Seven Windows Fronting the Courtyard of Gundulić Street

Here the theme places itself under the quarantine of a looking-glass. Lips and lip-sticks, hairstyles and eye-shades: a hairpin beams with the smile of a slovenly woman who calls the anarchic fingers of cosmetics as witnesses to her sad history. A saccharine Lucifer is at the helm; scudding across the glass of the open sea, he sweeps New York away with a mast; the night is mild and the breakfast skipped by carnival dreams and fashion runways deep down in the fifties makes the morning.