Untitled Document

..........................TThe Soap Bubble Man

(nr. 31 of Alberta Ferretti's summer collection. Price 2.245 Euro)

It is the hottest day of the entire summer. The slightly too heavy
cotton dress sticks to your skin. You try to hide the stains under
your arms by holding them close to your body.

Via Condotti stretches out in front of you like a long gilded river
which you only hesitatingly let yourself slip into. Yves Saint Laurent
is on the right corner. On the left, Dior is glittering in the sun
like a beautifully cut diamond. You shy past the two stores staring at
the asphalt. Pretending you are busy. Hurry along your way. Almost run
past them; the stores. Gucci, Bruno Magli, Prada, Giorgio Armani,
Louis Vuitton, Dolce & Gabbana, Valentino, Damiani, Celine, Burberry,
Hermés, Bulgary. Decoding, only registrating the expensive names in
glimpses, seeing nothing. Seeing nothing, until you barge right into
him. The soap bubble man. Or maybe it is him who barges into you. On
purpose perhaps, to wake you up. To make you realise that you are
allowed to be here. Just as he is; this dark Albanian with bad teeth.
You have seen him before. He is one of those very few people who
manages to somehow be present at several locations in the city at the
same time. With his soap bubble machine. A massive apparatus that
wrings his entire body out of shape and spews large glittering bubbles
out in the street. Large glittery bubbles in the colours of the
rainbow. In only a matter of seconds they burst, except for those that
climb towards the sky disappearing in all the blue.

The soap bubble man is laughing and pointing his finger. You don't
know what he is laughing and pointing his finger at, but turn around
anyway, to look. To see a dress. A dress behind the writing on a shop
window: Philosophy di Alberta Ferretti it says in small black letters.
But you don't have to think, and maybe that is the philosophy – that
you forget the stains under your arms, that you forget who you are.
You just step into the cool luminous space and point at the white
dress in the window without saying a word.

A woman offers her assistance. You do not reply, but keep pointing.
"Would you like to try it on?" she asks. You nod without taking your
eyes off the dress. She dismounts the hanger and makes a gesture for
you to follow her. The jewellery on the skirt of her dress rattle as
she walks. Sounds like glass balls thrown on a marble floor. You
follow her into the large white dressing room. She puts the hanger
with the dress on a hook by the mirror and closes the door behind her.
Leaving you alone. With the dress.

Unable to move, you glare at the small mirrors and tinsels in the off
white silk garment. As of yet you have not touched the soft silk. You
have not yet dared to. You close your eyes for a second. See one of
the large glittery soap bubbles. One of the few that rise and
disappear in the sky. Opening eyes. Look at yourself in the large
mirror while you undress. You take everything off. The underwear and
sandals too. The cool tiles feel soothing against the soles of the
feet. Now you are standing naked in front of the dress. It feels like
standing in front of another person. A person whom you desire. A
person for whom you can barely bare to wait any longer. But you have
to ask for permission first. You have to ask for permission to step
closer. Permission to touch. You are trembling now. Take a deep
breath, and reach for the dress. There is no resistance, only
softness. Silky softness against your skin as you put on the dress.
Holding your breath. You have never felt anything like it. Such
judiciousness. The under skirt feels like cool waves against your
naked thighs. You exhale. Gasp. Look at yourself in the mirror, while
sliding the broad, brown straps over your shoulders. It seems like the
dress settles there, one the shoulders. As if it also releases a
breath of relief after a moment of anxiousness. Exhales after finally
having embraced a body.

You are surprised by the heaviness with which the dress falls. The
feather light fabric rests almost indiscernibly on the skin, while at
the same time distributing the wholesome weight of the skirt; the
ornamental stones and mirrors blow life into a kind of narrative. A
tale of gravity and decisiveness, driven forward by several different
figures. You are not limited to one of these figures. No, in this
dress you have become the condensation of all of them.

You swirl around yourself. The skirt is lifting. A breeze. Rattle of
pearls and stones. And you see her in the mirror: the Flamingo dancer
under the starry sky in a town in the mountains. She is dancing in the
cool air of early fall. Leaves are falling from the trees around her,
the audience are kicking their heels into the ground and cheering.
Arms raised, and hands lost in castanets, she turns round and round
herself. The skirt rises, rattle of stones and pearls, until calm
falls again. The fabric gathers on the left thigh in clusters of
folds; looks like a fan which one could hide behind. The audience has
fallen completely silent, the dance is almost over. The fabric
discreetly returns to its shape: an off white silk dress ending just
above the knee. For summer. For a ball in another time, when a virgin
sit alone on the bench, waiting to be asked, or maybe she is walking
on her own through a rose garden with a basket and a pair of scissors;
feel the weight of her garment, as a painful contrast to her young
age. The broad shoulder straps feel like hands; hands resting on her
shoulders. Hands holding her down, and hands that put a dangerous
smile on her lips. She holds the skirt up in front of her face and
look at herself in one of the small mirrors – can't recognise herself.
Can't recognise that smile. The red lips. Who is she, the woman
sitting on the barstool? Wearing make up, too much make up and so
lightly dressed, even though the dress is the same. But who is she,
sitting there with a paper thin wineglass? The red lips. An escort
girl throwing her head back in an over joyous grin. Lights a
cigarette, whispers into a man's ear in an alluring tone of voice.
Stick her tongue far into his mouth.

There is a knock on the door. You blush. Had forgotten all about this
place. The lush dressing room and solemn looking shop attendants
serving philosophy. Do they serve the law of gravity or the fantasies?
Or both perhaps, like the dress? You don't understand, how it is
possible. The shop attendant asks whether everything is all right in
there. "Thank you, everything is fine," you reply. Although you feel
like a thief. But you take the dress off instantly; could not dream of
doing anything else. It is actually already done. As soon as you heard
her voice on the other side of the door it slipped off you; now lying
like a lifeless puddle around your feet. You pick it up and put it
back on the hanger. Let your fingers run over the fabric one last
time. The desire, the want to touch again, this particular dress, this
dress, this soft soft fabric, has not decreased. On the contrary it
has only gotten worse. Insuperable even. You have to leave the store
as fast as possible. You put on your own clothes and open the door
resolutely. The startled shop attendant looks up at you. She notices
it instantly; the insane look in the eyes. This longing, which already
consumes you, and which you cannot hide. "How did it fit?" she asks
politely. "It fitted very well," you shout, as you run out of the
store.

Out on Via Condotti the soap bubble man is taken away by a police
officer. The officer has grabbed him under his arm and is almost
dragging him along. Your eyes meet with the soap bubble man. He is
smiling. A huge wide smile. You smile back and start walking in the
opposite direction.