HEADS. THOUGHTS. MEMORIES.

A head and a thousand thoughts. A head and a thousand hats. Because when you collect them, when you are really passionate about them, it is hard to decide which one to use and on what occasion. My grandmother used to have a lot of hats and she told me she lost them all during the war. Too little time to evacuate and too much pain to think about vanity. She often told me how much she cared about them and she often spoke of the one she wore on her wedding day. It was small, made of felt and with a light gray veil. Her cousins, ​who lived in Florence, had given it to her for the occasion and she always told me that she felt like a diva wearing that hat. Unfortunately she didn’t wear it ever again. She didn’t have the chance, and when the war broke out, the only thing she could save was herself and her child.

I've always found hats very mysterious and I've always loved to wear them without thinking much about how, when and why. I've never had a favorite hat, I always love every single one unconditionally. I always carry them with love. I always display them with great pride.

In front of the old mirror of my grandmother, looking at my little reflection, I feel like a diva too.

A LITTLE WORLD ON MY OWN

Women handbags are small worlds where all the laws of nature cease to exist. Small bags for great thoughts. Large bags for great passions. Notebooks and lip liners united by a single destiny. Perfumes, hair bands, sheets written in a stream of consciousness. Cinema tickets and dried flowers. Sand, shells and candy wrappers. Capless pens and coins. Books with pages wrinkled by the wind. Pictures of your mother when she was young. A letter that your sister has stuck in your wallet just before taking a plane. And then there's your back, who would not want to carry all that weight. And what of those things you can not do without.
My passion for big bags has a long history. My grandmother Rosa gave me my very first one and it was exactly half my height. I could barely carry it and I had to place it on my knee if I wanted walk. I proceeded lame. It was one of those doctor models, with an opening snap. An intense dark brown. The interior was velvety. The shoulder strap was short, perfect to wear on the shoulder. I put everything inside. My father made me a notebook with a deep blue cover. My aunt Giulia, a teacher by profession, gave me pencils and markers. I could barely write my name. I wrote mostly incomprehensible multicolored hieroglyphics. I felt already very grown up, though I had been in this world for only 4 years. In the garden there still was the apple tree, a successful graft of my grandfather Francesco. Stones and some leeves. One of my mother's old bras. The Wild Swans by Andersen. A shirt and a pair of shorts. A slice of cake. A little world of my own. I never learned how to make good use of the space. I have always used big bags and I always filled them up with curious things. In case they could be useful.