When I search my drawers, I never find what I am looking for, chaos is my middle name, but I always discover little treasures, memories set in stone, porcelain or leather. These two findings speak of style in particular. Goethe’s bisquitted profile, made by Meissen’s artists, purchased years ago in Weimar, reminds me of a great man, author of “Faust”, whose lodgings in a park in Weimar were nothing but amazement to me, his “Gartenhaus”, a tiny cottage with a few modest rooms, yet perfectly furnished in early 18th century style, installed for weekends made of comfort and leisure, at a time when leisure included posture and poise. And I wonder if he would have liked my Hermès mouse pad, the one I don’t use anymore, it’s out of time, just like his rooms, I can easily picture it there, his hand pushing the mouse from left to right, up and down, according to the soft rhythm of my favourite poem, the one about Italy in late summer, do you know it, that land, where the lemons bloom so fair, the golden oranges from dark-green branches glare…