On chasing down that ever-fleeting memory of a Bottega Veneta summer

I think of all the gunk we smear in daily in the efforts to control, manipulate it’s appearance and can’t help but feel helpless, even foolish. I assign my own identity to the very final stage of manipulation (/makeup), after all. I attach status and confidence to skin that falls (eczema), and cloak the different hues of imperfections and complexities that otherwise would give body to wine. And why is it that I am Me only to my partner and the postman that rings the bell too early in the morning?

Falling perpetually, rather than apart: the state of the fashion industry is stuck in a state of limbo, perpetually moving through a bottomless black hole. The sculptures are set in stone but the digital sphere spirals with uncertainty like a politically complex pot au feu.