From the shadows of Casa Sol, we step into the blinding light.
We don’t just wear clothes; we wear ghosts. And so, we introduce Habana Noon: a collection of dresses and accessories born from the crumbling grandeur of the place that raised us.
The Palette: Geological Strata The old building in Cuba was our color wheel. Its beams and columns, revealing layers of paint like geological strata, inspired the devoré velvets and hand-dyed georgettes of this collection. In fashion terms, this is deconstructed luxury. We channeled the spirit of Martin Margiela, celebrating the raw edge and the exposed seam. We didn't want the fabric to look new; we wanted it to look like it had a story. We wanted the "beautiful decay" of the house to drape against your skin.
Our muse was my childhood rescue dog, Panda, who hunted light, predicting exactly when the sun would breach the windows. She taught me that comfort is a pursuit. That pursuit is the backbone of Habana Noon. Channeling the revolutionary geometry of Madeleine Vionnet in the 1930s, these dresses do not hang; they cling and pool. They mimic that heavy, golden Caribbean liquid sun. They are designed to hold heat like skin.
To accessorize this stillness, we looked to our grandfather, the jeweler who spoke the language of facets. We remember pushing his loose amethysts and quartz into the sunbeams, watching them explode into color. That explosion lives on in our crystal-encrusted rattan bags and beaded details. This is our education in Maximalism. As Paco Rabanne proved in the 60s, metal and light can armor the female body. In Habana Noon, a sequin is not "nightlife wear." It is an optical weapon. It is the alchemy of turning a cold object, a bag, a strap, a hem, into something alive.
We are often told to let go of the past. ClosetBlues refuses. Habana Noon is a vessel for saudade, the longing for a Cuba that was alive and thriving, contrasting with the languid beauty of the one that remains.
And when you wear these pieces, the role reverses. You become the hunter.
You are transported back to that hallway where the sun didn't just shine, it insisted. It marked the essence of the salty breeze and the island’s heavy sense of despair onto the walls. In this silk, you are caught in an exquisite tension, a feeling both free and entrapped: Not quite dressed enough to leave, but wearing far too much to simply stay.