one consent to preserve what is destined to fade? I prefer to discard them. I am not inclined towards agony, at least not while there is still light outside.
So much rhetoric about the sun. Creatures of the night are closer to mortal nature: cloaked in transience, not dressed by brilliance but by reflection. The moon, after all, is vain, as she mirrors herself. Penumbra demands a measured pace, though I have not troubled myself with sluggishness, provided my steps remain proud and unbroken.
I cannot recall the exact plan of my house, only that I chose it high. Not for vague scenic escapism, I rarely draw the curtains, but to bring my companions closer to their habitat. There is still a little oxygen, but it is all for them. I prefer musky vapours, the scent of tarragon. Breathing is overrated, leave me only my sense of smell, so that I may inhale the perfume of roses. Rose… no, perhaps coral red, carnelian, or a classic ruby. Or the peach veil of the robin’s throat: I need only pass beside him from his perch upon the shelf, and I am already painted upon the shoulders — untouched — the black caviar velvet and the golden pearls chosen for dinner.
Guests have always struck me as peculiar. I have never wanted any. Meals, too, I do not share. Not from gluttony, never that, but out of courteous manners. Was it the dove’s cooing that accompanied my reading? How could it be? Night has almost fallen; the rooms are closed; the scorpion who keeps watch after vespers has already gone to sleep. The wardrobe is stocked. I have removed everything. I wear only a song. Is it only a song? It is the colouring of iridescent shades, shifting vibrations, subtle hisses from the fine beak of a fragile body. It is the turquoise of early morning, the orange that fractures the dawn, the mist that only fools believe to be pale. It is the voice of the nightingale, one who has never allowed itself to be captured.
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