The hallway is crowded and the terrace too, it’s full of people and white flowers, like hibiscuses, roses and peonies. You can smell the scent of pittosporum in the air, and you can hear the champagne delicately bubbling in the glasses. With its fringes, its glittering brass and its marble body, Orsola fluctuates between a blue velvet sofa and an African mask, between a blond bob, a backcombing hairstyle, a pair of false eyelashes, and the smell of hairspray and benzoin, to the rhythm of a taffeta skirt. It is audacious in each of these light touches, as inviting as the very house where it is hosted. Orsola uses no euphemism to express its own sensuality in a crazy and licentious show, with the awareness that beautiful and precious things vanish very soon and never come back. Singing in the rain, in this kaleidoscopic masquerade, Orsola feels itself being so close to its own dream that it can’t believe it couldn’t seize it. So it keeps running, moving against the tide, being perpetually pushed back.