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SOMETHING VERY PERSONAL

ORMAIE

Paris

A grandfather who sculpted. 

A grandmother and her flowers. 

A mother passionate about perfumes. 

The founder of ORMAIE seek excellence in art. ORMAIE is the house of creation family run. ORMAIE has brought together artists and craftsmen to write each chapter of its history.

Our manifesto

The house is vast and peaceful. The park is dotted with trees of such different species that one is surprised to find them all together. Very early in the morning when the mist slowly rolls in it gets weird. I'm not surprised that Yvonne likes this place, she who has been interested in German romanticism for years...

Living here, even just for a while, has many advantages. Where is the most pleasant temperature in the middle of summer, never higher than 28°C? Who would have room in Paris for such a large library and five or six guest rooms? 

I am pleased to have participated in this weekend in the countryside: the guests live at their own pace, their habits are not the same. But we all meet at six in the living room, whose French doors are wide open.
There are many familiar faces today.  Friends of Yvonne whom I met here or at one of her openings which she organized in her gallery at regular intervals. But there are also others I don't know, like this person sitting in an armchair a few meters away from me, whose profile I only see. I don't take my eyes off it, as someone who isn't your type but you have an attraction to. A few guests pass between us, with a glass in hand, uncovering or masking this person according to their movement. He's wearing a dark, shiny, tight-fitting double-breasted suit, skinny jeans, and ankle boots. Its silhouette is slim, with something adolescent about it. Short, carbon-colored hair, straight nose, dark eyes, well-defined lips. Between the middle and ring fingers he holds a cigarette which he seems to have forgotten and which has slowly consumed itself in a thin white thread.

By staring at her like that, I'm afraid of embarrassing her. To occupy my attention elsewhere, I silently count the guests: obviously I lose the thread, even if we are not so numerous. I bring my attention back to me. He gazes distractedly at a contemporary photograph, a jungle image entitled L'Ivrée Blue. Her lips move, as if she's talking to herself, she seems to be humming "Toi, toi, toi" or something like that. I don't understand. 
His elbow rests on the arm of the chair, his wrist slightly exposed. The cigarette disappears, replaced by a glass of champagne. 
Despite the distance, I see a large ring on one finger: a Gorgon's head, in gold, whose transparent pupils, two diamonds, stare at me intensely. Are they asking me a question?

Hi Yvonne. With his tallieur pantaloons and his platinum blond hair, he is in his forties. He approaches casually, slipping among the guests and sits next to me. I lean towards her and ask her, indicating with a nod the person I've been observing for a few minutes: "Who is it?". Yvonne smiles mysteriously and replies "ORMAIE". 
I dare not ask him if he is a man or a woman.

Guillaume de Sardes, The Founder

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