Who has never wanted to live in a hotel?
Like Coco Chanel at the Ritz in Paris, making the salons, the endless corridors yours.
Observing the guests and watching more or less compelling plots, fragments of life intertwined in what Marc Augé would call a ‘non-place’.
Because this is an undoubtedly surreal moment in history, in which the house becomes the office, the hotel, for some, a place of (more or less forced) residence), the places of aggregation are deserted and solitude is a dimension to be reckoned with.
So we wanted to celebrate, with a hint of irony, the nonsense in a dimension where all points of reference are mixed and subverted.
Especially in the last weeks of the year, when everything around us is cloaked in magic, wearing an evening dress and dream shoes, and celebrating in the intimacy of one's own room, or indulging in small culinary transgressions wearing a silk and sequined dress.
Or feel so much at home to do household duties paradoxically dressed up, wearing jewellery or with an elegant handbag.
And envisage an end of the year to be celebrated in a somewhat bizarre way, yearning for a new beginning and for the rediscovered value of normality.