A waiter crosses a villa pool at the height of service, tray held dead level, water to the knee. Nobody in the frame finds this remarkable. That is the only rule The Work obeys: the impossible thing is treated as the least interesting thing in the picture.
These images are made in our own studio and we say so on every one of them, here and everywhere else they appear. They build the world; they never stand in for it. A photograph of the garment is a photograph of the garment — cotton, light, a person — and when the sample lands it will be shot properly, with a camera, in a room, and labelled as that.
The long lunch. Service continues.
Why invent at all, if the season is real? Because a diary that only records eventually becomes an inventory. The Work is where the house says what the summer felt like instead of what it contained — and it is the half that ends up on cloth, because feeling prints better than inventory.
