In the light fabric of this collection, barely glimpsed at first, and then with undeniable power, a sunflower appears. On a deep red or an unforgettable blue, with rapid brushstrokes and pure colours, a flower appears that admits no competition, that resoundingly eclipses any other that joins it. We see on the fabrics a sun planted in the earth, a sun that has not forgotten where it comes from, and that turns its vegetal face to the light, with all its cells eager for life and warmth.
Heliotrope: he who seeks the sun. On the golden metal, on the neck, intertwined with the fingers, more sunflowers: they seem to sprout from the skin, to intermingle with it, with a warmth that pierces the cold material and transforms it into flame: like the sunflowers themselves, they are not jewels that go well with insecurity or shyness.
In a field, in the tall vase of a house, on the low wing of a dress or perched on the chest, the sunflower asks to be looked at, without arrogance or artifice. I am here, it seems to say, I am a reminder that beauty exists, a brushstroke of life in the darkness, on gauze, on a choker.
In the 19th century, Oscar Wilde, the arbiter of elegance, chose to wear a sunflower to his premieres. If it was small, in the buttonhole; if very large, in the hand. It was not just an aesthetic decision, a break with convention in a grey society, trapped by its own prejudices and gagged in corsets. It was a way of initiating a new fashion, of recognising one's own, of sending a message to those who were different. You don't choose a heliotrope as an accessory, or even as a shade for a dress, by chance. It requires a determined will, a desire to capture what the flower conveys.
- Espido Freire
In the light fabric of this collection, barely glimpsed at first, and then with undeniable power, a sunflower appears. On a deep red or an unforgettable blue, with rapid brushstrokes and pure colours, a flower appears that admits no competition, that resoundingly eclipses any other that joins it. We see on the fabrics a sun planted in the earth, a sun that has not forgotten where it comes from, and that turns its vegetal face to the light, with all its cells eager for life and warmth.
Heliotrope: he who seeks the sun. On the golden metal, on the neck, intertwined with the fingers, more sunflowers: they seem to sprout from the skin, to intermingle with it, with a warmth that pierces the cold material and transforms it into flame: like the sunflowers themselves, they are not jewels that go well with insecurity or shyness.
In a field, in the tall vase of a house, on the low wing of a dress or perched on the chest, the sunflower asks to be looked at, without arrogance or artifice. I am here, it seems to say, I am a reminder that beauty exists, a brushstroke of life in the darkness, on gauze, on a choker.
In the 19th century, Oscar Wilde, the arbiter of elegance, chose to wear a sunflower to his premieres. If it was small, in the buttonhole; if very large, in the hand. It was not just an aesthetic decision, a break with convention in a grey society, trapped by its own prejudices and gagged in corsets. It was a way of initiating a new fashion, of recognising one's own, of sending a message to those who were different. You don't choose a heliotrope as an accessory, or even as a shade for a dress, by chance. It requires a determined will, a desire to capture what the flower conveys.
- Espido Freire
