Summer lives in afternoons without end.

Light moves slowly across the wall, shadows shift with the branches, the air is heavy with warmth, and time loses its way. The second chapter of the Four Seasons series is not a story told in sequence, but a return of sensations long stored: movements, colours, rhythms waiting to surface. 

What I long for in summer is never the destination itself, but the weightless pauses along the way: the outline of an island, the brief shimmer of light, the long descent of blue, or the books read on a deck chair — forgotten as soon as the page is turned.

Shadows are not fragments.

They are another whole. They undo and they rebuild. They are at once positive and negative, disassembly and re-assembly. The instant passes — flickering, vanishing in silence. We try to hold it. We wait, or we let the still become movement. GAC-coated silk satin organza takes shape like a honeycomb shell — at once a layer of protection and a testimony to loss, departure, escape.

Rhythm emerges from the simplest repetition.

Carl Andre’s POEMS showed me that rhythm does not depend on sound. Words stacked upon words, lines extended into space — an invisible strength of their own. HOPE, INSPIRE, AWAIT, CONTEMPLATE — we arrange them, layer them, pierce them, set them in motion, like a music-box strip unrolling, spinning out a melody that is unique yet palpable. Repetition makes rhythm appear; rhythm, little by little, becomes song.

The collection revealed at the National Archive museum in Paris. “When the weather grows warm, I often walk there. Through the gate, straight to the end, a turn to the right, and on the right-hand side, a hidden garden. I sit on a bench, and the world falls silent, as if another time had opened. I call it “zoning”—a way of stepping out of the present into another mood. That garden has always been my zoning ground.” Out of this shift, the rhythm of the season took shape.

Material speaks as another form of language. Waxed cupro, a thin shadow on a summer afternoon, carries an ineffable sense of distance. Transparent cotton voile is air itself—vanishing at the touch, trembling like light across water. Coated linen holds the weight of time, yet shimmers under its film, as if memory itself had been burnished anew. Silk gleams with elusive light, like the last rays breaking through clouds at dusk. Cashmere, mohair and silk, crossed in floating stitches, lines that whisper, extending rhythm, drawing still cloth into motion.

The colours belong to the summer sky, from five o’clock until night closes: the gradations of blue,  the pale violet of sunlit clouds, the depths of trees, the shadows cast upon the wall.

This collection is a summer symphony. It speaks of the instant and of rhythm, of loss and of return, of what vanishes and what remains.