Saint-Ex, the winged poet, brushed the soil of Alghero in the final breaths of his life. Antonio Marras knew it he hears the whispers of Sardinia in every hem, every whirlwind of tulle. Each season, his paths of stitching take to the sea once more, returning to the heart, where the olive tree sings and military dust flirts with the garden.

He dreams of her Consuelo, the muse with paint-stained hands, the free woman with cosmic loves. She crosses the sky and joins her Antoine in a sigh of stars and sea foam.

What suitcase for this bohemian comet? Dresses like torn landscapes, jackets like lovers’ quarrels, embroidered flowers on fatigues, flashes of silk, memories of Duchamp nestled in a collar, a touch of Rivera on the sleeves, and Picasso… right there, folded in a crease.

A constellation of borderless women becomes fabric under Marras’ fingers stitched freedom, armed femininity, combat poetry for a time that no longer knows how to dream
without seams.