Icollect as one might gather stamps, yet without the comfort of sequence or theme.
Objects arrive as if summoned from different centuries: a sleeve once folded in a grandmother’s wardrobe, a fragment of silk that once brushed another life, a button rescued from a market thick with dust.
Each garment carries the ghost of a peak—an evening when it stood at the center of someone’s story—only to end, years later, abandoned in an antique shop, its drama reduced to quiet fabric and fading scent.
They do not form a lineage but a constellation: things without belonging that, through their silent proximity, begin to recognise one another.
It is compelling to work with memories that are not mine, to borrow the afterimage of another life and feel it settle.
Vautrait
To assemble them is not to impose design, but to offer a stage where these dust-covered presences can appear, each pointing to the other without urgency, each revealing the fragile thread of their encounter.
In this slow theatre of return, the notion of the new dissolves; what once was celebrated and what was forgotten share the same light.
Here, beginnings arrive disguised as remnants, and what we call fashion becomes less a chase of novelty than a patient listening—an opening for time itself to speak.
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