Last summer was, more than ever, a summer of British countryside, Italian visits to old friends, manors and meadows. The weight and the dust of velvets followed me around, and if not around me, then always in my head. And even if sometimes I fear I have shed the dancer I used to be, I am reminded of my nature every time I walk by a theater, half asleep in a small town, feeling the same as I do.

And so this is my diary for the past months, of the things I’ve seen and the things that touched me. Be it a shell or a flower, water or marble, I saved it all from time.