A luscious thickness of flirtations, where the hand has granted indulgence to the brush; the softness of hair that no fingers have been allowed to stroke. Beautiful, how beautiful I feel. Beautiful enough to know the pride of duty, the belonging to a role, and from within the frame I let myself be contemplated by the bored schoolboy, by the ardent connoisseur. They say I am always the same, and yet you, oh, how all of you resemble one another. Not a single face rouses memory in me.
And yet, perhaps through the knavery of that Fortune who so delights in mocking those she cannot bend, the palette conceived no garment and compelled a narcissism without the means of display. Superb, though, are you, Destiny: too certain as you trace departures and destinations, and those remain fixed; while the in-between is the charity of another power, and your will was never made plain to you, you who take orders.
It matters little to me to be seen. I want to be dressed. Look at the housewife who puts things in order with diligence: she too takes delight in the colour of flowers. There is no darkness for an extinguished eye, no solitude for only children. Alone I drift through the salons, covered by my hair.
I have always loved the scene before me, the true Carnival of black masks, the sombre cupidity of Venice playing chess with the sexes. Madame, do not be displeased if I borrow it from you; courtesy, by chance, was granted even to my soul.
Buds are placed in vases, but the broken ones, who will use them ever again? They have curves like a belly; I see my own there, soft. Porcelain fits it, perfectly. The first bears a blue bouquet, yet I still want to try others. The cobalt one is full of water and great daisies; the ivory one has sculpted petals; upon its back the mule carries skins along the coasts of the Aegean.
Oh, yet I want spring upon my body, and roses and peonies and tufts of bridal veil. I want pansies and forget-me-nots, a noon of tulips, and bellflowers bowing downward, a field of Ides of March where one has no capacity to die. Pygmalion knew it: one falls in love with one’s own art, not out of vainglory but out of consciousness. Love thy neighbour as thyself. And I love myself, how I love myself, enough to deserve one last taste.
Ladies and gentlemen, the debt is settled, the loan exhausted, the object returned. Before the crush, an ecstasy of skin. I was given no background. Yet at my side stands the landscapist who paints freedom: green without end, the colour of humankind, of a paradise not lost to the artist who knows eternity. I run swiftly and return to my pose. The spectator does not know it, but I am happier.
And you who read, when you come to visit me, observe: the mouth is slightly puckered by a restrained smile; the matte film has gone from the pupil. There is the light of adventure, which is the light of life. We exist only by stepping beyond the bars that expose us to judgement.
Our founder sat down with Elisa Seitzinger for an exclusive conversation about tarot, creative and personal time, the Major Arcana, black cats, birth charts, and much more.
In Victorian England, strawberry parties transformed a fleeting fruit into a refined ritual of summer, where the season revealed itself through quiet enchantment and entered literature, painting and social memory.
A Victorian chamber of vision, where painting and poetry meet at the threshold of the invisible, and beauty becomes a language of longing. The visible world begins to glow like a spell whispered between art and the soul.
Reading leaves us with something: a sharpened awareness, an intuition, a lesson learned without direct cost.
Bringing together playfulness, memory, and materiality through Ceramics.
An insightful and entertaining conversation with the talented Private Chef from the worlds of art and luxury.
Are you a sensitive and curious traveler, constantly searching for beauty, art and cultural inspiration? Sign up to receive the latest contemporary news!