
Odò is the river — and rivers do not face their audience. Eleven hexagons of Jos Plateau aquamarine fall in a single line down the spine, each framed in pavé, ending in a kite-cut diamond that rests where a clasp would ordinarily hide.
It is worn to the nape, as titles are: behind one’s back. The founder cut the stones over four months and refused three of them at the last sitting. There is one, and there will not be another.
The papers travel with the piece; the gouache stays in the archive, and a copy comes to you.
— and three others stand this season. The salon knows them; ask, and the vitrine is dressed.
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