Olly is in her bed having breakfast. She likes drinking coffee in a Wed gwood Bone China cup with gold contours: luxury of habits. Today she would like to write using a classic typwriter such as those that Marcello Nizzoli designed for Olivetti, but avoiding the neurotic coming and going of words, wich can be immediatelydeleted if you cdon't like them. she just presses the keys with more concentration and she listen to the sound of each letter. But she has to go out shortly, so she gets ready quickly, showing that she is at ease with this accelerated pace, the hat being the last gesture of her dance. A black cab drives her to the East End, in the Dalston neighbourhood, in Redley Road. Herethere is a market where the arrangements of fruit and vegeteble boxes in precarious balance coexist with objects: a scenery of shameless colours similar to those of precious wax fabrics, made of printed cotton, wich is the background to the sobriety of Olly's colours. She finds a pair of tiny glass lamps, wich are lovely and graceful as all tiny things are: they looklike her a little bit, becouse they can stay everywhere and they adorn every place where they stay.
text by Azalea Seratoni