The fashion crowd returned like a scented tide, Anne, Ariana, Emilia, Lana, and other constellations of women sitting in the gallery as if in a secret chamber of fashion’s time.

The walls breathed hand-painted forests, velvet curtains held back the night, ancient rugs whispered vanished footsteps, and tired leather kept the memory of bodies. Everything was a dreamed house, and the clothes were seasons layered on the skin, as if autumn were something one could touch.

Leopard armchairs kept the warmth of dreams, worn leathers knew the weight of years, and every object seemed to say: I have been touched by time, therefore I am alive.

Ralph Lauren, like a gardener of the past, had planted memories in fabric, making coats bloom heavy as libraries, silks that remembered the wind. The house became a season, its season became a skin, and the skin a territory where autumn learned to write its name. Sublime, but I have always loved seeing my beloved in Ralph Lauren.

FM