transcript
show notes
The room is a gallery: plinths, silence, and a guard who never looks up. Poured concrete on every wall, a polished floor that holds the light like water, and glass from floor to ceiling down one side, so that from mid-morning the sun comes in at an angle and lays a bright wedge across the floor. We shot in that wedge. The sculptures were already there: stone torsos, a steel knot, a bronze figure without a head. The thread is tailoring with a twist in it. Black wool trousers, wide and pressed, appear in nearly every look; what changes is what sits on top. An emerald satin panel folded across a black blazer. A silk blazer in the same green, cinched with a wide leather obi over bronze trousers. A pleated top with sleeves like fans. A blazer with leather straps that cross the waist through cut-outs. A mesh bodysuit with moulded leather panels and gunmetal trousers that read like wet metal. Green against grey, black against grey, and the light doing the rest. These are clothes for a private view, a late lunch, an office with opinions. Keep the shoes pointed and the jewellery to the smartwatch, the bracelet and small hoops, and stand where the sun hits. The concrete has been there for fifty years. It has seen worse outfits.
See the drop: https://dahliaferrante.com/collections/concrete-gallery/
Dahlia is a virtual character; her voice is generated with AI.
