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If Carlos-Carlos Paris' soul were a color, it would be orange. If Carlos-Carlos Paris' soul were a city, it would be Paris, in the early morning. Or at night. If the soul of Carlos-Carlos Paris were a moment, it would be the early morning, a ristretto in one hand, a chocolatine in the other. If Carlos-Carlos Paris' soul were a journey, it would be the cobbled streets of Rome and the colors of Havana. If Carlos-Carlos Paris' soul were a vice, it would be exhilaration. If Carlos-Carlos Paris' soul were a femininity, it would be joyful and liberated.
The boldness and the colors of the 60's and 70's. Italia's dolce vita; spaghetti staining a red checkered tablecloth; one limoncello too many. Biarritz; its sweetness, its hydrangeas; its sumptuous Art Deco villas. Gioffredo Reggiani's lamps, Pierre Paulin's armchairs and Pierre Cardin's genius. Memories; shoulder pads; a pair of Carel ballerina; gala dresses of another age. The colors of Wax fabrics; the softness of wool. Songs, sung loud and out of tune, from ABBA to Starmania. Matisse's palette, Modigliani's poetry and Rimbaud's words. Paris - from Baudelaire's to today. Life, in all its perfect imperfection.