In a side chapel, an oblique light highlights the vases filled with gladioli. Their fragrance carries with it an intimate memory, tied to specific seasons of life, to hands carefully arranging flowers, and to a silence inhabited by expectation.
The sound of the organ in this space recalls the moments when the church was prepared on Saturday afternoons, when I accompanied my mother as she cleaned the church. The olfactory accord translates this moment through a luminous, soaring floral note sustained by a green and slightly earthy base that evokes the dampness of the chapel and the cool breath of stone.
In that chapel, the gladiolus becomes an emblem of respect and elevation. Light, flower, and music come together in a single movement that guides the space toward a higher dimension, where personal memory finds its fulfillment.
